Jehrilla sat in Highgarden’s banquet hall, surrounded by a well-armoured group of her finest mercenaries. Tyrell serving girls flittered between the rows of fighters, filling up plates and goblets, whilst the Yunkish sellswords revelled in the Westerosi delicacies.

“An interesting family; these Tyrells,” The Wise Master commented idly, between mouthfuls of honeyed duck and pigeon pie “I could sit and watch them all day.”

Having changed out of her scaley attire, the Yunkish woman’s mammoth figure was squeezed into a thin swath of black silk, inlaid with golden thread and twinkling gemstones. A long sash of crimson was draped over her chunky arms, and her coal black hair was bound into two elegant horns, in true Ghiscari fashion, keeping her dark tresses from covering her chubby cheeks.

“I could do more than watch them.” Captain Vherick grinned from beneath his bone mask, his eyes resting on the plump behind of one of the serving girls. Even in his leisure time, Vherick remained fully armed and armoured, the plate in front of him completely untouched.

The banquet hall had walls of smooth stone, and a high ceiling adorned with a vast mural of blooming gold roses and ripe green vines. Several wooden tables stretched across the room, packed full of Yunkish soldiers, lost in the murmur of bawdy laughter, and the sweet taste of spiced wines. Crackling orange torches sat in iron holsters, casting the hall in a splash of tepid warmth, as the soft scents of flowers filled the nostrils of the merry diners.

“The Reachmen would have us set sail and lay siege upon their enemies.” Jehrilla explained to Vherick, as she scoffed down a blueberry tart, staining her lips purple.

“A risky course of action.” Vherick said dryly.

“There’s a chance at a whole horde of Westerosi slaves in it.” The Wise Master wagered.

“I am but a servant to you, noble Jehrilla,” Vherick gave a little shrug, his armoured shoulders clanking lightly as plate mail rubbed against chain hoops “Whatever you bid of us, my men and I will obey.”

“The lady Alerie mentioned a trip to King’s landing,” Jehrilla thought aloud “Something to do with some prisoner of note. I might accompany our gracious hosts, but I would need you to take the companies out to raid this Crakehall pretender.”

“As you wish.”

The Wise Master scooped up a pork pie in her fat fingers, munching on chunks of crunchy pastry and salted meat.

“Who knows? These trips might prove to be entertaining, for the both of us.”

Gris sits down at a desk and reaches for a quill. Alyssa sits by him, looking over his shoulder. They begin to discuss the exact wording of what the pleas for help should be.

"I still say we don't need to kowtow to other lords to crush a mass of peasants armed with only pitchforks," Alyssa says as she glances critically at the blank sheet of parchment

"You are completely in the right. I'll just send a raven to our bannermen in Summerhall - oh wait . . . it fell. No matter, we'll just seek reinforcements from Bronzegate - actually, that fell too, didn't it?" Gris responds, raising an eyebrow and leering at his sister with his pale pupil.

"Just write it," interrupts Alyssa, trying to end this conversation. Gris turns back to the page and begins to scrawl words upon the page

Addressed to the Tyrells of Highgarden

We Baratheons at Storm's End would like to call in our debt in our time of need. The People's Rebellion has reached a critical point. We ask you to send your mightiest warriors to reinforce Storm's End as soon as can be done. For without your assistance and the assistance of your bannermen, we shall surely fall.

Sincerely Yours
House Baratheon of the Stormlands

"That looks horrible. Can't you write?" Alyssa criticizes, looking over the sloppy mess that is Gris's letter.

"Well, it gets the point across doesn't it? If you think you're so diplomatic, then you write it." Gris retorts.

"Fine, I will," Alyssa says as she snatches the page from Gris. She walks out of the lab, closing and locking the door behind her. Then, she goes up to the tallest tower in the keep and sends his letter to Highgarden with a raven. The truth is, as much as Alyssa knows she could write a more cohesive letter, her parents never thought of letters as so important. She could barely read it, much less write.

A collaboration with @kingkonrad.


The host of Northern Crownlanders had made great time. The rain never intensified, rather choosing to stay as a light misting to drizzle. It did little, if anything at all to dampen the spirits of the small host of troops that had made their way South by Southwest. The rain was a good thing, even though the year grew late, it would help grow perhaps one or two more harvests before winter would come in full force. The massive red walls of King’s Landing loomed only a few miles ahead at most, raising the spirits of all that had gathered below the banners of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen II and her sister, Princess Baela Targaryen II.

Her host had grown, with the addition of men, supplies, and wagons from House’s Hayford, Rosby, and Stokeworth. The royal host had grown from a mere fifteen hundred to almost thirty-five hundred. The Lords of House’s Hayford and Rosby had marched out with Princess Rhaenyra, while House Stokeworth, sent their eldest son, Ser Bronn Stokeworth III. They were still small, no doubt, in comparison to the greater hosts that had walked the lands in times long ago, or even today in neighboring regions, but the added strength was greatly appreciated. Princess Rhaenyra and Baela circled above the host upon their dragons, watching the lands about them for any signs of trouble.

Down below, Ser Trevan Waters saw to the breakdown of the Princesses encampment. He had seen his fortunes change from being a lowly sergeant upon the muddy battlefields, to being a landed knight in the service of a princess. Of two princesses to be correct. Either way, this was something entirely unknown to him. Ser Trevan rolled the last of the tent poles up into its bag, when he was startled by a loud thud and rushing of air. He stumbled backwards over the tent poles, falling promptly onto his back. Laughter rang out from those who were working to tear down the camp, much to Ser Trevan’s embarrassment. He shook his head, brushing himself off as he rose up, only to find himself staring face to face with Princess Rhaenyra’s dragon, Visaxes.

He quickly knelt deeply before her, his head bowed low in respect. “Your grace… I… I am sorry, you startled me. I apologize for falling over.” He spoke in an apologetic tone, awaiting his liege lady’s judgement. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Ser Trevan. Now finish up with the camp tear down. You are to ride with us to the city. We will be needing to get to King’s Landing before the day is out. Ser Axle, Lord Crabb, take care of the camp, we ride out now.” Princess Rhaenyra spoke out, before turning upon her dragon, taking flight, and soaring into the sky.

Ser Trevan bowed quickly, before hurrying to gather up his sword and shield, and then mounting up with the gathering party of knights. The retinue of some two hundred knights rode out quickly, having to gallop with all due haste to keep up with their two princesses that flew high above, the two women on their dragons flying to be firmly within sight of King’s Landing, and they themselves, able to look at the tiny people from far below as they moved below in the city. Ser Trevan held the Targaryen banner tightly into his hip, letting the red dragon upon a black field flap majestically as they raced towards the capital. He looked above, and let out a laugh, as it would seem the two princesses did a barrel roll upon their dragons, before descending towards the Northern Gates of King's Landing.

Rhaenyra smiled to her sister, waving happily at her, before turning her attention towards to King's Landing. It appeared that there was a small gathering at the Northern Gate, though who it was she could not make out from where she was flying. At the beckoning of Baela, Rhaenyra flew downward at a breakneck pace, before pulling up tightly on Visaxes reigns, and leveling out before the Northern Gate. She settled herself upon her saddle, motioning to Baela that she intended to land. With a rush of air and the deafening sound of flapping wings, the two dragons and their riders put down before the gates of King's Landing, looking at the looming walls and its strong gates, awaiting both who would meet them, and their retinue that was in fast pursuit.

Ser Trevan and the Princesses retinue soon pulled up behind the dragons, reigning their horses to a halt, both the men and mounts sweating from the short breakneck dash to the finish line. He looked through his helmet, watching the two sisters removing their helmets and shaking out their hair to free it of its former metal confines. They sure did strike an almost mythical sight to Ser Trevan. He held their banner proudly before him, letting the fabric ripple slowly in the gentle breeze of the day's afternoon calm.

Willas looked up at the sight of the two dragons, watching them as they flew about overhead, before losing sight of both as they descended downwards, hidden from view by the city's walls and buildings to the North. It was a sight to behold, it was an incredible, wondrous sight. From the distant sight to here, it was something wonderful to take in.

Meanwhile, back down at the Northern gate, and Ser Maxwell had already ridden out, the huge clambering metal structure opening up, as he went through, his horse adorned with a white and green quilt, with roses emblazoned onto it. Such a decoration seemed fitting for the Tyrell retinue, it was a little too much, but it sent the point home. It wasn't sure arrogance like the Westermen had, or the cold pragmatism of the North. It was the Rose, it was a symbol that did not offend, like a Lion, a Boar, or a Wolf could. It was a plant. Yet against that backdrop, was a pair of dragons that Ser Davos Maxwell was looking at, and it was a sight to behold. Stopping his horse, he dismounted, looking on at the two Princesses, in scale. They were ready for a war, it would have appeared, a smile breaking out on the Knight's face. His slight stubble bristled a little against his neck brace on his plate, the Knight of the Reach wearing a plate chest plate, with mail on his arms and legs, a mixture of two, it seemed.
"It is good to see you both, my Ladies." Maxwell said, as he got on his knee, the noise of metal touching the gravelly path, as he bowed down.

Rhaenyra was the first to dismount from her dragon. She slid down of the side of Visaxes neck, landing with a small thud as her feet hit the ground. She set her helmet upon one of the stirrups of her saddle, before turning to help her sister Baela down from Jadefyre. Helping one another fix their tussled hair, they both turned their attention to the approaching Reachman, Ser Maxwell. Together, Rhaenyra and Baela walked forward, followed by a small handful of their trusted knights, to meet with their greeter. His horse and armor were finely garbed, his armor was very ornate and a sight to behold, especially compared to the armor that her knights and lords wore. Rhaenyra smiled to her sister, before walking further forward to look at Ser Maxwell as he approached and dismounted from his horse.

His voice was proud and strong, full of gallantry and practiced respect. Baela was the first to answer, before Rhaenyra could. "And it is good to see you as well, good Ser. Thank you for riding out to greet us." She herself walking forward to offer out her hand to help Ser Davos Maxwell up back to his feet. Rhaenyra shook her head, laughing softly at her sister's brash and albeit, amusing actions. "What is your name, Ser Knight? You know us, but, what should we call you?" Rhaenyra spoke softly, awaiting Ser Maxwell's response.

Looking up again, he stood back up, taking Baela's hand, a little cold but still maintaining his pride, the Reachman stood up to stand before both Princess Baela and Rhaenyra, before speaking.

"I am Ser Davos Maxwell, of Cider Hall, Princess. Deputy to the Commander of the Goldcloaks of King's Landing. It is quite a sight to see, Princess Rhaenyra." He said, clearing his throat, the slight burble in the background of the Princesses' dragons a little disturbing, but something he didn't let get to his head. The red and green dragons respectively were fire-breathing, flying, Targaryen carrying beasts, and looked in equal parts willing to torch something that they did not like, or rather, their riders did not. A level of control was in the air, Maxwell felt, as he looked over at the two, standing a little taller than both, but no less, still a little intimidated by their presence, as he shifted things forward onto the topic of where a real royal arrival should head to; not in front of the gates of King's Landing, but rather inside the very city itself.

"Ser Willas Tyrell is awaiting you at the Dragon Pit, Princesses. I do not wish to stop our conversation so quickly, but I expect it was himself you were looking to meet. Inside these walls, we've got a significant host, and we'll let yours join to ours." Ser Maxwell added, looking back at the gate, and then across at the distant movement of men down the gravel track, beyond the huge masses that were the two dragons on the path. The Crownlanders were coming in force for these two, Maxwell could only guess it had something to do with the fact that while Crakehall had his arrogance, the Targaryen’s still had dragons. And in a fight between that, any Lord knew that dragon fire was far more horrid than a Westerman's arrogance.

Princess Rhaenyra nodded at Ser Maxwell, looking at the rising city that her family had been in centuries past, before turning her attention back to the Knight of the Reach who stood before her. She looked him over, seeing if she could make anything out about him. He was taller than she was, and his armor was very finely crafted. He no doubt was a well to do knight, perhaps a gift from the Tyrells, or a testament to his own wealth. She pulled her hair back, braiding into slowly as she spoke to Ser Maxwell. "Thank you for letting us know as where to find Ser Willas. I look forward to meeting him. But, I digress. First, allow me to say thank you, for your people's support and help in these trying times. I do not doubt that we all wish things could have been different, but, here we are." She smiled, finished with braiding her hair, so that it was no longer loosely moving about.

"Ser Maxwell, of Cider Hall, you have the field to greet the rest of my retinue. I will see to it that Ser Willas knows of the splendid task you performed in greeting us." Rhaenyra bowed slightly before the knight, before turning to beckon Ser Trevan forward. The young knight motioned his horse forward, riding up to be next to the two Princesses and the Reachman. "My lady, what would you have of me?" He asked out hesitantly. He wore a kettle helm, allowing his face to be freely visible. "You will ride forth with half the men here to the keep, and begin preparations for our arrival. We ride for the Dragon Pit. Ser Willas awaits us there, and I do not wish to keep him waiting any longer." Rhaenyra turned back to face Ser Maxwell, before speaking to him quickly.

"If there is no longer anything else, I will excuse myself and my sister, we must take flight before our dragons decide to take a nap." She said with a smile, as a line of her knights rode past her, being led by Ser Trevan. "Ser Maxwell, an honor..." She spoke, awaiting for anything else he may have to say.

Maxwell looked on, looking across at Ser Trevan. He seemed young, fresh faced, and surprisingly enough, Maxwell could almost see it in his eyes. He was not a Knight of a long-time service, he was a Sergeant, that much he could just about tell. Yet perhaps he had done something, something to impress these two Princesses, and Ser Maxwell did not question it, as he gave a slight chuckle to her comment about dragons napping. He heard that in the cold nights, they emitted steam, so hot was their flesh.

"It is an honor to greet you both, Princesses. I shall greet the rest of your forces." He simply said, as he bowed once more, a simple gesture to the both of them, as he then stood back up, watching the Knights of the Crownlands slowly filter through, passing on the side through to the gate, where a number of Tyrell Retinues were already keeping the gates open. They knew exactly what to expect, albeit the fact that even Maxwell was a little surprised at just how many they had brought with them. It already seemed like a strong trickle of forces entering through the gate, and no doubt, the Tyrell Retinue of Lord Tumbleton's would need to work with them in order to secure the capital. Spates were breaking out, and across parts of the city, they still dared defy. It choked the grip of the Tyrells, but it was not something that would prevent Willas from allowing the two Targaryen’s into the city, and Maxwell knew that they far outnumbered the dissenters, should a revolt occur right now. As for what could happen if a greater revolt occurred, he did not know, as he looked on at the Knights riding in, before back at Ser Trevan, giving a simple nod to the Knight of the Crownlands.

"Ready to meet Ser Willas sister? I bet he has much to convey with us." Baela spoke aloud to Rhaenyra, flashing her a devilish smile. She pushed her sister's left shoulder, slightly setting Rhaenyra off balance, not enough to have her fall over, but enough to send her stumbling slightly to the right. "Aren't you just an amusing little thing, Baela? Are you ready to ride to the Dragon's Pit?" Rhaenyra picked up her pace, pushing her sister back before she dashed to hop up into her saddle, and then atop her dragon. She tied her helmet to the saddle horn, before looking down to Ser Maxwell. "I look forward to meeting you in the future. Take care, and look for a Lord Rykker, he leads the rest of my forces. Look for a pair of Golden Antlers on his shield and banner. Till next time." Rhaenyra turned in her saddle, before ushering Visaxes into the sky.

From Maxwell's perspective, it seemed poetic, the way the two interacted, as they headed back. It reminded him a lot of Lord Garland and his sister, Alerie. He had met the two a couple of times, through Willas, and remembered them being possibly the only two that teased each other as much as the two sisters did, as they mounted their fiery beasts, their helms covering their soft white hair.

Before barely a minute had passed, they had taken flight, the sight itself a marvel as it seemed unlike a bird taking flight, it felt like the dragons had erupted from the earth, their wings beating hard, as the green followed the red into the heavens, Maxwell unable to hide the unashamed grin on his face, watching on. He looked across back to his horse again, and with a sharp and quick movement, mounted the quilted horse, visibly scared at the sight of the dragons. It was uneasy, it did not like this, and it had not galloped away perhaps only as a result of Maxwell being so close to it, almost shielding its view. He had a Rykker to find, the Duskendale Lord among the small force coming into the city.

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

Baela soon followed, Jadefyre flying after Visaxes, causing a large gusting of wind and sound, before it died down as both dragons set off towards the Dragon's Pit. Rhaenyra's hair flew in the wind, tightly held by the braid it was in, trailing behind her like a small icy white whip. The Princesses smiled at one another, waving to the forces below, before turning South, and driving their mounts into the city, flying overhead buildings and streets as they made their way to the ancestral nesting grounds of Targaryen dragons.

The massive building loomed up before them. It stood atop Visenya's Hill, crowning it like a work of art. It had been rebuilt when Queen Danaerys had ascended the throne, its ancient ruins reworked and rebuilt into the beautiful and majestic structure that lay before the two sisters now. Rhaenyra felt her breath catch in her mouth. She had seen it before, but, never from above. It truly was a sight that astounded her, and her sister as well, from the sight on her face as the two hovered high above. They nodded at each other, flashing goofy grins at one another, before turning their attention back to the task at hand.

Rhaenyra sighed, taking a deep breath from the clean air from high above the city. The Dragon Pit looked marvelous, and would no doubt serve as a great home for both the Targaryen dragons. Together, the sisters descended downwards, flying in a lazy downward spiral that lead them both down before the massive gates that lead into the bowels of the Dragon Pit. Both sisters and their dragons landed softly, easing into a graceful glide to land on the cobblestones of King's Landing. Rhaenyra stretched in her saddle, looking about for the one that was called Ser Willas.

The Knight dismounted, the Dragon Pit a sizable, huge structure, to say the least. It was a structure that had been in disrepair once, and even today, it was still perhaps not at its peak, as it may have been hundreds of years ago, but it was marvelous. Willas looked on, watching as the dragons landed in the cobblestones. It had been a wonder to watch them fly over, circling, flying, and the occasional noise that sounded like thunder of the flapping wings, it felt very, very powerful. For not one moment did Willas think that Garland was wrong in what he was doing. These women were wielding a power far beyond his own Poleaxe, far beyond any of his men. They were but two young women with beasts that could set fire to half this city and the people inside it, and whilst Willas noted that the green dragon, Jadefyre, was not as large as its larger red-colored sibling, the gravity of such a dragon felt impressive. Within the large and fire-lit structure of the pit, it felt like a cavern, the gates wide open and with a large number of Tyrell men by Willas's side. They had fanned out, guarding the gate, on a strict command that the Commander had issued. Willas was no fool- this was a resting place for a beast that flew and breathed fire, and if small folk got into here with enough number, they could murder these creatures outright. The Tyrell was inside with at least a dozen soldiers, some with their visors barely even lifted. The fire-lit sides revealed just the scale of this place, and the dragons within.

"Princesses...it is an honor to meet you." Willas said with his usual authorative and clear voice, as he bowed to them, before standing back up. If Maxwell was thought to have looked good, then Willas's dusted Kingsguarder armor, with the scrapings of thorns and Roses across its vambraces and shoulder plate, seemed to look a little more eloquent, a little more pronounced. His face was similar, perhaps weathered, with a taste of the Reach in its look, his clean shaven and shorter-haired appearance putting him across as a little more formal than his nephew was.

"Welcome to King's Landing. Seven Hells, your dragons made an entrance. I lost count of the faces that the small folk made." Willas giving a slight chuckle, as he approached the two, knowing it was a comment in jest. He didn't have the best sensitivities to it all, as he knew he had to make the point clear here, whilst he could.

"I am here for your protection, as are my men. There are 10,000 of us, Tyrell Retinues all. I assume you met Ser Maxwell, and he shall work with your Crownlander forces to help bolster our defenses. We are as of yet uncertain what the Crakehalls are doing, but it is not good, if they lay siege to us. Ser Kevan Crakehall is still in the Red Keep, and he has a retinue of his own, and while he shouldn't be a problem, I will personally make sure they stay away from your presence in any manner. I will assume you shall want a consistent guard around your two dragons, and this is something I am willing to provide." Willas said, getting down to his business quickly, as he looked over at Rhaenyra, before then taking in Baela. The two women seemed truly like the flesh of what was expected of a Targaryen, not that Crakehall pretender, Willas thought to himself. Baela herself looked like the more warring type, and while her face was young, the Tyrell did not underestimate her, she seemed to be weathered in the use of her armor and her sword by her side, and that, Willas could respect. He was no diplomat, he was a fighter, and a man who could navigate the perils of King's Landing, protecting King or Queen.

The Tyrell men were no doubt the power that controlled King's Landing. They were everywhere, and in force. An air of tension could be seen amongst a few of the forces, but overall, they had everything under control. Rhaenyra pulled her braid across her right shoulder as she slid off her dragon. Baela was looking about, smiling and waving at people, still enjoying the fact that she was the younger sister. It had been probably a few weeks, if not more, since the small folk had seen both a Targaryen and a dragon, let alone two in one place. Rhaenyra smiled at her sister, laughing aloud as she turned to greet Ser Willas Tyrell. He was older than he seemed in his letters, and to Rhaenyra's surprise, he was very militaristic in his features.

In polite return, Rhaenyra curtsied before Ser Willas Tyrell, smiling at the man, before speaking to him as he had to her, though, albeit far less commanding. "The honor is all mine Ser Willas. It is because of you that King's Landing is still a free city, and has not descended into chaos and sorrow." She smiled, waving for Baela to come over and introduce herself as well. Turning back to face Ser Willas, Rhaenyra took note of his armor. It was no doubt a mark of being part of the Kingsguard, but with Ser Willas' own mark of individuality upon it. It was eloquently crafted, not over the top, but done with enough craftsmanship as to exude the pride and station of the man who wore it.

Baela had finally made her way over, bowing quickly before Ser Willas, before greeting him politely. "Ser Willas, an honor to meet you. You have decent hand writing, if it is you who pens your letters." She said with a smile, before standing next to Rhaenyra, awaiting to see what her sister was going to do. Baela let her hair fall freely in ringlets about her shoulders, her purple eyes gazing upon Ser Willas in quiet inspection, sizing him up of all things. "Aside from my sister's sense of humor, Ser Willas, I am humbled and honored at the protection and care in the safe keeping of both our dragons and ourselves. We shall defer to you in these matters of defense and safety. You no doubt have far more experience than either of us. Prince Jaehaerys spoke very highly of you." Rhaenyra said in a tone of respect, tinged with a bit of sadness.

Willas nodded, a smile on his face. It was something about this whole situation, he just knew that it was not his territory to do politics, but he knew of the things they spoke of. Jaehaerys was a good man, that much Willas knew, and he felt a little humbled to hear it from the Princess. That, and the fact that their purple eyes were fixed on him. He was no handsome man, which was what Garland did spectacularly. Willas had to tell him, he said to himself, that they were as beautiful as he last remembered them to be, their white hair and purple eyes, driven by a fire that only a dragon could inspire.

"I was taught literacy intensely when I was younger, Princess. I was taught to write well." He added, smiling, as he looked at the rest of the men in his presence, the distant noise of the small folk. They were congregating, outside the Dragon Pit, clearly in shock. Well, a pair of dragons had ridden in, and Willas knew he was shocked...and he was accustomed to Aegon's, no less. It was a sight to see, a reminder that among the Tyrells, there was still a Targaryen in King's Landing, and that perhaps brought some respite to the populace.

"And from that, I am humbled too. But it is my duty. I understand...I left the Kingsguard, I do not know where they went, because I knew that your service awaited me, for that I know the punishment is death. As I swear it by the Gods, I shall serve to protect you from those evils that do seek to push you aside." He said, taking a breather before he continued.

"As my nephew told me, the world is a dangerous place right now. And I seek to protect you because without your presence, we shall have no Seven Kingdoms left to run, it will disintegrate into feuding Kings like they say it was centuries before Aegon. Any fool can tell you that power-hungry men and women of the past would destroy everything we have, and you are our fire in the dark. I am no historian...I know nothing, Princesses. But I know that much of your importance when they tell me that." He added, looking out to the Retinue, back at the gate, before turning back. He took in the two princesses, swallowing a lump in his throat, itching his chin a little with his armored hand.

"Now, as to the matters within the city. I expect you wish to return to the Red Keep...and to see Aegon's body once more. They have not buried him yet, he is still in the Septry, as he was a few days ago. People have paid their respects, but I assume you have also come to pay yours, Princesses. We will see to it that you will be able to. It is up to you, where we go. I will write to my nephew immediately to inform him that you've arrived, and if he follows through, he shall arrive to continue serving as Lord Hand in the capital." He said, with a humble voice, not trying to sound assertive, trying to rather sound supportive, suggestive of what they had intended to do.

"For now, however, you are at the very least, Lady Protector of the Realm, Princess Rhaenyra, and I am at your disposal."

The sisters listened quietly as Ser Willas spoke. He was no liar, he was well educated and learned. He spoke well enough, perhaps with a bit of a more rough militaristic side to him in the way he stood and positioned himself. He was no doubt on guard, especially with the pockets of unrest and violence that still dotted the city. He had seen King Aegon X die, and that played some part in how he reacted to world about himself. Baela liked him already, offering him a big smile as he spoke of his education from when he had been younger. Of course, she spoke up before Rhaenyra could stop her.

"That is good to know. Too many illiterate knights and lords, even today. You already set yourself above all of them. Perhaps you could woo Princess Rhaenyra with some poetry, she is quite fond of it." The small dancing across her lips devilish and playful. The younger princess quickly danced away, to leave Rhaenyra alone with Ser Willas while she went to unpack her saddlebag. The look upon Rhaenyra's face would no doubt have been priceless. She was deeply blushing, and staring at her sister with the look of utter disbelief. She looked away from Ser Willas, trying to contain her embarrassment, before turning back to speak to him.

"Let us make haste for the Red Keep then. The sooner we get there, the better. I do not seek to let us dally here, when there is work is to be done." She brushed her hair back behind her, taking a moment to collect her thoughts and take a deep breath. The redness from her cheeks had subsided now, and it made things easier as she spoke to Ser Willas. "If indeed the specter of our enemies hangs over us, then it will be in our best interest to make our presence known to not only the people here, but ensure that control of the Iron Throne does not fall into the hands of any usurpers." She finished, looking at Ser Willas as he began to respond.

Willas simply nodded, chuckling a little. They really were tempting him, and he knew that they were being completely playful. He had to be removed from their presence, in the sense that it meant that he wouldn't be too close to Rhaenyra. Perhaps he took his mind a little too seriously, he said to himself mentally. But at the same time, this was King's Landing. It did that to you, took away any sense of true chivalry, of trust, it made you question and interrogate, and stick to the code that kept you alive. For Willas, that would be making sure that these two were safe, and that most of all, he kept the right distance away from them, not too far to allow those who wanted her to die to come close, and not too close to get in their way.

"I will not become involved in courtly love, Princess. Us men of The Reach may be famed for it, but once again, I will leave that to Garland. He has no doubt, many a matter on his mind, and he is far better at it than I am. If you remember from the Hand's Tourney a couple of years back, you will know he is still The Young Rose that you remember." Willas added.
"I would suggest so, Rhaenyra. Whatever Garland has in mind, we have to remember there is a lot to go through, lots of letters and so on. . The situation is unclear, but right now, you need our protection, and you know the realm depends on you." Willas said, as he looked across at the Retinue inside, nodding to one of the Lieutenants, as he looked back.

"We have a pair of horses for you, Princesses. I know it's not a dragon, but we shall ride up to The Red Keep." Ser Willas was about to continue before Rhaenyra held up her hand to pause him.

"A horse is no less noble than a dragon. The true test of a creature, is the temperament of the rider that sits astride the creature. I have a few things to grab from my saddle bags, and then we shall make all due haste to follow you to the Red Keep. Once we are inside, we can worry about everything else. But you are right, safety is paramount right now." Rhaenyra smiled, before turning to hurry over and undo a rucksack from Visaxes saddle, slinging it over her shoulders. "The rest of my supplies rides with my retinue. I want at least five hundred of my own men guarding our dragons... I will not have a repeat of what befell my family during the Dance of Dragons. The Dragon Pit must not fall... am I clear, Ser Willas?" Rhaenyra spoke in a commanding tone for the first time, a voice that held no room for rebuttal. Her eyes looked deeply into Ser Willas, as she awaited his response and for him to lead the way.

"We are clear on that, most certainly. I will match that number with my own retinue, my men will die for them if they must. We know what these dragons mean to the Realm. They're your power, and our tipping point if we are to become besieged...” Willas said, looking across at them, back into their eyes, his voice taking on a certain vigor, albeit a militaristic one. They were menacing, truly so, and he could even see the vapor running off Jadefyre, from its nostrils it breathed a hot that could only be found in the depths of a furnace. As he turned around, the retinue began leading the way out of the Dragon Pit, towards the slightly drizzly exit, the rain dying down a little from earlier, Willas making a gesture for a couple of his men to move to help carry the saddle bags from the dragon, taking them onto their backs, lugging them across to the horses, terrified and held by other members of the retinue inside the pit.

"Come then, Princesses. Let us ride, and come the morrow, we shall have your banners flying over the gates once more." He simply added to the two, as he walked across, moving by his own. The brown horse did not have a garb like Ser Maxwell's, it only had a saddle, and little else. It was a functional horse, a warhorse, no less, with legs and a frame built to fight. It was a Kingsguard's choice, bred in the stables of the Riverlands for their exact purpose, and while it was not the greatest or largest of horse breeds, no less in a comparison of the Dothraki hordes, it was a horse fit for Royal function.

Rhaenyra and Baela followed Ser Willas to the two awaiting horses, finding them saddled and ready for the small amount of gear that had with them. Hopping up into the saddle, Rhaenyra and Baela waved goodbye to their dragons, smiling at the great creatures as they lumbered into their stalls, bedding themselves down for the day and coming night, before both were lost from view as the royal party followed Ser Willas towards the Red Keep. Both Princesses waved at the small folk and upper class populace alike as they rode by. The people could be noted as being on edge, but, with the two smiling and at ease women, a sizable portion of that unrest and fear could be seen visibly melting away.



Princess Rhaenyra lounged comfortably upon her bed, reading over the letter she had received from Princess Eleina Martell. Though they had never met, from what she read, and had heard from other individuals, she assumed that she would greatly enjoy meeting Princess Eleina. The woman was powerful, and held complete control over Dorne, something that would play an important role in the weeks to come. She turned to where her sister lay by the fire place, her gown splayed out around her form. Smiling, Rhaenyra threw an orange at Baela, hitting her squarely on her head. Laughing, she quickly darted off the bed to the solar, where she sat down in her chair that was behind the desk, newly covered in paperwork and letters.

Without fail, as soon as she arrived, word had gone out across the city and the shanty’s that dotted out front of the walls of King’s Landing. Already, she had at least thirty different letters, some true and sincere, others from lickspittles, and some from people looking for help and handouts. All in all, it left for a tedious work schedule. Baela was standing in the door way now, sternly looking at her elder sister. “Was that necessary? Really? The orange was heavy you jerk.” She proceeded to toss the same orange back at Rhaenyra, only for it to narrowly miss.

“Baela, go find some knight to pester. Better yet, let Edrick Dayne know that I am ready to accept him for dinner. And as penance for your earlier actions, you will escort him to our chambers, alongside with ensuring Ser Trevan, Lord Rykker, and Lady Mooton are in attendance. Furthermore, if it’s not too much to ask of you, see if Ser Willas will join us as well.” Rhaenyra had a smile upon her face, she was serious, and then again, she wasn’t. To her surprise, Baela bowed before her, before turning to hurry off to complete her task. No doubt there was something she was going to do to cause a problem or give Rhaenyra a headache. What could be done about siblings?

Rhaenyra placed Princess Eleina Martell’s letter down, letting herself know to write back with all due haste after dinner. She moved to a tall mirror in her room, and busied herself with undoing her braid to allow her hair to flow freely across her shoulders and back. She knew that a first impression with this emissary from Dorne would be very important and telling. She did feel bad making the man wait, but, she had other matters that she had to take care of first. Not that she did not wish to meet with Edrick Dayne, but that she had to settle in to her new home, assign guard shifts, ensure the dragons were protected, and most importantly, pay her respects to her deceased uncle and King, Aegon X. This had taken the better part of the day, and the sun had set a few hours ago. The man had been waiting since this morning, and thankfully, he would no longer have to wait.

She noticed her makeup was a bit smudged from crying earlier, and set about cleaning up to look her best for her guests. This was a late dinner, far past the usual sunset affairs, but Rhaenyra was rest assured that the meal was going to be delicious and freshly prepared. Shaking her head, she returned her focus onto to the task at hand. She worked carefully to fix her makeup, doing all she could to look as pretty and presentable as she possibly could for her dinner guests. She needed to make a good impression, one that would be able to help garner future support for whatever fate decided was to come her, and the kingdom’s way.
Finishing with her beautification process, Rhaenyra made her way to the dining room of her apartments. It was a large table, fit to seat at least twelve people, probably more if need be, and took her place at the head of the table. She ran her fingers across the old wood, feeling the quality and craftsmanship that a woodworker had put forth into creating this work of art. She smiled, figuring that family members past dined here, perhaps even her namesake, one time long ago. Rhaenyra looked up at the ceiling, relieved that at least all the candles were lit, and none had gone out thus far. As her eyes drifted downwards, there came a knock at the doors, and in strode her sister and her guests.

Time passed slowly, as they sat themselves and said their greetings. Ser Trevan, Lord Rykker, Lady Mooton, and Baela came first, saying their hellos, before seating themselves. Ser Willas made a show of face, but politely declined to dine, stating that he had the city to look after. Apparently a small riot had broken out in the bakery district, and it needed to be tended to. Princess Eleina Martell’s subject, Edrick Dayne, was the last to enter. He offered a polite bow and smile, proper as could be, before seating himself in the seat of honor. Rhaenyra spoke with him at length while they waited for dinner, trying her best to answer any and all questions he may have.

Dinner came at last, a few fresh dishes along with a salad. The meats were a freshly quartered hog and a side of beef. Fresh honey bread and corn, lastly there was a freshly baked apple pie for desert. All in attendance at their fills, trading stories and tales, answering questions and concerns, having a nice end to a very long day. The beef and pork, both cooked to perfection, were picked clean, the bones given the kennels, and the rest of the left overs to given to the cook and his staff. Belly’s full, and personal selves at ease, it was time to part ways, and ready for sleep. Rhaenyra bid her quests farewell, assuring Edrick Dayne that if he had any more questions, she’d be happy to help in any way she could. It was her hope that most of Edrick’s questions had been answered satisfactorily, but knew that there would no doubt be some things she missed, or that he had follow up question to.

With her quests finally gone, both she and Baela made their way to lay down and get some much needed rest. Before Rhaenyra could ask her sister how she was, Baela was fast asleep, lying next to her curled up like a small cat. She could not help but smile, looking at Baela actually being truly girlish, it was refreshing. Rhaenyra herself felt the heavy blanket of sleep rolling over her as well, knowing she’d had a long day, and that rest was finally here. Still, it would not be an easy, worry free night. The realm was torn and unsettled.

To the south, the Stormlands were in open rebellion against the Baratheon’s, apparently something that had been long in the running. Tygett Crakehall had not responded yet, nor had any signs of him relinquishing his claim to the throne. The Iron Islands were said to be raiding the North, as they always did, along with scattered reports of them harrying the Westerlands as well. Dorne and the Reach were looking to be willing to support the throne, the Vale and the Riverlands were wanting no part of whatever was to happen, though, they could not remain detached forever. Aerys was still missing, if not dead, and he was the true heir if he was alive. Odd, she thought. If his father was disinherited, would that not mean he too was disinherited?

Alas, these were questions best left for the morning, when one is well rested and ready for the troubles that surely follow. With that, Rhaenyra closed her eyes, and finally drifted off to sleep, letting the dream world envelop her with hopes and joys, fantasy and dream. Safe and warm, she snuggled up next to her sister, and let go until it was time to wake again.

Jullon awoke with a start, his head firing upwards, Harys Royce standing over him, the heavy breathing of Drogon behind him. Harys had his look about him, the look of a lord, not a guard. Royce's large white beard nearly mixed with his cloak, his armor still as well kept as it had been when he left, the sun reflecting off of his chestplate, forcing Jullon to close his left eye.
"Seven hells Harys, what do you want?" Harys crossed his arms, his look becoming more and more of a frown.
"I'm bringing you with me, Dayne and Footly are staying behind with Aerys, I need your help.
Jullon was confused, but he pushed himself off of the warm rock with his left hand, popping his shoulders as he got to his feet.

Harys signalled him forth, and he complied, walking forth silently, the sun warming his face, his armor a bright shade of yellowish white, his cloak billowing out from behind him. Harys stood, looking out over the island, holding his sword.
"The supply ship has arrived early, I'm worried that they may be Daenys' men." Jullon pursed his lips.
"Okay, then why bring me? And not the rest?"
"You're the only one left that I truly trust, Dayne could return to his family, and Footly is... Footly." Jullon nodded to that, Footly didn't talk often, he was their best fighter, but he was quiet, contemplative. Jullon looked to the ground, his eyes shaking in their sockets as he thought.
"Why do you trust me?" Harys looked at him, and smiled, his teeth still white no matter how far from home he was.
"Because you're Aerys' friend, and I know you would never betray him." Jullon looked at Harys, a smile creeping over his own face. Harys' large eyebrows went down and his smile went away, his lips disappearing under his beard.
"We'd better start going then, we cannot leave them waiting, whether we give sword or coin, we have to give."

They walked down the yellow hill, carefully avoiding cliffs and drop-offs, Harys' age not slowing him down a bit, and Jullon had to leap forwards to catch up. He stopped for a second, to look up over the beach, a ship, black sails with beautiful wood construction. A man leapt off, landing with a thump on the sand, he looked over at the two guards, a half grin on his face.
"Hello sers! It's great to see such worthy knights with my own eyes." Harys crossed his arms, his eyebrows down.
"Save the formalities, we're all flawed, I broke my vows when I first joined, Florent here is dumb as a stump, Dayne never shuts up, and Footly never speaks." Jullon looked at Harys angrily, but sighed and turned back towards the man, who had cleared the beach very quickly.
"I'm sorry m'lords, I didn't realize you hated respect." his face was odd, a deep scar across the bridge of his nose, long hair that came over his ears, and a beard that wouldn't look out of place in House Lannister, he looked exceptionally youthful, so much so that it made the quickly aging Jullon jealous, and he had normal ears! Damn his Florent blood, why couldn't Jullon have normal ears?!

The man fastened his belt, pushing it up his waist, his gold hair reflecting the sun into their eyes, he held out a hand, smiling ear to ear.
"I'm Lyman Lannister, good to meet you!" Jullon just stood staring, half his body slowly relaxing, to the point where his left foot began to sink into the sand. Harys just looked astonished.
"Lyman... Lannister? Wasn't Tyron the last one?" Lyman laughed, a short thing, but very contagious the kind of laugh a drinking partner would have.
"Tyron's half brother actually, you didn't think dear old dad only fucked once do you?" Jullon had to agree actually, the Lannisters were a hedonistic bunch, apparently Lyman's father had followed that example. Harys still didn't look convinced.
"Then why are you supporting us? The Targaryens took your castles, wouldn't you be claiming the Westerlands."
"Because if I support the dragons, they'll put me back where I belong in an instant, Crakehall's claiming the throne, so he's gonna pay." Yet another thing Jullon wasn't aware of.
"But enough about this beautiful soul, we've got a present for yas." He motioned Jullon and Harys over, and walked towards his ship. Harys and Jullon looked to each other, both with confused looks, before following.

Harys continued frowning skeptically, running a hand through his beard as he walked.
"So, are you really a Lannister, or are you lying to us?" Lyman looked back, still smiling.
"Yes." He then continued. Jullon wasn't happy with this, and this broke him.
"We know you're lying Lyman, tell us the truth or I'll cut you open and check for gold." He said, drawing his blade and walking towards Lyman, Harys held out a hand to stop him, but Jullon knocked it away. Lyman held his hands up, still smiling.
"I could take a shit on your shoes, I'm sure it would be just as gold as my lifeblood."
"I'm sure it would be, but you've probably swallowed yellow dye."
"I'm sure I could cut off your ears and paddle away without my boat, Florent." He laughed again, his smile becoming more and more smug.
"Stop bickering like women you two, Lyman is our guest, we'd be crucified if we killed him without him attacking first." Lyman placed his hands on his hips. Jullon continued looking at Lyman, but slowly sheathed his sword, still glaring at the "Lannister".

Harys walked up, looking at Lyman's ship with wide eyes.
"What is this gift you mean to bring us?" Lyman chuckled, walking over to the galley and knocking on it.
"Well, other than my amazing sense of humor, I have someone I'd like for you to meet." He climbed back up into the galley, and after a few seconds, he came back down, with a woman in a heavy green dress, one half of her face blocked by a bloody bandage. She looked up, and Harys gasped loudly, as did Jullon.
"Lady Rhaena?" She looked at Harys, her face one of fear, before becoming one of glee, then one of sadness, she ran over and embraced him, resting her head on his armored chest.
"I found her on Driftmark, Lord Monterys retrieved her from Essos, apparently she had been sold into slavery, during which she lost that eye, Daenys is a real piece of work isn't he? I'm glad Lord Tyrell is gonna chop off his manhood."
Rhaena continued crying, broken beyond all belief, Jullon felt horrible for her, he would do all in his power to help.
Harys looked up, a face of glee mixed with sadness, almost about to cry himself.
"Thank you... Lyman." Lyman nodded, still smiling.
"My pleasure Ser Harys." Jullon still looked suspiciously at the man, but he had to admit this was a good deed he had done.
"You may be a mummer's Lion, as I am sure you are, but I still have to thank you." Lyman laughed at this.
"Please, would a mummer look this good? Oh, and you're welcome." Jullon was filled with anger at this man's... everything, but no matter how much he hated, this was still a good man.

"Sers, I would love to meet King Aerys, and I really have no more use on the sea, so I'd like to travel with you."
"No, absolutely no-"
"Yes, Ser Lyman, we would love for you to join us." Jullon glared angrily at Harys, fire near visible in his eyes.
"Splendid! I can't wait to see Lady Rhaena reunite with her son." Rhaena wiped her eyes, and left Harys' embrace.
"Thank you, Ser Lyman, i cannot thank you enough." Lyman brushed his hair out of his eyes flamboyantly.
"You have M'lady, seriously, stop thanking me, it's getting weird." Jullon glared daggers at Lyman, wishing that the Seven struck him down where he stood.

They walked back to the cave in silence, the sun had progressed from mid sky, to near horizon, a lightshow of red and yellow wrapping the sky like ribbons.
"It really is pretty isn't it? Too bad you lads spend all your time in a cave, travelling the seas is pretty great."
Jullon excused himself to go punch a tree for a few minutes, before catching up with the rest of them.

Eventually they found the cave, with Ser Dayne standing outside.
"Ser Jullon! You really..." His eyes widened and his breath left as he saw Lady Baratheon walk up behind them. Lyman laughed out loud, something he did much too often.
"Out of words Ser Dayne? Seems like that Dornish intellect hasn't done you any good." Dayne's face tightened, and he glared at Lyman. He pointed towards a smaller cave down the hill.
"Out." Lyman tried to argue, but Dayne's intimidating size forced him towards the cave.

"And that's the end of that, now, Ser Dayne, you're gonna come inside the cave for now, we want everyone present."
Dayne nodded.
"Of course Ser." And so, they entered the cave.

They entered the sleeping quarters, where Aerys was, sitting against Drogon, sleeping soundly. Lady Baratheon gasped, placing a hand over her mouth.
"Aerys." Jullon said, not loudly, but enough for Aerys to hear. He shook, before his purple eyes opened, and he sat up.
"Yes Ser Jullon?... Who is she?" Rhaena couldn't even speak, instead she ran over and hugged her son, whos eyes darted across the room, with a look of pure dumbfoundedness.
"She's your mother Aerys... go on! Hug her back!" Aerys jumped, and then proceeded to do so.
Jullon smiled from ear to ear, as did the rest of the kingsguard, even Footly, who had just woken up, and was resting his head on his right arm.

Jullon continued smiling, but then realized his father's favorite words.
"Never get too comfortable, all good things in this wretched world are short lived and quickly smashed, make yourself happy and die old and alone, that's the best possible outcome." Jullon cringed, and he realized that something was going to go wrong, just when and how?

The Bakery District of Flea Bottom was partially on fire, to say the least. Reachmen were out in force, out quelling the unrest. By which, it meant disarming peasants with pickaxes and pitchforks, using swords, pikes and Poleaxes. The fighting was mostly over, and it had barely taken 20 minutes to resolve the mess, though it had been rapid.

Willas wiped the blood from his gauntlet, looking over. It had been tough, and he had taken a couple of good scrapes.
"By the Seven." He simply said, as he looked over at this mess that had been left. The rains began to extinguish the fires, the night dying down. He looked to the Red Keep, watching on as he turned his gaze back to the men running in. All hell was raising, and while it would die out tonight, at least a dozen Reachmen, and a dozen Goldcloaks had been killed. It was a 15,000 strong force that had lost that number, and it had not ceded well. The morning would come, and it would reveal this fight. It had been hard, but they had won. It was another battle, the third in three days, so it was now a daily occurrence indeed. People were confused, angry, and now aware that a besieging army had laid it's forces to it's gates. Willas was just as aware that when the Crownlanders had arrived, and Edrick Dayne, they knew that they would be the last people to get inside.

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





The early morning had brought everyone up, including Garland, for once. Jehrilla was out enjoying The Reach, and with the arrangement of 25,000 men, to arrive in The Reach within three weeks time had been made, it was no longer something on his plate. She could do as she pleased...so long as it wasn't spreading rumors. Even so, perhaps it was worth simply laughing at it. There had been occasions that matched the severity of the Yunkish whale, though they were far, far more drunk in manner. Perhaps there was a real lust, under all of it. Garland rejected it, as he came back to his study. Gris Baratheon was writing of a "debt". A debt House Tyrell did not actually owe. It owed nothing to them- the Baratheons were a weak house, founded from the embers of a bastard, to rule a Kingdom that was in disrepair. Yet Garland was worried, the man's fall could trigger another wave of. He had heard of the followers of the Red God within the rebellion, and it did not sit well with Lord Tyrell one bit. Yet it was not a focus, so he had to write back, and somehow, make something work. A veiled threat, beneath an offer of peace and support for House Baratheon. In this fight, the Knights of the Stormlands would prove invulnrable- they were some of the most seasoned fighters that the Southern Kingdoms had, trumping even the Westerlands and The Reach, from decades of even greater border squabbles in the Dornish marches. The situation was the same as it was in the Torrentine Range, at Torrentpeak, and at The Prince's Pass, except far, far worse, that much Garland guessed.

Nonetheless, he began to write, and knew that it was an offer that would need unilateral support, or else Garland would let them rot. An issue for another day, he said to himself.



Putting the letter down, he breathed out. Now he had no Maester, this letter was being sent by a Maester "borrowed" from Oldtown that served the city of Highgarden, on the exterior of the castle. He wasn't the same man, and had been checked thoroughly. That was not happening again, Garland said to himself.

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

The council was assembled once more, following the events of two nights prior. It had to, after all, things had almost turned murderous. Half a dozen of the castle guard were dead, there was a bowman nowhere to be seen, and a Targaryen in the dungeons of Highgarden.
"So, we have Daenys? The man that almost killed you? Left you with that scar" Lord Redwyne asked, looking to Garland.
"We have him in the darkest cell of Highgarden. Locked under key."
"Why haven't we killed that bastard?"

"He ought to have a trial, my Lords. I sound mad. Madder than a man who put a knife to my throat. I understand, it is not normal. But it is more than this. It is political. We need to give him to the Lady Protector. Show him to the people. That he lives, that Kinslayers are punished by the Seven. And that my word right now cannot hold. But the Lady Protector's, alongside other judges, can." He added, taking a sip of some Arbor, tasted prior. Nobody could be too cautious, and it was why cupbearers existed.
"And what if he escapes to the Crakehalls? We must plan for an eventuality, my Lord..." Ser Garrett said, as Ser Alesander chuckled, looking over.
"I'll assume he'll kill any other heir to his throne. Daenys or Tyget, whichever slits the knife first." Garland did not respond, but Ser Alesander did, intervening on his behalf, as he turned to Garland.
"And Lord Tyrell, this is madness! Just call the banners, get us to war....Belgrave is willing to lead an army and crush every bit of resistance from Crakehall Keep to Casterly Rock! The Westerlands are exposed, and you know it! We cannot be too paranoid, the next time you'll be dead, my Lord!" Alesander said, the Tarly-representative clearly offering a militaristic view, a little too bold, but misguided.
"We can't do that! We're mid way through collecting the grain, and you're suggesting we call them all?" Lord Redwyne interjected, as the Tyrell at the table shook his head, standing up.
"Enough, Lords!" Garland said, as they looked across.

"Well, I think we are agreed, even if we cannot show it here. We cannot fully deploy our men, but we cannot stand idle...nor can fucking I. Fine. I shall leave Highgarden to Lord Loras Hightower-Tyrell, and he shall run things in my absence, as he has before. There will always be a Tyrell in Highgarden, of some form. We know our commitments to the Targaryen throne. Enough thought of power, Rhaenyra is someone we know isn't mad...and offers us all a chance to be more involved in running these Seven Kingdoms. Which means it will trickle into my counsel too. The fucking Baratheons can barely instate their own stable leader, we're facing a North that is barely willing to get involved, and a man who believes himself as one of the Seven in running our fucking Seven Kingdoms...or whatever faith the rumors say the troops are taking in the Westerlands. I want the Lords of Bitterbridge and Goldengrove, as well as the immediate vassals of Highgarden called up. I wish to depart by the late afternoon, and to whatever state I find I have to enter King's Landing, I will begin the Regency with Rhaenyra. Then, we shall see just how willing this "King" Tyget Crakehall, First of his fucking Name, will go. To carve a Kingdom by blood, tyranny and war, or to take his place, as his ancestors have for centuries." Garland said, the venom almost dripping in his speech, as he looked over at each of the Lords. Garland may have been taught how to write well, but his speech was provincial, that of a lesser Lord in the position of a higher one. It put the point across, and in the North, would have been seen as a little more normal. Here, he sounded a little vicious, and while the council did not fear him or find any problem deeply with it, they knew it was how he projected, rather than a natural power of a Lord that they could carry.

"I don't see any other way, my Lords. Our only other option is to let Tyget murder a whole bunch of innocent people and never have any power in King's Landing for the next half a dozen generations. Daerys will be shown for his crimes to the people...then, we may begin again. We are not a military machine. We have political power, grain, and those two things are what half the Seven Kingdoms crave right now, if they have sense."

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

The dungeons of Highgarden were probably among the nicest in the Seven Kingdoms, most could assume. They were matching in the same limestone and white-stained stone that built this mighty castle, yet this deep Oubliette of a cell was still as shit as it could get. Garland knew it was the only place Daenys could be kept, and today, he intended to visit.

The Lord Paramount was escorted by a pair of guards, armed with mail and swords, the fact that Garland had almost been murdered two nights prior running tensions on a high in here. The archer hadn't been found since, and Garland could only assume he had taken his coin and ran. As for his collarbone, where Daenys had made a small incision, he had a small cut that still remained, right below his neck. He couldn't lose face, however, and had made the decision to come down, to see Daenys again, after the events that had unfolded. He had told his guards to keep the man fed and with water, though he was to be in the deepest of darkest cells for now.

Turning the corner after stepping down the stairs, he looked over, Daenys exausted, looking like he had enjoyed screaming. He was clamped to the wall with chains, around his arms and legs, and Garland knew that even if by some miracle he undid those, he still had thick steel bars to go through, or almost a meter's worth of stone. The cell was cold, damp, and dark, and even with the relatively bright conditions down here, it was not nice at all.

Looking in, Garland peered at Daenys, as he opened the door.
"It's that bastard, m'Lord." One of the guards said, as Garland nodded.
"Good. Well, Daenys. Here we are. I kept my promise, I would treat you like a Knight of the Reach. Give you the justice you deserved, but right now, your Seven Kingdoms are about to tear themselves apart, so that's going to have to wait a little while." The Tyrell said, looking across.
"Shame I had to do that, but I suppose you were prepared to kill me. Don't worry. I won't kill you." Garland said, looking over at the Targaryen, straight into his purple eyes, knowing the dynamics had changed. Even so, he wouldn't torture the fucker, not as much as he felt like it. Take an eyeball, remove his genitals. That would be inhumane, horrid. And anyway, you were just as bad as your enemy if you did. So this cell was enough for him, and it was how he expected to be treated if he was a traitor to the realm. Taking a chair from outside, he walked back in, clearing his throat.
"That is for a jury to decide, Daenys. You know what your crimes are, correct?" Garland asked, looking into his eyes as he brushed his hair aside, looking at the Targaryen, at his sick and perverted ways. Garland felt unsure what the hell he was doing, but he had to try. At least if he could crack Daenys' mind, he could try and at least get some reason, get something out of this. But even he knew, the murder of someone like himself was instantly punishable by death. The rules of the Realm would have allowed it, for Daenys to be killed by Garland's sword, right here, right now. But that was now he wanted this to happen.

Daenys chuckled, eventually he began pulling at the chains, yanking himself forwards with as much strength as he had, before finally resting back against the wall.
"I expected being treated as a knight to mean I would at least be thrown in the normal dungeons, but I guess you're too cruel for that." He laughed again, it seemed like his sanity had recovered somewhat, but he seemed... different somehow.
"Garland the Cruel, wouldn't that be an epithet worthy of a king!" He started to laugh, pushing himself back, only to cringe and yelp.
"Tie up my broken arm why don't you? How great of you! You're a truly worthy knight." His face began turning into a disgusted frown.
"A jury for me? Hah! I'll be gelded at least, and if any of my other deeds come to light I'll never see the light of day, so... let me say what I expect." The noise of the chains filled the room as he slid up against the wall, into a fully seated position.
"I expect to be allowed a trial by combat, with a champion of my choosing, if I am denied that, I will let your smallfolk know at my trial, you will be known as a tyrant, as they thought I would be, now look who's acting the fool! You Garland! It's always you! You who ruin everything I stand for! Compromise my emotions! You are the one person who I want to feed to my dragon, boil you slowly, the rest of them will understand, fear me! Allow me the throne without contest, how fun that'd be." He thumped back into the ground, the chains sliding down the wall as he did.

Garland chuckled, shaking his head.
"Well...I will allow that, Daenys. You kept your word, I'll keep mind. Except, I won't let the trial happen here. No, that wouldn't be right of us. See, in King's Landing, Rhaenyra Targaryen is now the Lady Protector of the Realm. Does her name ring a bell?" He asked, looking beyond his rhetoric, his chained-up lunacy that was pent up against Garland.

Daenys didn't smile, instead, he snorted, his purple eyes twisted into a glare, something that wasn't at all threatening, no matter how hard he tried to make it be.
"Yes, it rings a bell, but let me tell you how foolish you are to believe I wouldn't have a backup." He adjusted his arm, grimacing as he did.
"My son, Aerys, on my order he will be killed, the true king on the Iron Throne, and I can kill him with a word, I'd suggest to be careful Garland, even if I am executed, my plans will go on, the Wall I can escape, anything you do, I will counter. You understand Garland!?" He suddenly lashed out, screaming and pulling at the chains with his good arm.

Garland looked across, eyebrows raised. He didn't suggest it. Aerys was alive? He didn't know what to think. Wheather this was the ravings of a madman or truth. He didn't actually know, and didn't want to. He had never seen Aerys, he didn't know what the boy looked like, only that his survival was a rumor. With the ways that Daenys had, he didn't know what to entirely make of it. Maybe he was bluffing, a ruse to make Garland do whatever Daenys said, which would be so easy. Yet at the same time, Garland could only tell that defiance in the face of that would be enough to just put him back a notch. And who would he tell, after all?

"Anything you can do, we can stop?" Garland asked, looking over, as he chuckled.
"No, you don't know just yet. I think you are bluffing. You have no idea where he is." The Tyrell said, standing up, leaning against the wall.
"And let us say, you kill him. Well, you actually simplify succession. You put Rhaenyra for definite, on the throne. And let me tell you. I know the girl. She is a far better ruler than you would have ever have been. For a start, she isn't being accused of murdering Aegon, Tenth of his Name, the Queen Dowager, Lady Dalla Baratheon, and attempted murder of myself. She doesn't murder people without barely thinking about it. Had you have just kept quiet, born an heir, you would have had Aegon's throne. You are smart, Daenys. You know I won't kill you, not without laying you bare." Garland said, nodding to Daenys, looking clean into his eyes.
"But you won't do that. You won't murder your own son, because you would have already done it by now, you vicious cunt. So tell me, if your backup is so good, then why is it I already question it?" Garland asked, looking on, not flinching one bit, just holding his resolve, aware he held the power in this little debate.

Daenys looked at Garland, anger written on his face, turning as purple as his eyes.
"If I were free, you would rue those words, you realize that? If my champion wins, you won't live to see the next day, but you already knew that didn't you, you just want to get all you can out of me don't you? Ha ha! Let's all laugh at the prince, he made poor decisions, decisions he realizes may not have been in his best interest, but hey, at least I can keep my worm in my pants." He leant back, smugly smiling, looking off somewhere that nobody but he could see.

"How many bastards have you fathered Garland? How many maids you deflowered? If I were you, I'd at least legitimize one, because if not, your host is looking mighty outnumbered, and from what the servant-boy tells me, Tyget Crakehall has called his brother back from the Night's Watch, a strong lad, I bet he could break you in two!" Daenys giggled, like a child after getting a new suit of armor.
"My power may waver, my resolve weaken, but how many kingsguards are you going to fight? I haven't seen Harys Royce around, maybe he's plotting something." He laughed.
"Ha! Royce? Plot? I make myself laugh sometimes, but listen well Garland, no matter how much you believe you're doing right, you're not, I believed I was doing right, now I fully accept that you have to do the unpopular thing to win, stop following your childhood heroes to the grave, your sister knows it, so why don't you?" He leant forwards, eagerly awaiting an answer.

"It takes bravery to say that in chains. I get that, Daenys. I do what I do, but it still does not excuse the fact that you murder people to get what you wish." Garland was simple in his response, only needing to stress that fact itself, as he shook his head.

"Sometimes, Daenys, you have to realize that we must hold restraint where people do not. That's how we rule Kingdoms. By holding our restraint. By offering forgiveness. Do not forget, you didn't slit my throat. You left me a nice scar, but even yourself, you know exactly what you do. So now, rather than gutting you like a fish in this dungeon, I'm going to let you live another day. Tonight, you are coming along to King's Landing. There, you're going to face justice from a jury that will hear you out, and you can make your plea for your Trial by Combat. But whoever will be fighting for you, they'll know just what you did. They'll know who you are. And I'm willing to bet that there's not many people out there, more so no fool that would be willing to take that on. I can take that risk, Daenys." He said, walking around the cell a little, before leaning against the far wall again.

"Restraint? Only fools and bloody fools show restraint, Eddard Stark showed restraint, and he ended up with his head on a pike, just as I bet you will Garland... I'd love a water right about now, my throat is a little dry from having to prove you wrong." He chuckled, before coughing a bit.
"My champion? Some people would rather see laws enforced than the right thing done, I am rightful heir, my brother's will be damned, and this champion of mine has little to lose from supporting me, what do you take from someone who has lost everything?" Daenys queried rhetorically, his arms trying to move with each word.

"Take that risk, Garland, take it like your mother did when the blacksmith took her on his anvil, or like the farmer did in his barn. No matter, even if your mother wasn't a whore you had to get it from somewhere, how many men did your father take behind the curtains? My son will grow to remember me as a hero when he inherits his rights, as soon as he returns... as soon as he returns..." He suddenly grew angry.
"But no! He had to go with the dragon didn't he? I have a dragon! What made his father's dragon better than mine! What made his father's kingsguard any less than his uncle's?
Where is he? You helped them didn't you Garland! You helped them take my son from me! Where is he? Tell me Garland!"

Garland chuckled, thinking it over. It was remarkable, he had done it. Daenys was breaking down, from the sheer statement of fact, he had broken him in. It was a dream come true. He should have had Alerie down here, he thought to himself, though perhaps he wouldn't. Alerie didn't fancy this job, and she herself had suggested Garland do the talking, knowing he was a little more...well, Alerie knew that Daenys would open up to Garland a little more, for reasons to do with the supposed attraction that Alerie took a punt on. And from his perspective, he could tell where she was coming from now. It was all coming out, and he could tell, the man was now raving insane. He wanted to rise to comments like this, his wroth boiling a little, but he couldn't. He had to stay calm, stay in control. It was all too prompting, all truths he was trying to take from his own body, to set Garland off. That wouldn't work, and the Tyrell knew full well the same had worked earlier. Because he knew he had it, and it would not take long to pick a hole in his words already.

"You just changed from saying you could murder your own son, your own fucking son, Daenys, to telling me that I took him. You are hardly making sense. You were a good man, once. You had some sanity. You actually cared about our Realm, now you'd rather let it burn. I have no idea where your son is, Daenys." Garland said, exhaling, looking over. It was a ruse he was playing, Garland guessed. He didn't want to hear it from his father, he wanted to see Aerys in the flesh before he decided against it. The man's word was as good as dust, Garland thought to himself.

"But I'm sure you'd prefer him to be dead more than I do...that is, if he is alive. Whatever the hell it is you want, I know you can't get Seven Kingdoms, and if your son deserves them, then maybe he will get them. Tyget Crakehall already claims them as his, as will have Rhaenyra Targaryen, who has a greater claim than you do. So you know already that whatever the hell it is you want, you're acting in a way that takes everything away from him." He said, looking over at the pale, as he took the bucket, dragging it across the room and in front of Daenys, by his right hand, so that he could at least partially pick it up, or dunk his head into it.
"Well...at the very least, before I leave, I'd like to hear why it was, you killed all these people. Was it worth it, Daenys? To end up in my cell, with blood on your hands?" Garland asked, as he stood back up, looking across at the Targaryen, watching him closely.

Daenys looked at the bucket, his face beet red, before moving a leg over and spilling it onto the floor.
"I don't want your poison, Tyrell! I want my son! I want my son Tyrell! Tell Royce to give him to me! I don't care what you do, just bring him to me!" He shook angrily, tears beginning to run down his face.
"I did it because I care about myself? Is that what you want to hear? I am the only good king you will have, but I do all that I do because I want my family in control! Not Aegon's or Rhaenyra's or whoever's! I don't want any of what I take because I want it all to myself, my son is the only thing that could ever come close to my perfection! And the world was going to change him! I wanted him to be the same as I am, so I made sure of it! And now, you and Royce are trying to take him away! The only thing in my life that I love! You bastard! I hope the Stranger takes your soul to whatever place is reserved for people like you!" He stopped yelling, staring at Garland as tears ran down his face.
"This is your fault! You did this! You want more centuries of incompetant rule? My family is the only branch worth a damn! The others take you!" He turned away, not even making eye contant with Garland, simply staring at a wall and trying not to cry.

Garland could only look on. Last time, he knocked him out when he did this, he had broken down, completely lost the plot, lost his mind. But he had considered it. Through that madness, maybe he was right. Harys Royce was missing, as was Dayne, as was Snow, as were most of the Kingsguards, except for Willas. It seemed strange, that such a thing could even occur, and Garland knew that Willas would never murder half his collegues. He could never pull it off, for a start, unless copious amounts of poison and persuasion were used. The Tyrell knew Willas could never try that, not even at his peak.

So it seemed to suggest that maybe through all of it, he was right. Aerys was somewhere, and Daenys hadn't perhaps accepted the gravitas of what he had done to his own fucking son, Garland thought. It put many a thing into issue. They were leaving to ride on King's Landing by evening, riding on the Roseroad as far as it could take them, Daenys taken with them. He had not answered his question, and as much as Garland felt like taking his sword out and intimidating him a little, it would do nothing. Some things he said were pure madness, other things, clarity. Such a madnan's curse was, that automatically all of it had to be assumed to be mad. And he couldn't stand here anymore. Not to let this carry on.

"You really are mad. But I know men aren't mad enough to kill their own sons. When he emerges, perhaps you will live long enough to let him see what you became. Perhaps that's what you really deserve, a justice that goes beyond your own freedom. Your own son, to tell you how sick and twisted you are." Garland said, looking at him before looking to his guards. Leaving the room, he heard sobbing behind him, as the door was shut once more, locked tight as the steel and Ironwood door was once more, sealed off.

The Tyrell Lord had heard enough. Enough to know he had to tread carefully, with whatever he was doing. Enough to know that Daenys was insane, mad, preposterous. He had his Trial by Combat owed to him, but he doubted that he would survive it, especially not after the allegations put at him after a trial. It would drag his name further, and that would be all it required for his head to be removed from his shoulders by someone else. They would be leaving soon, and Garland was quietly confident that Rhaenyra would be interested to meet another Targaryen in chains.

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

The soldiers of the Reach could not assemble quickly, but they were faster than the North, and by the time the council was finished in the early morning, and the letters sent out to the local vassals, almost 12,000 men were mustered by the evening, converging on the northern extremity of the Rosewood outside Highgarden, from across the Central Reach. It was remarkable speed- but it was a combination of the fact that it was half a day's walk, and many of the men were being armed up en-route, and at the site outside the Rosewood, were finishing their touches. They were readying up to move out, and follow Lord Paramount Garland Tyrell, Lord Hand, Warden of the South, in restoring the Tyrell Hand to King's Landing, as well as bolstering the current Reach Retinues within the King's Landing.

Within Highgarden, inside the armory, Garland was looking on in the mirror, smirking as Alerie walked in. His armour was truly something that had been sculpted almost perfectly, having an edge. The Northern Kingdoms had cold pragmatism at their heart, the Westerlands, a strange mixture of Plate and mail that didn't seem to mix, that looked overbearing, cold, cynical, like the Crakehalls that Garland knew. The Dornish had light leather, and it suited them in their climes, but they did not look beautiful. Neither did the Stormlands, the tales he was told of Robert Baratheon's armour, with a stag's antlers on his helm, by the Seven he wish he could have seen it with his own two eyes. The Reach did armour in a way that never failed to turn heads. Each strike, each curve, plate, was functional, but was an artisan's work. The armour almost shone in the light, with Roses and thorns etched in, unlike Willas's, it was done across the surface, from his metal vambraces to his shoulderplate, his chestplate which in itself, had numerous vines, roses and thorns interlocking, covered in other flowers, scratched in with a metalworker's tool and an artisan's eye. It's price? You didn't ask, it would have been rude to know. But as it fit Jamie Tyrell, it fit him, albeit with a few touches. A helm that in itself, would look ornate to most, but was functional, the visor interlaced with strong steel that was in a rose-like design, though allowing for a clear vision, despite being a little blurry in places. From his pointed metal boots, to his crafted metal vambraces and gauntlets, themselves even having etching, to the chestplate, it looked like probably one of the most ornate pieces. Gold, in the shape of a rose, sat on his shoulderplate and on numerous parts of his chestplate, while under the arms and under the plate itself, was a hefty compiling of mail, something that could offer a little more movement than a solid plate would, while leaving no gaps at all. If Garland had ever seen a better suit in the Seven Kingdoms, then it would have to be of House Clegane, and their preposterous dimensions which facilitated their armour to look the way it did. Or the Vale, with someone such as Ellion Arryn. Giants needed different armour, but Garland knew for him, this was as magnificent and functional as it could come.

The Tarlys talked indefinitely about their Valyrian Sword. Garland didn't fucking care, when a suit like this could glance light blows and make any fellow Knight aware that this was The Young Rose. It was the warrior underneath that still mattered, and Garland knew that while protection afforded defense, and time to react, it did not afford that you would win a fight. Against certain fighters, it was always difficult, the most skilled and complicated ones, that said that armour merely weighed down opponents. And it was true. The only way that it could be sorted was with a point blank defensive, and a longsword and heater would be enough to allow for opponents to be cornered, and held at a distance- if they came too close, finding that they couldn't break open a blow that would pierce straight in, or again, so the theory went. The helm in his hands, he looked on, seeing a particular woman emerge from behind the door, turning his head rather than looking in the mirror. Sister.

"Oh, Garland. What I spend on beautiful dresses goes out the window when you spend money on suits of armour." She said, chuckling as she patted him on the shoulder, the plate ringing out. It had a distinctive look to it, and while he was expecting no trouble, it paid to arrive into King's Landing like you were a conquering force sometimes, given the fact that
"They say that you look an awful lot like Loras Tyrell, of old. In that armour of yours, you look like something a Reachwoman would die for. Or, gay men of other Kingdoms." She said, giggling, knowing she could always set off Garland in the right way.
"I don't fuck men, Alerie. But thanks for the compliment. It works too. Stops me getting butchered." Garland replied, as she giggled, brushing his long hair about a bit, reaching up to her older brother's gaze.
"You're never going to lose your provincial speech, are you?" She remarked, knowing Garland was not a wordsmith sometimes, a little provincial or lowly in his talk when he let himself down.
"Well, you can't take the secondborn's firstborn out of Lord Tyrell, Alerie. You might differ, but that's the way I consider it. Let us hope we don't have to fight these bastards, and this is so I can merely do what you do every time we have a fair." He simply said, as she nodded, chuckling, before getting serious again, swallowing some saliva in her throat, Garland turning back to her.
"I seriously doubt it, the Crakehalls are probably advancing, Alerie. Most likely they'll be setting up camps by the time we even catch the towers of King's Landing on the horizon."
"Our forces are in two, Garland. Don't forget that suggestion. Even if they siege, we're going to have to get through them, drag their attention away and get in somehow."
"Agreed, it works. No doubt, people will want Daenys free, so he's going to have to be guarded by my most loyal forces. But he has to come with us, if we leave him here, he's not a political tool to us any longer. Strange, how things work out." He said, as Alerie nodded, reaching up to Garland, looking him in the eye, sister to brother.
"You were a brave man to stare into the eyes of that madman...and do what you did. You should have killed him. I would have fucking slit his throat if I saw his purple eyes...or poisoned him. That would work. You aren't going to let him walk away, are you, Garland? Not after..not after this?"

"No, sister. I won't. The Seven will get what they need. As far as you want to believe that justice never prevails in Westeros...I know that Daenys is going in front of a court of people who want him dead, with testimonies that are put against him, none that can say he is innocent of all this. He wants a Trial by Combat, I will give it to him.....when the wars end and we can try him in a city that is not under threat of siege, or conflict. So...in the deepest and darkest cell he shall rot, and he won't see anyone, until I give him a chance to prove his worth. I'm a chivalrous man, Alerie. It's just...a bush full of thorns takes time to grow, and by the time one problem is solved, we can get back to him." Garland added, as he adjusted his gauntlets a little, tightening the strap around his hand, moaning a little as it went a bit too tight, before adjusting it some more.
"I knew you wouldn't let our family down. And you never cease to make references to our sigil, either." She said, hugging her brother, as he hugged back, wrapping his arm around his smaller sister, smirking.
"But oh, this is what hugging chivalry is like." She said, giggling, as Garland looked down.
"By the Seven, Aleirie. I will miss you the day you marry into another noble family. You should talk to the Peregrine, I will ask Edrick about him when I arrive....and you know how much father told us about them." Garland added, as she wrapped her arms around his cold chestplate, sneaking her hand up his head, brushing through his brown, long curled hair.
"Words are wind...swords are swords. I like those better. And I'll miss you too....you best prick them with that pointy end."
"Which one?"
"Seven Hells...now, Garland? But don't die, not now." She said, kissing him on the cheek, a sisterly kiss, as she walked out, raising her dress as Garland peered, watching Alerie leave the room, out of the armoury which she never visited, as he gave one last retort to his sister.
"I've had a shit time trying not to!" He said, chuckling, the Tyrell knowing that even in these grim times, he had to find some sort of solace. That he had almost been stabbed in the throat by a mad Targaryen. In hindsight, he knew it wouldn't have been a bad way to go. Daenys would instantly be killed, and sure, the Reach would have collapsed. But tales would have been told, of his rule. Shame he had to keep growing up, he said to himself, as he brushed his hair aside a little.

Looking over, Garland took the sword from his sheath, drawing the ornate longsword clean from the leather sheath, a Rose designed into the top, a simple Ironwood handle against the steel that blocked the serrated and sharpened steel of the blade from his armoured gauntlet. An Ironwood heater shield, roughly the size of his torso, covered with a gold and green set of quandrants, golden Roses set against green. The House sigil. Willas's was a gold rose on white, Garland had the privilege of gold on green. Jamie Tyrell had never been able to grow Ironwoods this far south, yet he had always had an interest in buying it, Jaime "The Green" buying it in a bulk that made it a part of the Elite's arsenal, and in turn, Garland's. It was a heavy shield, and it took nerve to carry a heater, but it worked well. wrapping into his left gauntleted hand, as he swung it a little, before planting it into the ground. Exhaling, he looked in the mirror once more, smirking. His long hair, curled perfectly, his fair face, his beard that followed like his hair, curling and offering a lion's mane, Garland always thinking he was always going to look like more of a lion than any Lannister he knew of. Sharp brown eyes, and a gold and green cloak around his shoulders and front with the Tyrell Rose emblazoned, around his unhelmed neck. He hated this, he had to say to himself. It was a fucking long time since he had put on plate, a long, long time. He was only 21, approaching his twenty-second birthing day, and he had to say he wasn't involved in Tourneys as much as he wished to be. The last week had proved why that hadn't happened, it had been so busy, so manic, he hadn't even the chance. Yet he knew, deep down, that somehow, armour was a place that he liked. He had slain men before, he had dehorsed Knights, fought in spars against opponents. He was no legend, but he was able to hold a respectable position, and in a Jousting List, would be seen as a tough opponent. Beatable, of course. But difficult. Even so, it made fairs fun, because it was the greatest starting line that you could have with a Reachwoman. That under such a beautiful suit of armour, was a beautiful Lord.

Alerie knew inside what would happen. Garland was good at war, and he knew tactics far greater than she did. It was just...there would be no fight that Garland could win with 12,000 men, not if the Crakehalls were serious about things. Enough was enough. Yunkish raids on the Westerlands would wear down Tyget, they would not maim his forces, at least, they would shift his gaze. But what would need to happen would be something none of the Lords were prepared to accept. Some had suggested it, she had overheard, he raised all banners and marched on King's Landing, now the news had arrived from Willas. He hadn't have done that. Well, there was always an alternative. The suggestion was simple. She knew nothing of matters, but she cared for her brother, and knew that news spread too fast in these Seven Kingdoms, it was as if everybody knew each others' moves, without barely a spy or even a slice of intrigue being undertaken. It was too clear. So that game had to be played. And she had her way, to make the Crakehalls make the move that they ought to have made. Be the aggressor against the Iron Throne. The men would be split off into two, one heading for the Western Gate that served the Roseroad, the other for the Southern gate, from the Kingswood, a longer but evidently, more unusual road. Even if it were clear that a split occurred, it would still put a force heading for the Western gate between Tyget's main forces and the other force, which could cut through the besiegers and go straight into the city...in theory. The plan seemed to work with Garland's general strategy, though it did offer more sacrifice than he would have liked, not that he actually knew it was going to happen. King's Landing could hold a siege for a few more weeks, and Garland could wait to deliver Daenys to a jury in King's Landing itself. Till then, there would be a couple thousand that would die. No matter. It was worth the bait. When everything was in the open, you gave them exactly that, you did not deceive or lie any longer. You presented facts as they were, and if they were reneged upon, they would find that, Seven Hells, there would be blood.

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




The host began to leave, as Garland mounted his horse, a black steed that he named "Willow". Only a name that a Reachman would give...though it was his horse since he was a teen, that much he remembered. Yet he served well, and he was a warhorse, perfect for jousting. With his green and golden quilt, the sigil of House Tyrell sprawled across it, Garland began to ride in line with his personal guard, the men armored a only a degree lower than him, though no less menacing in their armour. The convoy was long, and in between numerous Reachmen, were a number of carriages. One carried Alerie, with a number of the Lord Hand's elite guard, and the other was a prison cart, completely covered by a thick cloth, draining any light from entering inside, both pulled by two horses. It was not difficult to tell who was inside, even though he was covered.

The flag of the golden Rose was held high, as they headed across the Mander, the mighty stone bridge that held giving them the chance to cross, as the convoy rolled over, the flags of the Reach, the vassal houses of Goldengrove and Bitterbridge alongside the immediate vassals of Highgarden were already massing on the Mander, joining to the growing host. It was assembling, the carts following in the convoy, as they headed to King's Landing, aware they would arrive in four and a half days, once they set off from Highgarden. Garland kept a control of his horse, as he adjusted his helm behind him, mounted on the well-laden horse, taking in the approaching evening that was forming on the horizon, the rains passed, and the last vestiges of good Autumn weather flowing through his hair.

"This is an outrage!" shouted Alyssa. "He can't do this to us! We fight a losing battle against our own people, outnumbered at least 30 to 1, while those pompous Highgarden pricks stay in their orchards and don't spare one knight to help us in our time of need!" She then grabs a ceramic pot off of Gris's desk and throws it against the wall. Gris watches the Liquid Frost slowly encase everything in a short radius around it with a thick layer of ice.

"That stuff can only be found beyond the wall. You've set my freezing experiments back at least six months, you fool," responded Gris, his calm tone of voice betrayed by the expression he wore on his face.

"Aren't you listening!? Don't you care about anything beyond your precious "discoveries" like, for example your head!?" Alyssa was yelling at the top of her lungs now. No doubt everyone in the castle could hear her rantings. "When this uprising first broke out, we had 10000 knights and at least 50000 men-at-arms at our disposal. Now, there have to be less than 20000 soldiers altogether. And that's after we lowered our conscription age down to what? 14? Think about that, Gris. Boys no older than 14 running out to a hail of arrows and dying just to keep us alive."

Gris held up the letter he recently received from Garland.

"What the Tyrells offered us was more valuable than just a few burly hack-and-slashers. They offer us an opportunity,"

"What opportunity?"

"A possible alliance with a Targaryen." he said, as he handed her the letter. "Read slower this time."

Alyssa snatched the document out of his hand, and read through it a second time. Immediately, her expression lightened.

"Do you know what this means? Targaryen warriors! We're saved!"

"Grab your sword, your armor, and a roomful of guards. Ride for Highgarden, and tell them yes." Gris then looked through the stacks and stacks of parchment laying around, grabbed a handful, and thrust it into his sister's hand.

"What's this?" asked Alyssa.

"A . . . gesture of goodwill. It's a copy of nearly a year of my work. A family like the Targaryens would want this. Don't lose it."

The Summer Islander

"Ser Ra!" Zharras pulled back on his reins, his horse slowing to a stop. He pulled it around, silently dreading what was behind him. Zharras had only just returned to Nightsong, Lord Caron was a friend of his, back from when the Honeyholt Brotherhood still operated in the Reach. He grimaced, the Brotherhood, apparently they'd come upon some Tyrells soon after Zharras left, slaughtered to the last man, all of them.

The Tyrells were never nice, and Zharras wasn't a fan of the direction that the Brotherhood was going, but he couldn't help but feel betrayed, by both of them actually, the Tyrells for such a brutal killing, and the Brotherhood for not surviving. He sighed, that was in the past now, may the Father judge their souls.

Enough of that for now, he had to see who had stood behind him. His horse twisted into a natural position, looking directly at the men who had yelled. As he suspected, Tyrells, he knew by their green overcoats, it must be hot in there, armor with silk on overtop, that's one of the reasons Zharras preferred smallclothes. Why were they in the Stormlands? This was not their territory.

"I'm no ser, I'm only a mercenary doin' his work."
"Well, how about that." The men chuckled to themselves, the one in the front had the smug face of youth, lowered brow and insipid grin, he wished to stab that face, maybe get 'im a few scars to remember 'im by.
"Yes, how about that..." He sat up in the saddle, allowing his left hand loose and at his short sword. The youthful soldier sauntered over, his smug expression not changing.
"You have the highest bounty I've ever seen for a sellsword, something that could buy a man like me a nice drink, a whore, maybe a bed not infested by fleas." Zharras moved his hand up slowly to his bowstring, gripping it between his fingers, frowning angrily.
"Maybe a bed without fleas, but not a bed without worms." The youth laughed, slamming his pike into the dirt a few times, and looking at Zharras with the look someone would give a child after they said their first curse.
"You threatening me? You're some kinda animal, odd that you'd threaten Tyrell men." Zharras moved his hand quickly to grab the tip of his bow, and the youth twitched, his smug smile being replaced by an open mouthed yawn, a dumb look, from a fool.
"You had better not take that out, man-whore, I'll gut your horse and spread your manhood all across the ground." Zharras grinned.
"That's a lot of manhood to waste, sure you wouldn't fancy a fuck first?" The youth growled, throwing up a hand, four men emerging from the brush beside him.

Zharras frowned intensely.
"Well, you're sure not a smart 'un." The youth opened his mouth to protest, only for an arrow to spear his throat, he gripped at it in shock, before falling like a tree. The rest looked at this, before raising their weapons, yelling a war cry, and rushing forth. Zharras quickly grasped another arrow, drew it back, and released, the sound of string against air being music to his ears. One man fell with a groan, the arrow sticking out of his chest, and blood rushing out of his mouth. Zharras moved to grab another arrow, only to fall back, as his horse reared up with a spear through it's heart.

He slammed into the ground, the breath leaving his lungs and wafting away on the breeze. He gulped for air, only for nothing to come, despite this, he pushed his right shoulder up, rolling it over his other, and pushing himself to his feet, drawing an arrow as he did. He stood, arrow in hand, to see his horse fall, a Tyrell standing atop it with spear stuck in the beast's intestines, which were spilling out onto the yellow grass. Zharras corrected the bow, drawing the arrow back, and firing it into the man's head. He stood for a second, looking up at his newly made unicorn horn, before falling back, his feet dangling over the horse's body. Zharras saw the last two men running at him, weapons at their sides, no time to grab another arrow, so he switched the bow in his hands, sliding his short sword out of it's sheath, the leather scraping against the blade quietly. He took a stance, the blade in his right hand, his bow in his left as some kind of makeshift shield. The first lad came at him fast, spearing at him with his sword, unfortunate for him that he didn't block well, Zharras brought the blade down onto the lad's neck, slicing near halfway through, and knocking him to the ground. The other was much smarter, striking from afar with a spear. He beat away the lad's every stab with his bow, beating at the spear head with the feathered tips, it was unwieldy considering the weight of the bow, but it worked well enough. Eventually the Tyrell got too comfortable, and Zharras knocked the spear away with his bow, rushing in and stabbing with his short sword. It met barely any resistance, plunging deep into the Tyrell's chest. He looked down at the young man, teeth bared in triumph, the lad stood for a second, before sliding off of the blade and collapsing.

Zharras allowed his blade to dangle, and then he began to laugh. If this was the Tyrell army, then there was going to be problems for them when they fought anyone trained better than a babe, he wasn't even very good in a melee, and even so, he easily beat them, without a single injury.

A cough rang out from the soldier he cut in the throat earlier, still alive? Apparently. Zharras sauntered over, crouching down beside the man, his knees popping from age. The man was half sitting, resting on his right arm, and holding his throat and sword with the other.
"You're alive? I thought I was stronger than that." The soldier attempted to laugh, but the noise that came out was hard to hear.
"Yep... I-" A hacking cough.
"It... really hurts... please..." Zharras felt pity, the boy was asking to die, but he wasn't letting a good chance up and pass him by.
"Where is Daenys Targaryen?"
"With Garland... going to... King's Landing...." King's Landing? Zharras couldn't help but feel like a big battle was coming up, Crakehalls and Tyrells heading to the same place, what was Zharras to do? Oh wait, what he always did, keep his promise, he'd rescue Daenys, and then, he'd get more coin than any Lannister who ever lived. He stood, testing his swing a few times, before turning his right side towards the lad, lifting his sword up high.
"Last words?"
"If you... believe Daenys is the true... king... then you... you're deader than I am." Zharras frowned, before bringing the blade down, it crashed through the soldier's skull, shaving off around half his head, the chunk of bone and flesh going flying. The body followed suit, the force of Zharras' blow sending his head into the ground with a thump.

He then realized he had no horse. Maegor's teats.

---

"How much farther?" Aerys queried annoyingly. Lyman chuckled.
"As long as it takes for Dayne's ego to push us." Dayne laughed, he was the one kingsguard who seemed to actually like Lyman.
"Hey! You're one who brushes his hair, aye it makes you look fine, but I doubt Jaime Lannister cared about his hair." Lyman didn't laugh, but he blew out his nose in a form of laughter.
"You really need to ask for lessons, you're smellier than Flea Bottom ya' are!" Lyman returned to steering the ship, as Harys flung chunks over the side, "Ser Frogface" they'd taken to calling him, because his face was always turning some kind of green as he threw his Ramsays over the side.

Florent however, was sulking below deck, Lyman knew he didn't like him, but hey, if you're funny, you're going to have detractors. Footly just looked out over the sea, not saying a word. Lyman couldn't help but frown, something he hated to do, upon seeing the man, at least Dayne warmed, and Florent just avoided him, but Footly seemed to stay near just to spite Lyman.

"How long can Drogon stay flying like that?" Footly asked, in his forever bored tone. Aerys Looked up at the sky, at the giant black shadow cast over them. Lyman didn't like dragons, Manticores were scary, Dragons made you shit your breeches.
"However long it takes to reach the next island." Lyman wanted to look at the sun to judge the time, but the dragon glaring at him kinda made that hard. Though it was kind of funny, the giant beast's tiny little head tilted downwards while the rest of his body flew.
"That may be hard to judge, mostly due to the clouds, weather, sun glare, oh and the GIANT DRAGON." Lady Baratheon walked up, she'd been on this boat for days, so she had her sea legs.
"Ser Lyman..." He looked over his shoulder, smiling at the woman. She was very beautiful, even after the injuries to her face.
"Yes m'lady?" She pecked him on the cheek, a chaste little kiss, but one that left Lyman speechless and red nonetheless.
"Thank you." Lyman's mouth hung open for a bit, before shaking his head, smiling awkwardly.
"Uh-Yes! You're welcome... m'lordy...uh...lady, sorry." She giggled at him, before turning and sitting next to her son.

Lyman looked at them, smiling oddly. He moved to look back at the sea, only to catch Footly glaring at him, terrifyingly, a look that made Lyman's man-hairs stand on end. He could hear Royce guffawing between heaves, and Dayne was probably beaming ear-to-ear. Lyman sighed, it wasn't that he didn't enjoy it, it was just odd, he'd been kissed by whores before, but not someone who actually seemed to like him, even if it was as chaste as that one.

"Well, King's Landing, here we come."
"I'll *Heave* Drink to that." Royce heaved
"Comon Lyman, I don't smell that bad." Dayne joked
"Yes ser Lyman! I can't wait to meet Lord Velaryon!" Aerys yelled
"Quiet child, you need rest." Lady Baratheon hushed
*Silence* Footly glared
"QUIET UP THERE!" Florent screamed.

Sven Stormeye - On Storrold's Point, at the Eastern Edge of the Haunted Forest

Sven was cold.

He always was when he first woke. The cold was there perpetually; it was the one thing he did not forget. It was familiar, and he was glad to feel it there every time he returned to the waking world. Taking a quick glance at the still slumbering Yin, he unraveled himself from the various furs piled on the ground of the tent, dressing hastily and stepping outside into the blistering cold, gazing on the camps from the slight hill his tent was perched on.

The sun had not yet risen over the Bay of Seals, though he doubted the sun would be seen today; there had been much too many heavy clouds in the sky for that. It’d better not snow, Sven thought as he went to the side of his great fur tent, to the long fallen tree that his host had brought to him at his request. It had only just taken shape, the shape of a long, sturdy canoe that four men could lay down in comfortably. It was not the largest canoe that the free folk were building, those were the ones that carried their supplies, their very livelihood. It would do for Sven. He started a fire, then began working on the inside of the boat, bringing a sharp stone hatchet across the top of the trunk, shaving the wood off stroke by stroke by the flickering light of the fire. With each slow stroke, the scent of fresh pine in the air was renewed. By the time he had made a slight concave in the canoe, the camp had started to emerge into the cold, dimly lit day.

“I don’t understand why ye insist on a damned tree canoe,” the familiar voice of his wife said. “Ye’re a fool for it. A skin and bone canoe would’ve been done yesterday.”

“Not about m’speed,” he grunted. “About th’ strength o’ th’ boat.”

She tsked. “Ye need any help?”

“I would appreciate it.”

She moved the scrap wood from the canoe onto the fire, picked up a hatchet, and started working the trunk. They worked until they felt familiar pangs of hunger deep in their stomachs. Sven stood back, arms sore, and admired his work. A few more days of work, and their vessel would be complete. The same could likely be said of the rest of their ragtag fleet, for by next week, it was believed that they would have enough—over 40 thousand—to depart.

The real question was whether or not the wights would get to them first. Ever since they had been forced from the seat of the Fist of the First Men, they had to run, to the east, to the Bay of Seals. The others were not particularly fast, but they were, either way, continuously moving. They did not have to eat or sleep like normal men beyond the wall, so they did not rest, and, eventually, they would reach the coast, and slaughter them like dogs.

The free folk would be long gone by then. They had to be.

Sven sauntered back into his tent, picked up a leather sack of dried meat, and walked back out, eating as he walked. “I’m ’eading to the west watch. Need an update on th’ wights, and th’ man who’s meant t’watch for them.”

Yin nodded, her eyes not leaving her work. He smirked slightly, throwing the bag of meat onto Yin’s work. After receiving Yin’s fullest scowl, Sven smiled, for he knew that while her face said one thing, her deep blue eyes said another, glinting with mischief and adoration. He scratched his beard, then started down the well-worn path down the hill, towards the western watch. Silently, Sven mulled over the fact that no one was trying to kill each other actively. While but a year ago the tribes would have slaughtered each other, they worked together to an extent. This must’ve been what it was like t’be Mance, he thought, passing by the toiling free folk, nodding slightly at any who noticed him. After a thirty minute walk to the west, he reached the hastily built wall at last.

“Any wights?” he called to a young wildling perched in one of the few trees left standing in the camp. The lad had likely not even had his thirteenth nameday yet, much less lain with a woman.

“None t’be seen from ‘ere, King Stormeye.”

Sven scoffed slightly at the title. He had become used to it, but that did not mean he liked it. “Did th’ scouting party come back?” he asked, squinting into the dense forest mere yards from the edge of camp.

The lad shook his head. “Not that I know, King Stormeye.” He paused. “They’ve been gone f’r a week. D’ya think they're alright?”
“T’be honest with you, lad, I don’t know. Either th’ walkers are further than we thought, or something happened.”

The boy shuddered. “D’ya think we’ll get out of ‘ere, lord?”

“Aye, if th’ Gods will it.” The boy seemed content with this answer. “Where’s th’ West Watch captain?” Sven prompted. “What was ‘is name?”

“Bjorn, King Stormeye,” the lad blurted. “’E’s over in th’ tent with th’ auroch horn onnit.”
“Thank ye. May the Gods watch over ye.”

The boy fell silent, and as he returned to his vigil, Sven brushed the heavy hide tentflap to the side. Instantly, he was barraged with the familiar smells and sounds of sex, and sighed as he saw the rustling under the furs.

“Bjorn!” he boomed, startling the writhing ball of limbs and hair. “Should ye not be at your post?”

Bjorn sat up, his black hair wild and tangled, but no more so than it usually was when Sven saw him, and gave a crooked-toothed smile. “But, Stormeye, m’lord and liege and savior, there is another post that needs t’be tended to. It’s a very urgent matter.” Sven scowled at the wildling man. There were many wildlings who felt like his lead was good for the wildlings; many others fought it tooth and nail, even though they took up space in the camps. Bjorn was one of them.

“If ye can’t do your job, ye can’t be posted at it, Bjorn. Tomorrow, expect t’be replaced.” Sven silently enjoyed himself as Bjorn’s face contorted from one of glee to one of anger.

“You bastard!” Bjorn howled. ‘E may not care for th’ fleet, but by th’ Gods does ‘e care for ‘is abandoned responsibilities.
“If ye ‘ave a problem with my decisions, I’m sure the wights will gladly take ye in as one of their own. Now, would ye like t’ take care of yer thrice-damned responsibilities?”

Sven took the stunned silence as a yes.

“I expect ye to report, Bjorn. For th’ good of our people. I hope t’ here from ye soon, friend.” Then, swiftly, he pushed the tent flap open and began the trek back home, finishing what he had intended to finish much earlier than he thought he would. As he walked through the camp, back towards his tent, the wind picked up, howling like a direwolf. The cold breath rushed through the path carved through the camp like a raging river, blowing his hair back and stinging his face. Yet again, he was cold. But it was a good thing.

For the cold reminded him that he was alive.

It had been several days and quite a bit of marching since Linus had joined Tywin's force. He had parted ways with Lady Yronwood, and now rode with Tywin at all times, Tywin wanted him near at hand. He found Linus an extraordinary man, and was very quickly learning the benefits of worshipping the one true god, though he was still unconvinced, he was more pious than his father and was not so easily swayed from the faith f the seven.

Now, Tywin and his 2,000 strong force were less than a Fortnight from Harrenhal, and Tywin had been hiding something from Linus... he only grew more anxious as they neared their destination. As of now thw army had stopped to rest and allow it horses to drink and eat and re uperate from the long riding. Tywin was further down the road, sitting with several of the lords sons and conversing... Linus was not with them as Tywin had seemingly begun avoiding the priest

The riding hadn't been a problem for Linus, his stamina on a Horse apparent even as he was able to get off of his loving mount every knight without sores. Normally one had a bit of roughers skin from the such but that wasn't the truth for Linus as Tywin may have found out. He had sensed the young Princes hesitation a few times now and the thought make him smile sadly. Tywin has such potential, perhaps a real service to see the might of the Lord of Light would finally sway him, but he'd have to convince him to let one of his men be sacrificed. His fires had been flaring each night and more and more of the men were listening as he chanted his prayers. The night before he had actually glimpsed Tywin with a sort of darkness around him and he found that it made him quite conscious of the fact that Tywin's nights were full of darkness and terror.

Linus thought of these things as he stared at the Prince and his men. For now he would continue to just be a presence. Though if the Prince ignored him tonight he would take things into his own hands, for the Lord of Light is a jealous god. A powerful one, but jealous. He glanced to the left and saw a squire running with a sword towards his knight no doubt and Linus felt himself smirking, following behind the boy until they reached said Knight. "The Lord of Light Greats you, you've come to my fires every night, yet never stayed. I've come to ask you to pledge your loyalty to your new god." He looked to the squire, and smiled.

Tywin watched as Linus followed the young squire, before sighing, and telling his friends he had Prince's work to do, and made his way to the Red Priest. He reached him only after he appeared to be finished speking with the young lad, and Tywin cleared his throat to get his attention. "Linus... I um...I need to speak with you about... I require your counsel.", he then lead the young red priest through the woods to a small strream.

Once they arrived, Tywin began to pace, no longer sure what to say. After about two minutes of nervous pacing, he finally approached Linus, "L-linus there's... something we need to talk about... about ehm... us.", he gulped loudly, "I... my father had another... reason for sending me to Harrenhal. He... King Tyget has ordered me to... woo one of Jullon Tullys daughters and marry them.", his piece said, He sighed and sat on the ground in front of Linus, putting his head in his hands much like his father did, before looking up at Linus, "What do I do Linus? I already lost Robert and... I can't...", he couldn't seem to be able to say much more.

Linus held the young Knight's gaze for a few more minutes winking and then turning to the Prince and nodding. "Of course my Prince, my Counsel is always at your disposal." He gave him a glance over and smirked playfully at how attractive he was and payed even closer attention as he walked off, Linus following behind lazily. As they arrived at the stream Linus closed his eyes listening to the water trickle and he almost knew what Tywin was going to say, having guessed from different conversations and letters. Tyget Crakehall however would find the Red God, and whom and what his son married wouldn't matter in the long run, however. When Dorne found out that the Daughter that was in talks to marry to Doran or Oberyn is now heading to Winterfell... Tywin may find himself in greater need. Dorne had long ago ignored whom married whom, and Dorne's line of succession was clear, an adopted child from any of the other noble families would be suitable should such a match occur. As Linus stated before, all people are worthy in the Red God's eyes.

Linus watched the Prince pace and his eyes were full of laughter and mischief as he spoke with that horribly cute slight stutter he seemed to have around the Red Priest. Linus loved it, and actually wished he talked like that all the time, though he would be a poor Lord if he did. His answer was quite clear. "Than whoo her, though having taken the Lord of Light will no doubt turn her away, your father understands now, a servant of R'llor has already swung your father into the Lord of Light's embrace lovingly. His fire now burns brightly. I have seen you Tywin, son of Tyget in my fires, and what I see is good." He smiled seductively and gently massaged Tywin's shoulders nibbling gently on his neck. "You don't have to ever worry about losing me. Where you go, I will follow until the Lord of Light calls me to another task. For now my task is your faith, and your advancement." He smirked again and kissed him lightly, pushing his hands out of the way. "Let the Lord of Light handle your worries, and myself. You just enjoy life and don't do anything stupid without consulting me." He raised an eyebrow as if to ask if he understood.

Tywin could not resist the young priest... he was so... convincing. As his head was pulled from his hands and Linus teased him, the Priests words did their work, Tywin turned to putty in his hands. Words that Tyget had forced upon him, 'Woo the Tully girl', he found repulsive, but when they were ushered from the lips of his red priest they became reasonable, favourable even. He bit his lip as the red priest worked, before stopping and raising his eyebrow. Tywin pouted a bit at the stop, but realized this was neither the place nor the time for such things, and he looked Linus in the eyes, his fears now gone, "... Your... your right Linus. I'll do what I must and... I suppose the Lord of Light will guide me, as he apparently does my father.", he stood quickly brushing himself off, he looked around, and seeing no one, quickly kissed Linus's lips, before pulling away and clearing his throat, "We-we should return... the men will be ready to leave shortly... and I am looking forward to your ceremony tonight Linus.", He smiled, and began his walk back to the stopped army.

Linus smiled softly at the Crakehall Prince and nods as he was kissed. "He will guide you, and I will show you tonight. The young Knight's squire from earlier has decided to sacrifice himself to show you and your men the true power of the The Lord of Light." He followed Tywin back to base moving somewhat slowly taking in the sights and sounds around him and even pausing to sniff the air a few times. He was his normal eccentric self and he even picked a weed sniffing it heavily and then putting it into Tywin's hair. And giggling.

The march resumed, and it was not long before it was dark. Linus had said... it was going to be interesting to say the least... what would the lords think? Slowly though Linus had been winning them and their sons over... He imagined there would be no upset, the boy was only a squire. He sat with the rest, waiting for Linus to begin this... ceremony.

Linus had spent the entire rest of the day with the young squire and became to know him quite well. He talked and was happy he had found such a willing sacrifice to the Lord of Light. Linus prepared him for the sesation of burning and instructed him to when he screamed ensure that it was loud and proud. The Lord's would witness the power of the Red God, would see how powerful and potent he could be. As night fell and the massive bonfire was lit Linus led out the young squire, nakes but for his red robe that was tinged with black signifying him as an acolyte of the Lord of Light. Linus led him to the fire and smiled at those assembled. "Lords! Tonight, we sacrifice Tyler and give you a example of what the Lord of Light can do to true servants." He paused and with a single arm shoved Tyler into the fire, the boy falling out of his robes and the tar on his body instantly catching him on fire. He screamed high pitched and terrible and from the fire came a deep booming voice as well as it laughed.

Linus fell to his knees but a massive smile adorned his face as Tyler continued to burn and scream. Until finally he fell silent and fell limp to the ground. The voice deep and smoky, mysterious and silky almost like smoke itself cotninued. And each Lord would feel ancient power around them intoxicating their senses... Linus would began chanting his prayers and the aura would increase....

--------

Tyget had been awaiting Lady Yronwood's arrival for a good time now, and he was now before the gate's of Crakehall castle, ready to receive her. His Kingsguard, Ser Falwell and Ser Lorch, flanked him and no less than 30 Crakehall soldiers lined the road to the gate itself. Tyget was in a luxurious dark brown tunic, a thick gold sash ran over his shoulder and wrapped underneath his other arm, his hands had many rings, and Widow's Wail was at his hip, where it always was. He intended to recieve Lady yronwood the way a King should recieve his guests, in person.

Lady Elise Yronwood rode elegantly towards the gate her retinue before you in full honor gear. The Dorne men carried themselves with a sort of savage air with pointed hats like a half sun on their helms (Think of Japanese Samurai.) They carried Katana's and heavy bows on their backs and Lady Yronwood herself was clad in a much darker style of more padded armor instead of the heavy leather/mail. She had a dagger on her hid, and Katana on her hip and her face was steel, apparent that she while a woman and while a woman aged could still defend herself just fine. She dismounted as they approached the gate and took in the greeting before her bowing her head politely and respectfully. "His Grace King Tyget, we of Dorne greet you in the name of the Lord of Light and Princess Eleina."

Tyget watched as the strangely armored Dornishmen approached the gate, cutting quite the savage picture as they rode to stand before him, Lady Yronwood dismounting and bowing, respectfully calling him by his title, Tyget greeted her in the way a King should, and held out his hand for hers, "Lady Yronwood, welcome to Crakehall castle, I do hope your journey was uneventful, the roads are becoming dangerous aafter all... won't be long before war has begun in earnest.", he kissed her hand, as was customary for highborn ladys, before ofering his arm, "But enough of that, it may be no Casterly Rock, but Crakehal Castle has become quite the castle, and I do feel as though our business can be held whilst I show you about the grounds.", as she took his arm, which Tyget knew she would, he would lead her into te castle, as his men took care of her horse and men. The Kingsguard allowed an apropriate amount of distance to be gained from their liege before moving to follow at a distance behind, giving the Lady and King air to breath... and room to speak. Tyget walked Lady Yronwood through the grounds, the well kept courtyard and grand hall, before he would begin any real talk on her business there, "I see your guards, though no Red Priest, an unfourtanate accident on the road?"

Lady Yronwod walked along with the King without any trouble, her arm safely tucked in his as he escorted her through the gardens and grounds. Her guards had of course proved quite easy going about weapons and remvoed several daggers and poison vials from different pockets. All together her four guards had 4 katana's, 4 shoto's, 20 daggers, and 12 different vials of poison. As they were searched they smiled and nodded at the Crakehall men before finally handing them their bow. Elise however managed to keep her own katana and daggers would line her dress in different places. She just grinned as he fussed over her well being. "Yes, your Grace, the roads were quite easy traveled, no doubt because of your Army marching to King's Landing, which I hope doens't mean you intend to siege it..." She shrugged before continuing. "Then again, from what i've heard you'll have plenty of men after Leona is gone to the North." Her eyes flash slightly but her smile never falters. "As far as my priest Linus is concerned, perhaps you should ask your son, as he has taken up the Red Faith I do believe. Not many can resist Linus when he is truly trying to convert." Shr shrugged and looked around for Leona, to see if she could glimpse her at all. The number one priority was to see if the rumor had been true and if so, to report just how upset Dorne was. Eventually they wandered to Leona's lesson and Elise smiled and looked to Tyget. "Such a lovely young thing. It's the Children your Grace, they are all that we wish ourselves to be. They are what you hope will carry on you lineage. I'm curious your Grace, what prompted you to name your only son after a murderous, and cold man such as Tywin Lannister?" Her eyes seemed playful this time but she was weighing his answer quite heavily.

Tyget listened intently as Lady Yronwood spoke, knowing whatever she said would carry the weight of her queen. He was surprised at her knowledge of His daughters soon journey to the North, and raised an eyebrow at thhe comment, "So you know hm? My wife must talk with her handmaidens to much. Oh well, I suppose the whole Kingdom will know soon enough. But yes, Lord Stark insists I send her North, in order to gain his support... as if I've not done enough for that already...", this last part was mumbled by Tyget under his breath, but was said nonetheless. He was also surprised to hear his son had taken up with the Red God... of course he did not comment on this, it only meant his son would not fight him over it. As they came to the balcony, watching his daughter learn from maester Illyn he looked at Lady Yronwood, a ghost of a smile on his lips at her asking of his sons name, "That's what they all remeber isn't it? His order of the murder of Elia Martell and her babes, no one remembers the man who saved the Westerlands, who was nearly as rich as I am, it's all about his most distasteful act... and his childrens incestuous tendencies. It simply shows that men are remembered far more for their greatest failures than their greatest victories. I named my son Tywin for the man who crushed house Rein, who made his house a name to respect and fear again, the man who showed a son could be far better than a father. I did not name my son for the monster he became... I could have name Robert, that man wanted every Targaryen in exsistence dead and burned. But no, my son is named for a Tywin who I could respect, not a child murderer. Besides, it gives my son room to grow, an enemy to fight. Lets him forge his own name, make a new history for it.", Tyget smiled as he said this, for all his fighting with his son, he was the only one he had.

"Of course I know silly Tyget, I would be a poor diplomat to my Princess should I not keep my ear to the ground." She said it in a jestful manner to let him know she was not insulting him by not using the title and shrugs as his words. "Such a barbaric and friendless people the North, so cold... So, stiff. I wonder what Leona thinks?" She stopsand puts a hand to her mouth. "Forgive me, not my place but I do recall our Houses having a great friendship despite a few... Issues and it turns my heart to stone hearing of her having to spend her days in such a climate. But I suppose you do know best, Doran and Oberyn will be quite upset, they have taken to dueling each other over her now that they're grown." As he went into his spiel on Tywin Elise's mouth became strained and forced. "People remember slights much more than anything else your Grace, but that wasn't a slight, that was an insult and a slaughter of helpless babes. I assure you Dorne has -not- forgotten nor will it which is why we were so joyed when he heard of its dissolution. But I suppose you have points on the man Tywin could have been had he not betrayed the Throne, not that I was there, nor was I in the position he was in but in doing such an act you must to understand that a hatred of that man and his house grew like a vipers pit in anyone who lived in Dorne. I met your son and I have to say that he has great potential even with the name of the murdered you gave him. Understand in Dorne he will be scrutinized 100 times more than anyone else, should he ever visit. But i'm sure you're aware of that. I didn't come all this way however to scold you on names, he is Tywin and that is settled. I said my piece as any Dornish man or woman would say and i'm sure you and him will here it again." She smiled down at Leona and her expression softened once again. "Tyget, we're old friends. Do you truly plan to sell her to the North when the entire Palace waits on baited breath for when she comes to Dorne, the water gar
dens are so gorgeous at this time, she would love it so much. Instead of cold, stiff, and rainy why not offfer her warmth, and fun, and laughter with a sun that kisses as well as it burns." She frowns and knows she must get to real buisness and turns away reluctantly from the girl. "Princess Eleina has asked me to speak with you about this war you plan to fight with the Tyrells. It's bad buisness. Aery's is still alive Tyget, we all know it in Dorne and the rest of Westeros needs to know it. Instead of throwing yourself into battles with Houses that control the breadbasket of the continent instead think of the rewards given to you should you eradicate the Ironborn. I understand you think you need to sell Leona for that but the North will be fighting them anyway so they are already unwilling partners. Once Aery's is found and coronated you'll easily be Hand of the King and can begin a plot from within the small council with Dorne instead of through a sword. Words and marriages get the job done much easier than a spear, and bow as tempting as those choices are. Just look at the Stormlands, so ripe for the taking but... Patience can pay off." She trails off and turns back to Leona letting him think on her words.

Tyget watched his daughter as Lady Yronwood spoke, He had told her the truth of why he named his son Tywin, and she had seemed less than pleased, but that was fine, she would understand or she would not, Tyget would not let her goad him into being shamed by his sons name. At least her understood part of her purpose here, to convince him to send Leona to Dorn rather than the North. Her feigned politeness, the way she giggled and smiled, she had been trained well and played her strengths masterfully. He had to smile at hearing the young Princes dueled over his daughter, surprising as neither had ever seen her to his knowledge, though her description could start a fight he supposed, she held the beauty of his mother and many believed she would grow to be far more beautiful still. The raven haired young girl had no idea how lucky she was, "Duel over her do they? I think Princess Leona has more favorable suitors than any Crakehall before her, a Princess of Dorn or a Lady of the North.", he chuckled at his own poor comedy, it was funny in its own clumsy way, then Lady Yronwood began to speak of the coming war.
Eleise was right in a way, it would be easy to withdraw his forces now, call them back, crush the Ironborn utterly, and let Aerys inherit the throne... Aerys? He was alive? How could she... she knew of Leona's engagement... it was true. Tyget chewed this over in his mind as she continued to speak. His daughter came up again, and he supposed he would help Stark against the Iron born regardless and give him his blade... why give his daughter up so easily to him? He had much to ponder as he and Lady Yronwood watched his daughter, her dog had come to greet the girl and Maester, laying his head in her lap as she studied. He sighed and tore his gaze from her, gazing instead upon Eleise Yronwood, "If Aery's is alive, then I suppose such would be possible... though why would he not choose his father's hand? Garland again? Why pick me, the man who claimed his throne? Though of course it would be easy to suggest I was simply securing it for his return... regardless of that, I have Dorn's promise of support? Or is that only if I give you my daughter?", he gestured to the girl below them, her hair glinting in the sun, "Perhaps I will withdraw my forces... perhaps not. But, I know one thing for certain. I leave Kings Landing to the Tyrells, and neither of us get what we want. They will put my Great niece's on the throne, and neither I nor Aerys will ever sit there... most often I found that a sword works best, when used with words, and marriages... of which, you propose to me. I have... a proposal of sorts then Eleise, should you choose to accept it.", he paused a moment, looking at his daughter before speaking again, "She does not leave for the North for another two fortnights. In that time, convince me that marrying her to Oberyn or Doran will fare me and my family better than giving her to the North.", he gave her a smile, more playful than cruel,
"If you can, then I will send her with you, after she has been prepared of course. After all, either way, she will need to meet her future husband. Does this sound fair Eleise, old friend?", he awaited her answer.

Elise smirked and nodded a few times, she had always enjoyed her chats with Tyget, both when they were younger and now that they were old with children and a House behind them. Not many could match wits and words with her, a master diplomat but Tyget had always seemed to get exactly what she said, regardless of how careful she was with them. It was a game they enjoyed and she knew that he to knew that she was merely telling him of his son's name and how it was viewed in Dorne. She found the lad to be quite handsome and was supposed to be quite skilled with the sword. Both swords... She giggled to herself and watched Leona and smirked. "Indeed, the Scimitars never cease during training as they speak her name and seek to cast the other to the ground. It's quite cute to watch though of course should the Prince's hear me say such I would be better to run." She chuckled and shrugged her shoulders. "Well she's much better looking than you were at her age if I remember correctly and besides there seems to be a good number of heirs at her age." She paused as he shifted gears into the war talks and she almost snorted as he began to get in depth, though her eyes sent fire around for a brief moment. "Not if, he is alive. I can feel it, we spent so long in Dorne mourning the infant we thought was gone but we would be lying if we said we didn't hope and it's the same feeling Tyget. He's alive for now, and Tristam with him, the Sword of the Morning would never just disappear, you know that. Neither would Royce. As for the Handship, think about it. Garland has placed a pretender Targaryen, two in fact to sit in King's Landing ready to depose him and you, the Warden of the West rallied your banners to fight them off of the correct seat. Why, you eradicated a direct threat to the realm instead of flying to King's landing to play politics with those that would 'keep the realm warm.' And when you do arrive, you'll find Edrick or myself firmly planted on the Small council with reputati
on, power, and networks to help you take the Handship. Spymaster will need filling, and House Wyl is quite skilled at using the subtle arts, not to mention the many Mercenaries and Assassin's from Essos we receive in Sunspear. I would say we hold quite a bit of influence in Essos. And we will soon rule the Stormlands in all but name, the populace converting to the Red Faith like a wildfire. And if before Aerys returns Garland gets a bit thirsty for battle, so be it. 80,000 Dornish warriors, along with another 20-30,000 from the draft will hit them from the South while you keep them busy in the North. Should Eleina decide to throw the friendship they were 'cultivating' out." She giggled at the pun and continued. "We're in the best position to help you, the North doesn't care about the realm, doesn't care about politics in King's landing and it's obvious Dorne is in a much better position to help and support you. I don't have to work very hard at your challenge at all. In face I may take a nap." She grinned at him and waved her hand. "Actually, do give her to the Wolves, she will never be what she ought to be, a strong Lady of her own with the possibility of inheriting the throne should Lord of Light forbid it, the twins die. In Dorne she will be powerful instead of picking at her husbands feet for crumbs."

Tyget smiled as Elise spoke, she truly was more than just a pretty face, clever and quick with her words, and intelligent with her arguements. At her comment about his looks at the age of his daughter Tyget frowned, "Hardly a fair comparison Elise, she is better looking than I am now, and ever was.", the bit of self deprication from a man who was called King was good, meant he was certainly no Joffrey. As she moved on to her arguement as to Aerys survival... she wasn't wrong. Dayne wasn't like Wilas, neither was Royce or Snow, they would have given their lives for Aerys or the King before running back to their families... not unlike his own Kingsguard. They would not simply leave without trace... and that meant Aerys was still alive, or that all the Kingsguard were dead, the former was surprisingly more likely. She was right, and luckily, it meant he could continue with much of his current course of action. He turned his eyes to her in surprise at hearing the size of Dorn's army... 80,000? Quite... useful, far more than the words Rickard would give him, which he may get regardless. She had done in mere moments what would take others the two fortnights he offered and more... he hated himself for agreeing that Leona had few prospects in the North compared to Dorn... though it was not only Leona he had to worry about. As she finished he looked Elise in the eyes, before sighing,
"You... have allways had a way with words Elise. However... my word is at stake now, for already have I told the Starks they would have my daughter. I break my word, and the North runs... though I could stall them, and they do need me to destroy the Iron born... you may tell Princess Elaine she will be recieving my daughter soon, and her sons may fight over her in her presence soon enough. As for the Kingdom,", he glanced about, ensuring none but his Kingsguard were near, before smiling and again looking into Elise's eyes, "Should what you say be true, and Aerys truly is alive and well... then secure the throne for him I shall. My men will take Kings Landing, as they have intended to, and drive the Tyrells out. Then, until I am certain Aerys is alive and comes to take his throne, I will concede it to him, and tell him of the terrible plot the Tyrells have. They place his distant cousins on the throne... and keep his murderous father Daenys alive, they will give him no justice,", Tyget smiled at the fact he had that little tidbit,. guessing Elise hadn't known, "And, in return, he will make me his hand. And, with the support of Dorn, perhaps I will become more.", he shrugged, a coy look on his face, "However, in order to be certain the Tyrells catch no wind of it, I will continue to refer to myslef as King, until the true one returns... does this satisfy you Elise? I do hope so, a daughter and a Kingdom seem like quite prize to have from one meeting."

Elise listened as he spoke and the smile playing on her lips got wider and wider as she nodded. She then stopped at the mention of King's Landing and inwardly groaned, why did men always seem to want to kill something. It was rather unbecoming of them sometimes. She moved to the subject bluntly as this wasn't some Lord she needed ot butter up, Tyget Crakehall was as old as old friends went and as such she just went out with it. "So, you will still spill blood instead of keep the true king's peace? I and Edrick will be in position to whisper this word to him and you can eliminate the true threat of the piracy of the Ironborn, and even tried to secure the North again to stable rule. If you attack King's Landing still then you only will continue the blood spilling that is needless. Tyrell won't attack without reason, he may skirmish but your forces will be better suited to be preapred in case we need them when Aery's returns. His fellow Targaryen's may think they have a better claim and the boy will need a place to turn. Enter yourself. You don't need to bloody your fists for nothing. Let King's Landing rot and the Tyrells dig themselves into a deeper hole. They will no doubt run to save the Stormlands. Otherwise we will overthrow it with their own citizens and that would be quite a sight. While they're busy you'll eradicate the Ironborn with the North and should they continue wishing for a daughter, they can go take their frosted dicks and cunts back to the weirdwood. The North is no place for Leona."

He watched her smile disapear as ha resolved to take the capital, his own frown forming, but he understood that she believed this the only way and sighed, he needed Dorns support more than Kings landing itself and responded to her, "The Tyrells will crown my Great nieces if I do not stop them... but very well. I shall send a Raven and order my men NOT to attempt to enter Kings landing. However, should Garland attempt to consolidate his men their, I will deny him entrance. If you allow a barb to grow from a weed, it only becomes harder to pluck out, but fine. I will not have Lord Lorch Siege Kings Landing. He will sit outside those gates and stop Garland from growing his power. I have enough men, and soon enough ships here already to crush the Ironborn, do not worry about them. I have been fighting and defeating pirates most of my life remember?"
At her... rather vulgar description of what the Northmen should do if they desire Leona still Tyget could not help but laugh, his rasping laugh loud enough to be hear below, were Maester Illyn not scolding Leona on paying attention. Elise was one of the few people who could make Tyget smile when she was taking something from him, maybe the only one. He smiled as he looked at his daughter below, knowing soon she would be in Dorn, and that the Martell boys would be willing to spill eachother's blood to claim her... he wasn't sure how much she would enjoy that but it hardly mattered. He looked back at Elise before speaking again, "So they can Elise... so they can... tell me, how WILL it be decided which twin marries her? Surely both will be more than eager once they see her in person, will Princess Elaine decide?"

Elise smirked and shrugged. "Leona will choose and whomever she chooses will be the Prince, the other will be his right hand and will no doubt also rule. Much like how Eleina and Edrick split themselves between court and military. Doran has like his namesake a mind for politcs and will be one to watch... Even I will have to be on my guard with him, while Oberyn is a deadly boy even now with the bow, and his sword skills grow daily. She will have to choose where she wishes to plant herself. In court, or with the army, and of course which Twin is able to whoo her. They're both quite wild monkey's when they challenge each other. As far as looks however, i'm afraid she'll be hopeless there. Oberyn has a bit more muscle and definition but without speaking weirdly Tyget, they're both gorgeous. A mix of Stoney and Salty Dornish, with almost every flaw of each washed away. I must say if either of them had been around when I was a girl perhaps I wouldn't have ran after you in court hm?" She smirked again and shrugged. "Now... Where did we stop, oh yes. King's Landing, so long as blood isn't spilt I believe that will work. Edrick has been keeping me informed but he didn't mention Daeny's was in his custody. Thank you for that piece, you know how much I love information. In face, the more I think of that Spymaster position the more I really would enjoy it. As Littlefinger said, knowledge is power." She nodded her head and watched Leona with a large smile on her face, she was going to love Dorne.
---

Lord Joramy Lorch sat in the command tent, pouring over the maps of Kings Landing. Outside trenches were being dug, towers and other fortifications built as the men prepared for a siege... but the recent news of 12,000 or so Reachmen marching towards Kings Landing was a bit distressing. Joramy found it... odd though. Supposedly Garland Tyrell rode with them, but even if the forces in Kings Landing charged out, The Westermen still far outnumbered them... it seemed a huge risk for the Young Rose to take... and Joramy suddenly realized why. Garland was going to use some of those men as a Diversion. He wouldn't risk his own life, no he wanted to get inside Kings Landing... Lorch smiled, he was going to give Garland one hell of a surprise.

The sound of clopping hooves and hooting men was deafening, Gerald was never a big fan of noise, and when he was young it would send him into a fit of madness whenever a minstrel sang, he still had difficulty holding himself in presently, his teeth ground together and his hands tightened on the reins of his horse. A brisk wind blew by his face, causing him to groan and cover it with a gauntleted fist.

"Something wrong Prince Crakehall?" Lord Spicer rode next to Crakehall, the old knight was a skilled fighter and better commander, utterly loyal to their cause. Gerald looked over to the gaunt man, who looked at him with confused eyes and permanently pursed lips.
"No, it's just surprisingly cold today." Spicer smiled, his toothless gums red and bloody from age, leaking a fluid yellow and thick, like the "caramel" the Summer Islanders make.
"You're really going to just ignore whatever's bothering you?"
"Yes in fact! I'd prefer it if I was home, my wife's mouth around my cock, but I'm needed here, and that's all that matters at the moment."
"I guess there's no shame in that, I prefer to allow myself to speak, balances the humors." The ones you're leaking? Gerald questioned to himself.
"Humors are bullshit, if a maester's bleeding you, that blood had better be black as night." Spicer's bald head glistened as he looked back at the road, his lips still pursed, and his brow furrowed.
"I would trust a maester, maesters save your life."
"Do they now? Because they certainly didn't for me!" Spicer looked back at Gerald, his face unchanged, but Gerald could feel the coldness it projected onto him.
"Your 'Lord of Light' saved you? Bah! A healer saved you boy, you'd do well to remember that."
"How do you know of my beliefs?"
"The whole kingdom knows your brother's a burner, as is his son, and they started just as you arrived, what a coincidence."
"How do you know it wasn't the Dornish?" Spicer looked at him, a look of pure disbelief on his face, before breaking out into hysterical laughter.
"Boy, your brother wouldn't listen to a Dornishman if he was telling him the secret to a long cock." Gerald frowned in agreement.
"Aye... I guess it was pretty obvious wasn't it?"
"Obvious as your member right now." Looking down, Gerald noticed his member was, in fact, erect, he then proceeded to look back up, paying it no heed.
"Why were you admiring my manhood Spicer?"
"Because your clothes do nothing but bring attention to it, how many plates do you need in that area?"
"Enough to stop a sword, an arrow, or a scorpion."
"Feel lucky that your's still works boy, when you're my age it will take a turn." Was that entirely necessary? Gerald thought to himself, cringing at the unwelcome mental image that statement provoked.

Trumpets rang out, and a mass stomp rang from the men to Gerald's front and back, informing them that some form of enemy had been sighted. Gerald exhaled deeply. Thank R'hllor. Spicer looked around, before riding away, his courser angrily snorting at the ground soldiers in it's path. Gerald decided that he had no choice but to follow, angrily cursing whatever Great Other had forced him to do this.

Clopping over the dry ground, Gerald eventually caught up with Spicer, who was in an angry argument with the horn-blower, one of Tyget's household knights.
"They're smallfolk! Whores, farmers, brigands, cutpurses, how were you given the authority to kill them without command?"
"I am the leader of this army's right flank, they answer to me, not to you Spicer!"
"You then answer to me, I answer to Prince Gerald, and he answers to Tyget, you were out of line." Gerald rode over, allowing his presence to be known with a cough.
"Unfortunately, Spicer is right, you had no right to preform those actions, Ser Dontos." Dontos looked at him with his fat face, spilling spit all over his beard, as Spicer spilled blood and pus over his chin. I could walk between these two and be wetter than my wife every time I enter the room. He chuckled silently at his joke, saving it for later when he returned to her. Spicer smiled, his eyes closed and brow raised, planting his arms together across his chest, like when a child is informed that they won the argument. Dontos could barely meet Gerald's eyes, staring into the dirt.
"Of course milord." He walked away, towards the rest of the army, staring silently into the dirt and kicking stones. Gerald looked back, to see the men staring at him dumbly, which made him angry somehow.

"We continue marching! Let the Tyrells fall like flies before us!" The men "Aye"ed, and then proceeded to return to marching. Gerald sighed, rubbing his forehead.
"I really need to speak to Tyget."

---

The boat rocked, and Aerys felt sick.

How much longer were they going to be on this bloody seven buggering hells forsaken ship? If felt good to think that, after his mother arrived, Aerys wasn't doing very much cursing, he needed to release his frustration! Stranger's horse he was tired, but sleep didn't come easy on a crowded boat which smelt of arse, especially after Royce shat himself while tossing chunks over the side of the ship, they had no spare clothes, so he washed them in the water and put them back on. That was a funny moment, his arse was whiter than his cloak, except for the thin line of brown between the cheeks. None of the others took it well.
"SHIELD YOUR EYES!"
"STRANGER BE GOOD!"
"THEY'RE BLEEDING, THEY'RE BLEEEEEDING!!" They started calling him "Brownthumb" Mostly due to the amount of shit that had collected on his hands as a result of the "Cleaning", Lyman Lannister was merciless, well, at least after he collected the spare chunks of eye from off the deck.

Aerys continued rolling on the hard cabin floor, his back stiff and sore. He couldn't stand this any longer. He slowly moved to a sit, near jumping when he heard a creak from below him. Thankfully, no one awoke. He moved to a stand, crouching slightly and walking sideways to calm the creaks. He stepped over the sleeping guards slowly, nearly falling over Dayne's broad shoulders. He looked at Dayne for a second, breathing deeply, forcing himself to calm. He turned his head quickly, seeing the stairs, which he slowly crab-walked over to. Taking the stairs one step at a time, he reached the large door that signified the deck. He pushed it open slowly, it pushed against him, straining his arms and causing them to ache.

He opened the door, to see Lyman hunched over the ship's wheel, his arms dangling loose from the sides. The anchor had been lowered, but Aerys suspected that it hadn't been Lyman that had lowered it. Looking to Lyman's right, he saw a large pillar of land emerging from the water, with a large black shape resting on top of it. Drogon, as usual.

Aerys heard a splashing in the water behind him, startled, he turned quickly, walking over to the water. Curious, he looked over the side, leaning more and more over the wood barrier. He saw a dragon looking back at him, proud, wearing a gold crown, but then it collapsed in a pile of flesh, to reveal a man, gold haired, gold armored, purple eyed, smiling with spear in hand. The man suddenly collapsed as well, to reveal a hunched old man, also with gold hair and purple eyes, it looked like... Aegon, if he were old. Then he collapsed as well, to reveal all three staring at him. Then, the gold man grabbed at Aegon, clumsily, like he hand no joints, as he did, one of his arms fell off at the elbow, like it was hardly attached, the dragon gripping it in it's teeth. The two men fell over, collapsing in a pile of swords and blood, as this happened, the arm in the dragon's mouth shattered into gold pieces. Rising from it, came Daenys, his father, gripping the old Aegon's head, with the golden man no-where to be seen. The dragon turned on him, burning him to a crisp, but he still smiled, as he crumbled into ashes. The dragon stood alone, but it looked sad, and alone. Before it's eyes glinted red, and a hand raised from the depths, grabbing Aerys by the throat, and dragging him into the water, the boat crumbling into pieces as he fell.

Aerys looked at the dragon, which smiled at him, with a disturbingly human face. It's mouth opened, and Aerys found himself swimming in an ocean of flames, a boar's body parts laying strewn across it, along with a dead wolf, trampled flowers, a dead squid, and a broken spear. A stag walked in, looking at the carnage, it mewled in anger, before a lion ripped it's intestines out. The lion stood alone, and Aerys looked below, to see the dragon thrown away, blood staining it's wings. Aerys raised his hand, only to see a torn wing, brutalized by flame. He roared in pain, before the lion bit into his throat.

He awoke sweating, gasping to himself, he held his head in his hands, before returning to the floor, staring at the ceiling for the next few hours.

The forces divided, as Garland, Alerie and Daenys split off, 6,000 going down the Roseroad and into the more exposed plains. It was there that the fighting started, and indeed, it was a move that had proved to be working at first. The Crakehall forces had taken the bait, and unbeknownst to Garland, they were not doing well at all. But they were buying time, and they had drawn forces. Or at least, that seemed to be the case, in part. There was no doubt a thickly air of tension that felt like it was being shattered, and the fighting, as skirmished as it was, was not going well for the Reachmen, outnumbered almost two and a half times to one. The field was open, and it was not going to end well, though the willingness of the men to push against the Westermen seemed to work, pinning them as best as they could with their pikes and cavalry charges, seeking to push and hold territory rather than flat-out kill any Crakehall. It was attrition, and at the very least, it could hold for an hour or two...albeit at a cost of both routing and many, many dead Reachmen. Unbeknownst to Garland, half of the men on the field south-west of King's Landing were going to die, the other half would run to Tumbleton and not return.

Riding on, Garland's forces were on the roads heading to the Kingsroad, through the Kingswood. Alerie herself, in her carriage wouldn't have even known about the fighting that was happening in the distance. As the evening began to arrive, the fighting intensified. It wasn't known if it was a Tyrell sword or a Crakehall one that was drawn first, but there was now a skirmish south-west of King's Landing, and it looked overwhelmingly like it was not a friendly fight at all. Owing to the fact that Lord Rowan of Goldengrove was among their presence, they would put up some stiff resistance, but they wouldn't be a fighting force at the end of it- even Garland knew that. Still, there was a fight to be had, and Garland only could tell that if they wished to get into the capital, there was no other way than direct confrontation. It was a transgression of his Handship, and as he had stated in his letter, to back down would be to let them besiege and take King's Landing. Garland wouldn't let that happen, even if he didn't want blood.

Moving to the rear of the unit, Garland stayed with the rear guard, to bolster the predominantly Bitterbridge men, Lord Caswell not among their presence, in order to give the tired men a little more morale, chatting to many a Knight, The fighting could be heard getting closer and closer, and as the sun began to sit on the horizon between the pines, the rush seemed to be far, far more urgent.

--------

(a @agentmanatee and kingkonrad collab)





The evening was beginning to die, as the tracks through the Kingswood were filled with horses, carriages and men moving fast, the sound of distant fighting loud and clear, blood being shed, Reachman and Westerman, this being a fight, not some parlay anymore. And in the Kingswood, among the pines and other trees, were the last of The Reach's forces, it's rear guard. The bulk had already passed through, and his plan seemed to be working, though Garland knew nothing of how devastating the fight was in the fields outside of King's Landing, the 6,000 strong retinue that had held the rest of the encamped forces at bay now.

Garland continued to ride, moving through the forest as he saw his men pick off a number of Crakehall forces, by a small encampment.
"Forward! We haven't got time to dawdle, we must advance on the gate!" Garland yelled, his helm on, breathing hard as he looked around, the sight of men moving quickly, advancing on their own horses, the small skirmishes dying down. He took it in on the distance, the numbers of Crakehalls that had suddenly decided to appear, and appear in force. They were intercepting, and had come to this flank for a reason, seeing it as weak. Garland knew they couldn't pass, not if they wanted to hold their pocket for a little longer and get as many Tyrells into King's Landing as possible.

The Crakehall men were moving through the forest, some on foot, some on horseback, arrows not flying for the mere reason of the trees, but some bowmen were picking off lucky shots. It was there that Garland saw it, as he realized their number. They were at least double his own rear guard, and they had known this route, it seemed, albeit they hadn't closed the net just yet. They couldn't charge through. They were breaking apart this formation. Alerie, Daenys, they were ahead, he could already tell, they had advanced onto the Kingsroad, but they were still a distance away. Stopping the horse, Garland looked over, sword drawn, as he swung it in the general direction of the Crakehalls. They had to attack.
"We hold the line, they get through us, they'll cut the rest of our forces to pieces! Charge!"

Willow responded, as the Tyrell Lord, and his guard charged in counter to the foot-mobile Crakahall force, Garland swinging his sword and killing one, wounding another as he rode back around, the rest of his men yelling. They were outnumbered, even here, significantly. The rest of the men were making progress or fighting other units, but right here, Garland was getting bogged down. Dismounting the horse as he moved out from the Crakehall men, he raised his Heater up fully, and moved up, a number of his guardsmen following, as pikes were raised. Two horses were taken down by Pikes, but they were quickly cut down, as the Crakehall host arrived. The trees shook in the breeze, but the noise was insignificant compared to the yelling and the letting of blood that was going on, the sun barely poking between, the banners of the Rose and the banners of the Boar coming together in a melee. Even Garland could tell, his strategic decision had worked, but this was not something that was needed. They couldn't flee this, they had to hold, and defeat these men, before leaving. It would leave the rest exposed, and it would be a failure on their part, be run down by this host.

Garland moved forward and took a sword in his shield, swinging hard as he stabbed clean through the Crakehall man's throat, before pushing him over with the shield, moving forward as his guards continued to fight, the results mixed, some getting cut down, some making progress forwards, but overall, even Garland could feel that they were getting swamped. He moved forwards and made a low blow against an axeman, feeling a strong blow against his shoulder as Garland swung out, a high blow that axed through the Westerman's head, the longsword splitting it down, as Garland pulled the sword out. He had his strength, but he could already tell, even if he could kill this number. He stood tall in his armour, his ornate helm still over his head, and it wouldn't be difficult to find him at all. The Crakehall men did not seem to have a distinct figure among them, not that Garland could see yet, as he moved forward, holding his shield up as one of his men took out a Crakehall in front of him, with a sharp slice through the chest.
"We have to stop them advancing, hold fast!" Garland yelled at the top of his voice, the Reach Lord inspiring his men, but he himself even knew only inspiration could do so much. They had to get out of here soon, before they did get overwhelmed entirely, and got out of there. His life mattered, that much Garland knew, but he had to fight, show courage, not be a coward. He was Garland Tyrell, The Young Rose, and his bravery was what made his Kingdom so chivalrous, what meant women adored him. He had to be a real figure, and not run away from this, like some craven would. Or else his sister could die, or even worse, Daenys could be found.

Lorch had dismounted and was cutting down any Tyrell man dumb enough to try and stop him. Some knight charged him, sword raised, Lorch parried the heavy handed strike to his left, and impaled the fool through the neck, his sword sticking out the back of his head after he had shoved it between the mans gorget and helmet. He drew the blade out. As the man fell, he saw what he was looking for.

Garland Tyrell stood, alone, his guards occupied with other men, and Garland cutting down one of his men. The axe man fell, but it din't matter, Lorch hadn't been seen yet. He rushed at Garland, shouting his challenge to the 'young rose' loudly, "GARLAND TYRELL! The Young Rose!", Lorch charged, a thrust aimed for his neck.

Garland looked over, looking across at Lorch, turning quickly as he raised his heater shield, the Ironwood shield barely stopping Lorch's sword, as he pushed back, throwing him forward a little, Garland back, his guard fully engaged and unable to stop, that is, apart from one. One of the men at Garland's side turned to Lorch, and charged on him, but it was not before another Westerman had already stabbed a pike through his plate, impaling him gruesomely, blood gushing onto the floor. Garland looked over at Lorch, his thoughts cold, his breath heavy, his mind focused. Blood stained over his gauntlets, his sword was confident in his hand, his shield clasped strong in his left. He looked into Tywin's eyes through his visor, and did not respond. He did not need to. He lashed out, moving forward, using his shield as a heavier stop to stop any lower attacks from Lorch, just hoping he could take a bold move. He gave a swing, and felt it clash against the Westerman's blade, as they interlocked, Garland swinging it once more and brushing his shoulder, as he felt himself then get pushed back, his shield smashed aside hard, something that only a very good fighter could do. Most couldn't breach it, but Garland knew at this moment, that he was indeed, fighting a fight against a man who knew his sword far, far too well.

Garland continued to hold, watching Lorch circle, to pick out any holes. Garland swung out, and the sword clashed, as they pushed off, Garland countering another swift blow at his left with his shield, acting out with his right hand and his sword, met again by Lorch, who was stopping his counters, and wearing him out, using his shield and sword in perfect unison, not in a passive mood, but in one that was going to crack open Garland. He knew this well, and guessed he had to finish the fight fast, before this continued to go on.

He threw himself up quickly, gaining a little distance in as he put his shield up and gave a high blow, hoping to throw Lorch off his guard, knowing it was going to come close. And it did, as Lorch barely covered himself with his own shield, blocking the Tyrell from putting the sword between his head and shoulders, having a swipe right where it would have been best to have gone. Garland had exposed himself, however, and knew it full well, as he pulled back, scrambling to defend.

The Young Rose wasn't a fool, he was competent, a good fighter, but Lorch was a powerful fighter. Their swords clashed as Garland attempted to gain distance, but Lorch just knocked the shield away, trying to get his blade at the neck again, but Garland knocked it to the side, then bringing the blade down at Lorch's head. His shield barely got there in time, stopping Garland's blade short of his helmet. But, now Garland was open, and Lorch brought his blade slicing through the Young Rose's helmet.

Garland raising his shield, he did not expect the blow to come as high as it did, as he saw Lorch swing a fast but vague blow. It was barely even time before he felt his helmet smash off, and a cut from the sallet rip through the left of his head, cutting behind his cheek and up to his right ear, blood pouring, the wound skin-deep, but exposing his long hair, and his face. It was as if the truth wasn't already clear, but this was Lord Garland Tyrell, and nobodye else, He alone was on the floor, in the heat of the fight. Backing up, another Crakehall moved forward, the same that had speared his guard. Garland swung out, smashing his pike, before standing with a vigour, his shield lowered as he stabbed the Crakehall thick and thin, defenseless in the way he held himself, turning around. It was only then, that he realized what he had done. His shield lowered to make the move from the floor onto his feet, he had let it happen. It was a moment of exposure that had let the move happen.

As Garland fought off the Pikeman, Lorch saw another chance. As Garland tried to stand, Lorch brought his blade along Garland's arm, and into the Lord's mail covered armpit. The blade ran tgrough the young rose, the thrust deep in his upper side, Lorch smiled, and ripped the blade out, watching as the Young Rose fell to the floor.

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

Willas rode, the sight of the fighting outside massively mad to understand. From what he could gather, the forces in the open were being cut to shreds, and they couldn't help them, not now, not the ones he had seen to the South-West. They were obviously in sight, but to the south, from the height of the towers of King's Landing's perimeter wall, the Reachmen flanking around to the South could be seen, with far more Rose banners and flags being hoisted high. There were men forming, and already, over the evening, the Tyrell Retinue response had been fast. Willas had told Rhaenyra to keep herself in the Red Keep, and be prepared to defend. Her dragons could not leave the Dragon Pit, unless absolutely essential, and that this was a Reach fight. She would not be dragged into this, the Princess had enough on her mind, Willas decided, and for that, they were going to sally forth themselves. However the hell Garland intended to get in, Willas guessed he was causing a diversion..but it wasn't working. Crakehall forces had parted off and already began attacking the Reachmen that were at the rear, and the pocket was collapsing in. On the Kingsroad going south, the Reachmen were thundering, and aware that they had to move fast to help in whatever way they could, the 2,000 strong retinue following.

Riding out, he saw the two carts in the convoy make their way almost by the gate, as Willas rode by one. He was looking for Garland, Alerie, anyone. He found the latter, the door open, his young niece looking on at the sight of Willas Tyrell.
"Where's Garland? What in Seven Hells is going on!?" Willas barked, aware it wasn't the nicest introduction, but there was an air of fear, and the noises of charges and war in the distance could be heard. It wasn't a place for Alerie, that much Willas knew.
"He's holding our rear guard, he's back in the forest. Willas, what's going on?" Alerie responded, sitting up from her seat, leaning out the side.
"Our scouts saw Lorch's guard moving there...they're going to get cut to pieces if they don't pull back. Alerie, get inside the walls, I'll be back!" Willas said, as Alerie's carriage door shut, and the horses neighed, before then kicking hard and breaking back into a run, Willas looking across to the rest of the mounted Reachmen, looking to Willas for instruction.
"We've got a Lord to save, with me!"

All in the while, Alerie and Daenys had made it inside, and already within the castle walls, Alerie could tell.
"Driver, take us to the Red Keep. Pass it along to Daenys. I shall need to speak with Princess Rhaenyra."

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

Willas's guard followed. They were moving fast, at full pelt, the sight of more Tyrell Retinues moving out, sweeping by the side of the convoy, sallying forth to guard the sides, and the Tyrell forces that were entering. On the distance, the sight of the other Tyrell force being crushed and forced back, routing almost entirely could be seen, over 6,000 men thinned to half that number, or in outright retreat along the Roseroad, following their engagement with the main Crakehall forces. It was not looking good, not at all. Alerie was safe, that much was certain, and Willas was somewhat relieved that she was in safe hands. It was Garland that he worried for...the Young Rose was a man who was binding much of the Reach together, and while Willas knew he could do damage, he was not used to this. Not a seasoned, weathered soldier, he was a administrator and not a born fighter. That was his preserve, and Willas couldn't let Garland get overwhelmed, that much he had to say to himself.

The forest was barely a ten minute ride away, as the sight of forces could be seen. The Tyrell Retinues almost immediately clashed with Crakehall forces, as Willas's horse continued galloping, deeper and deeper into the wood. He was looking for a banner, some sort of sign, of where Garland was, as he continued riding, many of his own guard, including Ser Maxwell, quickly getting stuck into the melee, hitting the Crakehall forces side on. They were colliding, and Willas could guess that this rear guard had spent too much time holding the line, and that they had to be relieved. Garland was a good tourney fighter, but this wasn't a tourney, this was a fucking skirmish, and while he could hold his own...it wouldn't be for long, Willas could imagine. Riding around a tree, he saw a Crakehall raise his pike, and Willas was forced to almost dive into the man, running him down and his own horse running over his body, using the momentum and force to knock the man out, before taking a look around once more. Blood was being spilt, and even Willas's retinue could turn the tide for perhaps a minute, around 1,000 of his own forces sallying out with him. He turned his head, and looked around.

It was only then that Willas saw it, in the exact moment he arrived. Garland had a blade in his side, and Ser Lorch was right by his side doing it.

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

Garland fell to the floor, coughing blood, looking up. He didn't even have words, as the noise of a horse stopping could be heard. Numerous horses stopping, as a matter of seconds passed. Willas looked across, seeing Garland on the floor, on his knees, knowing full well what he saw. Blood. Willas drew the Poleaxe, and looked across at Lorch, Willas wearing no helm. His cavalry began to push through, as Willas looked on. He would tear him limb from fucking limb, that is, he would if he had time.
"You Crakehall bastard! Garland!" He said, his words ripping through the air, Willas not charging forward, as he simply pushed on, pushing his Poleaxe forward to meet his sword, and throw him off balance, the pointed pike on the weapon making contact, but not clean, only a scuttiling blow off his plate, as he knew he had lost his own momentum. But he was a Kingsguarder...and this was a weapon that could do many a thing. He wanted to disarm Lorch, but knew that time was short, and any way that would kill the fucker would work. He didn't know what Garland was feeling, but he knew he saw blood, and inside, Willas knew that this man had to die. He was going to have his head removed from his shoulders, he simply did not care.

Lorch hardly got his shield up to stop Willas's blade, it bit deep into the wood, but stopped it. He pushed the blade back and struck at Wilas's side, but was parried by the haft of the polearm. He clashed this way several times more before Wilas attacked again, this time Lorch parried the axe head, and clashed his sword into Wilas's side, eliciting a grunt. The two sparred, Lorch cut into Willas's cheek, but Willas responded in kind, putting the blade in Lorch's thigh. He winced and backed off, before diving back in to the fight, knocking the wind out of Willas, but couldn't get past the whirling poleaxe.

Garland exhaled hard, his sword still in his grip, as he looked over. Things felt hazy, he could barely stand, but the adrenaline in his body was keeping him going. Weakness, darkness. A voice in his head. The sick, twisted noise of Daenys in his mind, it rang out.
"Garland the Cruel." He heard. His mind felt like it was being split in two, the pain, the agony, the utter lack that his body wanted to continue ringing out, but only one thing said something to him. He had to try. Try and stop this, or Willas could follow him. Another Tyrell could not follow in his own steps, as he winced, his boots quietly moving over the forest floor, light blurred and images unclear.

Looking across, he saw Willas grapple with Lorch, as Garland raised his sword in his hand, barely able to even hold it tight, as he moved forwards. He was exposed from his guard himself, as Garland, blood running down his armour, pushed forward and stabbed into Lorch's lower back, pushing the blade through, the blade finding contact direct into the man's plate and mail, a simple twist enough to make the damage clear. Pulling it out, Garland fell down onto his knees once more, looking over at Willas. Words formed his mouth, but Willas did not want him to speak, looking at him, as he looked back at Tywin.

Lorch was busy with Wilas, the fight was fierce, the man was a former Kingsguard... but Lorch was no pushover, still standing a head above Wilas. As they fought Lorch watched for his moment, to drive the old Rose to the ground like the young... and he saw it. Wilas overextended himself! This was it! This wa-... suddenly Lorch couldn't think straight... he felt it, Garland's blade buried nearly the hilt in his back. He looked down, seeing the blood covered blade protruding through is guts, his ears filled with ringing, and he felt blood in his mouth. He dropped his sword and shield, weakly grabbing the blade and pushing, before Garland pulled it out. Lorch fell to his knees, blood spilling out of his mouth as he retched in pain, he fell to his side, barely able to hold himself up, the light was swimming, everything was pain... agony... the world was shifting light and dark. He looked up at Wilas, now holding the hole in his gut and glaring at the former Kingsguard. He could hardly speak, but his size gave him the strength he needed to do so, "*gurgle* Bastard... traitor*cough*Frey... Tyget'll *gurgle*have your head... "

"Enough." Willas said coldly to Lorch, the Tyrell not a man of honour, or not at least at this time. He heard his plea for Mercy, and the Commander of the Goldcloaks knew what it meant. A Knight would spare him. Not Willas, not after what he did, what he was doing, what he had heard. Perhaps Garland would have spared Lorch, perhaps he would have let him live if he was the one with the Poleaxe in his hand, standing six feet, four inches over the two wounded figures, one the leader of the Crakehall sieging forces, one his nephew, the man who had fought so hard to get his niece and that bastard of a man, Daenys Targaryen, to the city that he had a control on.

King's Landing had taught Willas that you did not act sparingly, you did what you had to do, particularly in a world where he had heard of what the Red God could do for people. The axe blade mounted below the pike was brought up, as Willas then brought it down with a hammer blow, slamming it into Lorch's throat, the momentum of the heavy two-handed weapon cutting through his spine and skin like butter. The last thing that Lorch would have seen was the blade come down, and Ser Willas Tyrell decapitate him.

There was a good reason, not only that Willas knew he had already done such a terrible act. Men could come back, but without their head, not so much. He perhaps had conciousness for a second longer, as Willas stared into his cold, dying eyes, cut off of it's body, of it's brutality, of it's capability. It was a gone thing. His head severed, Willas dropped the poleaxe as he ran to Garland's side, crouching down as he looked over.
"Willas...." He moaned, clutching his side, looking at his wound. It was nasty, and he couldn't even see it through the mail in his side, the blade clearly cutting through his armpit, and into his chest, though he couldn't tell how far.
"Garland, stay with me...listen, I'm going to get us out, back to King's Landing." He said, looking down at the wound. Tearing the material from his cloak, he stuffed it into his side, pushing as much as it as he could into the mail, aware it wouldn't do much. Garland reacted a little, alert that he wasn't bleeding as heavily, but knowing it was an additional agony on his bare skin.

"I fucking told Alerie I wouldn't die...Seven Hells....I am not letting her have the last laugh." Garland coughed, a smirk on his face, as Willas couldn't even do the same to respond to him. How the hell was he doing this? He was going to fucking die here in his fucking arms, and he was doing this?
"You won't, I swear it, I swear it!" Willas said, as he looked over at him.
"I'm going to pick you up, get you on a horse.,. Stay with me." He added, his voice desperate, a tone that felt caring, felt cautious, felt like he didn't want the fucking Lord Paramount of the Reach to die right here. Looking across, one of the Tyrell Retinues, from the city moved up, already scrambling down, alongside other forces.
"Get off that fucking horse and help your Lord!" Willas said, the noise of fighting in the distance ringing out, as the soldier did exactly as he was commanded.

Dismounting the horse, they both picked up Garland, who looked out on the horizon, his vision blurred. He didn't know what to feel, he felt very, very strange. Memories were flooding a little, his head light. He shut his eyes, as Willas looked over.
"Garland! GARLAND!" He yelled, as he slapped him in the face lightly. He was passing out, he was losing consciousness, he was going to fucking die, Willas said to himself.
"Fuck! Get the men out of here, we have to leave!" Willas yelled, as he slid Garland onto the horse's saddle, throwing himself onto the same horse, snapping the reins as the horse responded to Willas's not-so-fine command, taking off. Riding out of the forest, the noise of fighting could be heard, Garland looked on, his eyes half-open, as he looked across at the sight of the fight, the Kingswood fading into the distance, as Willas's horse charged down the Kingsroad heading north, into the city of King's Landing. Tyrell men were in the field, on the walls, everywhere, and distant Crakehall banners and vassals could be seen, on the far horizon. Garland himself didn't know what the hell had happened...it had just happened, the sword slashed was heard around the world, and now, people were dying in a bloody sally, trying to desperately get in.
"Stay with me, nephew!" Willas yelled, the sound of arrows firing, both Reachman and Westerman, as he headed across and off the road for a little while, still riding as hard as he could for the gate, the sun beginning to set, the scene beginning to cut to darkness as the horse rode into the last shade that the castle walls gave.

Alyssa glanced at the rickety ship. It was most certainly old, and whoever saw to it's care did a terrible job. Planks are missing, the sails are ripped, and the paint is almost completely peeled off. It's a wonder it hasn't sank yet. However, Alyssa had no choice. All the recorded roads are blocked off by endless hordes of citizens with pitchforks and all the quieter ones were prone to surprise attacks.

"You knights are in for a good deal today," rasped the ship's captain and possibly only crew member. "I can get you anywhere you want - anywhere, I say. This baby here can sail to the Wall and back," he said affectionately, patting the side of the hull. Right after that, there was a loud snapping sound and something hit the water with a resounding splash. Alyssa turned to the messenger she sent to find a ship and captain and punched him very hard in the face. The messenger reeled back, clutching his now bloody nose.

The hull groaned and creaked with every wave passing under them. The mast looked like it had a few nasty chips in it, and was about to finally snap and fall over. Half of Alyssa's guards were doubled over the railing, which also looked as flimsy as all hells, and were unburdening themselves of their early day meals. Oh yes, a very impressive display by the Baratheon elite defenders.

King's Landing eventually came into sight, thank the Seven. Everyone seemed in a hurry to get off the little raft - for ship didn't sound right for it - and onto the reassuringly not creaking dock.

"Alright, that'll be 200 gold dragons," announced the captain.

"What? I thought the messenger said 50!" shouted a guard Alyssa didn't know. Let's call him Boberto.

"Well, yes, but the heavy armor of the guards wore my little boat down. I need to pay for repairs," replied the captain with a chuckle. So reluctantly, everyone passed forward their gold and the captain sailed away, cackling. However once the ship reached 500 feet off the port, it seemed to cave in on itself, and the boat sank, along with the captain and 200 precious gold dragons. Shit.

"There's King's Landing. Land of the power hungry and home of the utter bastards," muttered Boberto under his breath.

King's Landing

'Keep the gods out of war, that's what I say, let the faith argue against, not my worry.' Jullon thought, rubbing a rag over his smallest knife. The early morning smog of King's Landing had been an affront to his nostrils, and the city looked less pretty than even he remembered, from back when he was with his family, lords to household knights, Jullon couldn't help but be bitter, and his resentment towards the Tyrells had nearly caused him to forsake his vows when they took King's Landing.

Willas, the traitor he was, had probably slaughtered whatever remained of the Florents, Jullon had an uncle in the goldcloaks, where was he now? Probably among the corpses littering the streets and alleys. Willas had been a good man once, but now he was nothing but a traitorous wretch, not at all worthy of the cloak.

Jullon flipped the blade in his hand, spinning it around in his fingers, he looked up, and saw Footly looking at the city, his hair significantly longer than when the trip had started, and a patchy beard was present on his face. Jullon stifled a chuckle, now he knew why the stoic had always been clean shaven before. It looked terrible, flecks of black and white hair on his thin face, burying themselves within the caverns that once were his cheeks. Jullon had grown quite a beard along the way actually, it reached his chest and was coarse and black, it served only to make his large ears stand out more, something that he loathed it for. Royce still had a full white beard as always, but his hair was kept, and he looked more like a noble than a wildman.

Aerys was starting to grow a little facial hair as well, like someone had dropped flour on his face and not cleaned it very well, though the sides of his face were covered in what Jullon had to admit were impressive mutton chops for a boy his age, though every hair was coarse, like his Baratheon cousins. Royce had made the child's squuirehood official, and he already was becoming a talented swordsman. Jullon could swear he grew an inch every night, and Jullon was soon looking up to speak to the lad, another Baratheon trait.

"We've docked lads! Tell Dayne to get off his sorry arse and join us!" Jullon looked up, frowning behind the curtain of black hair. Lyman was smiling as he climbed off of the boat and onto the dock skillfully, as easily as a man takes a piss. The guards had soon joined him, as did the king and his dragon, who roared fiercely at nothing, as usual, greatly scaring a few sailors who had taken anchor nearby.

A pair of goldcloaks who had arrived to hassle them ran as soon as they spotted the beast, yelping all the way. Lyman laughed, as did Dayne, the rest simply frowned, Jullon nearly joined the first camp, but bit his tongue to force himself not to.

The group entered town, walking down towards the red keep, they saw corpses laying in rivers of blood, horrified expressions and soiled yellow cloaks, they heard nothing except for the occasional footstep that echoed from some place they couldn't see. Aerys' mother covered his eyes, Royce held his head down, looking at his shoes, Lyman stopped smiling, instead his eyes and mouth rested open, Jullon had a similar reaction, he'd never fought a real battle, so he'd never seen this level of blood and bodies, the air smelled of rot, and the streets were empty, except for a few traders or lordlings who wandered the streets with guards and the such, but few peasants were present, probably for fear of being killed. Jullon looked over at Footly, wondering how the knight was keeping his composure. Jullon sped up the pace of his walk to look at the silent man's face, he saw Footly's frow furrowed, but still he could see the pain in his expression, and his hands slightly trembled every few seconds or so. This was more emotion than he's ever seen the man give off, and Jullon knew then how unready this group was for Westerosi politics.

"The kingsguard?"
"It's them!"
"They've returned!"
"We're safe!" The cries of smallfolk from their homes and businesses broke the bitter silence, and soon they began cheering, not leaving their homes, but simply yelling from the buildings.
"The King is home!"
"The King!"
"The King!" Eventually he heard Lyman joining in, chuckling as he did. Jullon felt a surge of... something in his heart, and he looked at the buildings, tired smiles, worn out faces, they'd hid for fear of the goldcloaks, and now the king was home, and they had nothing to fear.

The cheer rang out through the city, and immediately the disgusted faces of the group turned to ones of triumph, they had really done it, they had retaken the throne. Jullon was happier than he had been in years.

Then it was replaced with pain, a sharp pain in his knee. He doubled over, gripping it with both hands as his lifeblood leaked. The cheers devolved into shrieks, shrieks of fear. Jullon's eyes closed, as the pain became unbearable, and he buried his face into the dirt, aggressively biting into the bloodied road. When he did look up, he saw Lady Baratheon, gripping the new hole in her chest, and the arrow that had done it, before falling in front of him, her eyes empty.
"No... no!" He heard Dayne yelling.
"NO! N-" A sound of rock striking skull, as the arrow reached it's mark, burying itself in his skull. Jullon felt himself quickly jerked away, opening his eyes to see Footly gripping his ankles. Then he moved aside, and Jullon saw Aerys gripping his mother's corpse, staring into her eyes, not even crying, just completely broken.
"You're next, boy-king!" The voice yelled, lyrically drifting between each word.

Jullon heard a word shouted, a word he could barely comprehend as the pain took over.

"Dracarys."

The sound of rushing flame, and the screams of a dying man. Jullon didn't understand, nor did he come to understand, and the world went dark, slowly closing like a crescent moon.



"The day is ours!" A cry rang through the army before him, banners of houses raised high over their heads, chief among them, the boar of Crakehall.

"We were lucky to have faced such a weak force, and now we've sent Garland crying back to his mother!" Another cheer. Gerald had to smile, inspiring respect in warriors was hard, but a well fought battle won them all over.

"No army may stand before us and live, for we are the chosen warriors, of the old gods and the new!" It hurt not to mention the great Lord of Light, but the men still found that quite queer indeed.

"Let us trample the flowers under our boots, let us take the crops and salt the land, let us ruin the home they live in! Let us show them what our words mean, for truly! There are none so fierce as us!" He screamed at the men as they screamed back, he screamed until his throat went dry and long after, he screamed until the rest stopped, and a little after. Sweat ran down his forehead, he never thought talking could be so exhilarating, and he was sure to have to do this many more times, a fact which he looked forwards to.

He swung his arms around, getting the crowd to yell loudly. He stepped back, holding his arms out to the sides as he walked back forwards. He only wished he could have killed Lord Tyrell himself, to have seen the fear in his eyes, oh well, there was always a next time.

Sven Stormeye - On Storrold's Point, at the Eastern Edge of the Haunted Forest. Two days later.

“King Stormeye! King Stormeye!”

Sven sighed, and looked up from his nearly finished canoe. All he, Yin, and Val needed was to char the vessel to strengthen its hull, add support, and his work would be complete. Maybe he could even join the Lothbrok and the inner circle for the evening meal on time. The same could be said for the rest of the fleet, for they were finishing their work as the day drew to a close. The vessels which would carry their food and tents were complete first, followed by much of the personal canoes, those of hide and oak and pine. Many of the wildlings took to the frigid seas with relative haste, be it from curiosity or anxiety, or both. No man or woman had heard from the small group of free folk who had gone to find the wight horde, encouraging fear on the part of the normally stoic people of the wild north. Everyone knew that something had happened. That did not mean they wished to mention their fears, for even a false sense of security was a sense of security. Sven placed down his tools and squinted at the scraggly wildling in the evening light.

“Telm? Ye’d better ‘ave a reason t’interrupt m’work,” he said to the warg, one of three his inner circle. Wargs were few and far between in the days of Mance, and even more so these days due to many unexperienced wargs forgetting the dangers of the creature you control dying. Some thought they could escape before the creature died. Some did. Graves in the frozen ground were the only remnant of those who didn’t. Even more so, some risked it all to defend the free folk, sending their creatures in on suicide missions to hold back the white walkers. Even a slim chance of living was better than none. He hated it, but he did agree with that mentality.

“Th’ scouts, Sven. They’ve returned. I seen ‘em, through Frost’s eyes.”

Sven got to his feet faster than he had in all of his 38 namedays. “Your owl. Where’d ye see them?”

“They’re comin’ back. Be back by th’ time we get there, after if we ‘urry.”

Sven nodded. “Yin, come with me,” he requested. Swiftly, his wife stood with him. Val attempted to join her parents, but Sven stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder. “Not today, my flower. I don’t know what th’ west ‘as, but I fear none of it is safe.”

She nodded, slightly disappointed. “Aye, father. Be safe.”

He turned to Telm. “Let’s go.”

They ran the whole way to the western wall, sweating profusely and covered in mud by the time they got there.

“Telm. Send Frost t’get Lothbrok n’ the circle. They’ll need t’be ‘ere.”

“Aye.” Telm sat cross legged and closed his eyes, all of the tension leaving his body. “’E’ll be back in a moment. Boy!” Sven shouted, looking for the lad he had seen but the other day. He was met with a small red face 10 feet above him, snug in the snow frosted tree.

“King Stormeye?”

“Ye see anything up there?”

“No, King Stormeye. Just snow and trees.”

Sven tsked, and forced the heavy wooden gate open.

“King Stormeye?” the boy asked nervously.

Sven rushed into the thick wilderness without a response, spear in hand. Telm had not said anything about there being white walkers behind the scouts, but it was always better to be safe than to be sorry. Yin cursed him and followed suit. The snow yielded beneath his every footstep, his feet sinking almost a foot below the icy crust with each stride. It was a taxing sprint, but he did not have to run for very long before he found the group.

He almost tripped over the first scout, who was partially obscured by a snowdrift. The man was barely breathing, and his skin was almost blue from the cold and frigid to the touch. He would not last long, even in the best turn of events. He could even turn. It did not seem he had yet, but one never knew what the future held. Sven whistled to the motley crew that had followed him in a disordered panic.

“We’ve got a man ‘urt! Take care of ‘im!”

As Yin started to kneel at the side of the man, Sven started to hurtle off further into the woods, searching for a second member, if he could even find one. It did not take long before Sven found another, slumped against a tree. Although it was ragged, the man was breathing. He had not been turned, not yet.
“We got a second one!” Sven shouted to the wildlings behind him.

“King,” a weak voice trembled, the voice of the scout he had found. “King.”

“What is it, lad?”

The man weakly turned his head to Sven, showing his face at last. He was covered in blood and filth, so much so that there was barely any bare skin showing. In his black beard were sanguine icicles, and in his eyes was a fear more potent than any Sven had seen in a long time. The look in his eyes was one he knew well. It was the look of one who had seen the blue eyes, the eyes of the white walkers.

“Th-they’re comin’,” the man said, trembling before he coughed, blood coming from his mouth with the rough hacks.

“Aye, son, I know. Save yer breath, and ye might be able t’ cherish it later.”

“No,” the man coughed, staring into Sven’s eyes with a horrid fear. “They’re comin’.”

Sven felt all of the blood drain from his face. “Ye mean—How far?”

“They’ll be ‘ere soon. Day, at most.”

With speed that he hadn’t tapped into for years, Sven hoisted the scout onto his back and sprinted back to his wife, who was directing the crew of wildlings that had followed.

“We need t’ get back in th’ camp,” he said, muttering in his wife’s ear. “Th’ white walkers are on th’ way, and close.”

Yin grunted slightly. “Ye sure?”

“I’m not the one t’ ask, it’s th’ one on m’ back,” Sven whispered. “I’m not going t’ risk th’ chance.”

She nodded slightly.

“Fall back! These’re the only ones left!” He shouted, praying he was right. Quickly, the retreat began, each wildling picking up their feet from the snow and stomping them back in in a hurry.

The gods were not pleased, Sven knew this. This was not good news. If the wights arrived before the wildling were ready, they would be doomed. The canoes were ready, yes. However, camp had not been broken down, their supplies were not ready, and the people themselves weren’t ready. They needed two more days, two more they likely didn’t have.

“Do ye know when?” Yin asked from his side.

“’E said less than a day. They’re like to be comin’ through the forest. I’d send out a second group, but we can’t lose any more men. We need all th’ wildlings workin’ to one goal. A few could make th’ difference b’tween life and death.”

Yin nodded. “Aye. What d’ye need me t’do, Sven?”

He pondered the question for a moment, letting the words roll around in his mind. “It’s likely we’ll need ye to help with th’ loading of th’ supplies.”

She shook her head. “Yer so dense. What d’ye need me t’do?”

Sven chuckled as he set down the wounded man inside the gate. “Make sure Val and Gelmund’re safe. Especially Gelmund, ye know how ‘e is. If ‘e ran off into th’ face of battle, I worry about what might ‘appen.”

“I can handle it,” Yin said, starting off into the camp before Sven grabbed her arm. For an instant, she looked at him with a wild look, a blazing inferno locked in her gaze. “Be safe. I’ll be bothered if I don’t see ye later.”

She simply smirked as she backed away from him, bouncing slightly with each step backwards. “I know. Ye too.”

Sven smiled gently at his wife’s back, then turned back to his men. There was a battle coming, and Sven knew that, if they did not win, they would not survive.

Soundtrack

Coughing, Garland opened his eyes. The Maester looked over him, running, the frail man actually running to see it. He felt like he was in agony, like there was a blur going on, like the pain was still driving.

"Careful, careful! Don't move, the bandage is barely on!" The Maester exclaimed, as Garland looked across.

"Seven Hells....what happened? Garland said weakly, his throat dry, the blood mixing with the water he had clearly been forced to down, though of course, he had no memory of it. This was the first he had seen any light at all, the distant noise of King's Landing out his window, or at leat, what sounded like it.

"You nearly died, M'Lord. You're in a weak state, as far as I can tell, it is very lucky that you are alive. We had to give you Milk of the Poppy, otherwise you would have surely passed away from the pain." He said, as Garland wheezed a little, not wanting to look at it. But he did, and it wasn't a pretty sight at all.

The scar ran deep, and it had not entirely healed yet. It was covered by a bandage that wrapped itself around Garland's upper ribs, but even through the cloth, it was a distinct cut of red, stained by blood. though it seemed to have stopped bleeding as of now. It ran from the bottom of his armpit to just a little above his second rib, and would have almost surely have killed him, Garland thought to himself. The blade couldn't have fully gone in, he concluded. That was why he was still breathing, only just.

"Fuck....where are we in King's Landing? Alerie, is she okay?" He said, exhaling with a little tension, as he put his head back, looking over at the robed figure.

"We're in the Red Keep, Lord Tyrell. You've been asleep for at least a day and a half, since your injuries. Your sister is in safe hands, she is with Princess Rhaenyra and Baela, and she has visited you by the hour. It wasn't looking good, but we've managed to stop the bleeding, but you're still very frail."

"Shit...thank the Seven for that. " He said, chuckling lightly, shaking his head. Luck had played well to him, the fact he wasn't. He remembered blurrily what had happened....Lorch was dead, so potentially, the siegeing forces had taken a hit. But Garland didn't even want to think, what the fuck had happened to his own forces.

"I have to say, Garland, your armour stopped most of your guts from spilling out. The only problem is, it will take you weeks before you can walk again, depending on how strong you feel. You're going to be frail, and I can't say if you'll ever fight again." He said, Garland swearing under his breath, shaking his head.

"Bollocks...I'm going to fucking walk within the week or die trying. Please, Maester. Tell me it can happen." He spluttered, just rejecting what the Maester said, just knowing he had to, one way, or another.

"Miracles rarely happen twice, but if you can do it, it is possible. I have seen grave injuries, and if you are driven enough, then perhaps you can, Garland. I have to say, it's one of the worst impalements I've seen. You lost almost half your blood when you came in, in normal circumstances, most men would have died."

"Well, at least I kept my promise to Alerie. Told her, I wouldn't die." He said, partially to himself, shaking his head, as he winced a little in pain, looking across at the window, and the distant sight.

"I can't ask you what is going on out there. But send for my sister, Rhaenyra and Baela too. I need to talk to them." Garland said, clutching his ribs a little. It still felt horrid, though he didn't feel like any more Milk of the Poppy. That stuff at Tourneys was addictive,

The noise of what sounded like a sudden thud outside made Garland turn his head a little in his resting position, looking out the window. The roar was distinct, as he looked back.

"That isn't....no, that's not Drogon, is it?" Garland asked, the Maester looking over.

"That's not....wait, it cannot be Visaxes, or Jadefyre...it is, it is Drogon!" The Maester exclaimed, as Garland broke into a smile. They may have been cut down, but they had three dragons their disposal. And that dragon, the most fine, the most mighty of it's species, was here. It had to be for a reason, and if Garland would have known, then perhaps he would have smiled more than he already did, in his frail and wounded state.

Lady Rhaenyra had been awake for the past four hours, sitting sullenly in the throne room of the Red Keep. She looked on at the Iron Throne, the ancient seat of royal power throughout the Seven Kingdoms. She stood alone, or rather, away from the rest of those that were gathered about in quiet conversation. She ran her thumb across the hilt of her ancestral sword, the pommel feeling warm, an odd sensation to say the least. Rhaenyra wondered what this city would have been like back in its heyday, when her family was still numerous and infinitely powerful. Her violet eyes scanned the hundreds, if not thousands of swords that made up the throne, before she turned, her attention being grabbed by something else.

She had done what she could to keep combat from happening, but sadly, the Crakehall forces would not meet for terms, choosing to fire upon the delegation that had tried to ride out to hopefully come to some sort of peaceful resolution to the siege that was now encircling the capital. Rhaenyra shook her head, clearing the thoughts of the hours earlier, to focus upon what was at hand. Before her stood soldiers and officers, men of great power and martial skill that would be of the greatest help in the coming storm. From beyond them, the doors to the throne room were slowly pushed open, and a soldier came running, making a bee line for Rhaenyra and Baela. The soldier came to a stop before the two princesses, before bowing, and beginning to relate his message to the two women from his master.

"What do you mean he was injured? Why were we not informed of this earlier? We could have done something... my sister and I could have helped him for the Seven's sake. Take me to him right away... I must speak with him immediately in order to figure out what we are to do now. The Crakehall forces seem to hell-bent on laying siege to us all, and there will be little we can do if we do not decide on a direction to go." Rhaenyra rushed past her advisors in a swirl of her robes and cloak, the fabric twirling in a stylish fashion. She was shortly followed behind by her sister Baela Targaryen, and a few other Lords of relative importance. The Tyrell soldier led the way, weaving through the hallways and stairwells of the ancient Red Keep.

Thoughts of unease and uncertainty passed through Rhaenyra's head. This unfortunate incident that befell Lord Garland Tyrell could not have come at a worse time. The man was said to a be a natural born leader, one who inspired men to follow him. And yet, now he was lying on his deathbed, fighting for his life. Baela spoke up, seeing that her elder sister was noticeably unsettled by the unfolding events that rapidly swirled around the Targaryen claimants. "Rhaenyra... have faith, it will be alright. I doubt he would be so easily taken from this world." Smiling, she sped up to be in step with her sister, placing her hand upon Rhaenyra's shoulder. "Calm yourself... I know he will be alright, and so will our city and kingdom. An accident like this will not dissuade you from the correct course."

Rhaenyra shook her head, looking away from her sister to a closed door guarded by a swarm of Tyrell guardsmen. The men who guarded their lord looked to be on edge, their faces stern and hard, looking for any signs of danger, even deep within the confines of the Red Keep. The door swung open, a maester rushing out to collect something from a nearby cart that held medical and herbal supplies that could aid in the healing process. The man looked up, having noticed the royal party that had been making its way towards Lord Garland’s room. He bowed his head quickly, before rushing back inside with a handful of medicinal supplies. The door closed shut, blocking the view that had briefly been shone from the inside the room.

The escort turned to Rhaenyra and Baela, bowing to the two quickly, before moving forward to speak with the sergeant at the door. The women and their guards came to a halt, awaiting to be beckoned into the room in order to speak with Lord Garland. Baela turned to look out a window, gazing down into the city below, as she awaited their invitation into the chambers. Her sister joined her, their shoulders touching as they stood side by side, taking in the sights of the early morning sunrise, the fog still being rather present. “It’s hard to believe that there is a war unfolding out there right now… I see the beauty of the land, and yet, the Crakehall’s seek to spoil it all in their vain and unfounded claim upon the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra, take a deep breath and relax, you will be fine, and you have nothing to fear. You are the rightful heir to the throne, and you will prevail.” Baela smiled, holding her sister’s hand tightly, squeezing it in a comforting way, before letting go and looking back out over the city.

Their heads turned to look at the door to Lord Garland’s chambers, it swinging open to reveal the maester, and the personal guard of Lord Garland. The maester nodded, beckoning the two sister’s to come in, and them alone. Rhaenyra nodded her head, turning to face the guards that she had brought with her.

“Ser Trevan, wait here with the rest of the men and augment the Tyrell guardsmen. Ensure that no one bothers us, and be on guard. The Crakehall’s have shown their true colors.” She smiled, before turning about face, moving quickly to enter the chambers of Lord Garland.

The lights were dim within the bed chambers. Lord Garland lay upon the large feather bed covered in a large swathe of bandages, the bandages still gleaming red with fresh blood that was slowly congealing. Rhaenyra covered her mouth, trying her best to hide her dismay at the unsetting sight of a man flirting between life and death. Lord Garland was pale, far paler than she ever thought a man could ever become. His breathing was labored, pained sounding, even though he was awake and alert. Baela looked on in a better manner. She had seen blood before, or rather, more gore than her sister was used to. Lord Garland looked bad to her, but, he’d probably recover, though how much remained to be seen. Only the Seven would be able to decide Lord Garland’s fate now.

Garland looked across, moaning a little as he put his head up, the wound feeling like it still tore a hole in a part of his side, smiling as he saw the two. Their arrival felt like it at least showed that he protected them, and whilst he knew that the two Targaryen sisters were strong, they were still mortal.

"Rhaenyra, Baela....it is good to see you." Garland's voice was weak, the Maester close on hand, as he leant up a little, a smile on his face. Drogon outside, the fact he was still breathing, the fact that Alerie was safe, and that Daenys was imprisioned, all of it felt like too good of a dream on the Milk of the Poppy. Despite that, it seemed that he was back, and even if he was going to be pinned on this bed with this wound of his...though weak and pale, he seemed still like he was in a fairly alert condition, still able to comprehend what was going on around him, albeit it on this bed.

"I am glad you were kept safe, Princesses. By the Seven, if those Crakehalls found you..." Garland added, coughing a little, as he smiled, brushing his hair aside a little, the scar running down by his ear, significant- from where his helm had severed and left a nasty wound, though it was mostly covered by his long hair anyway. For this good looker, he seemed to have gotten a pretty lucky wound, the young Rose looking over at them both, taking them in. It was good to see them, and they did care for him, he felt it already. Like his duty had done what it did, so that they could continue their family's legacy.

"I told Alerie I wasn't going to die like this. So here I am." The Tyrell chuckled, shaking his head, knowing that it was an ill fitting time to make a remark like this, but such was the nature of terrible ironies like his.

Rhaenyra spoke first, stepping closer to the bed that Lord Garland lay upon. Her voice was soft and caring, carrying out across a few feet at most. "Lord Garland, do not worry about us for now. The Crakehalls have to get past the walls first before they can even begin to worry any of us. We are safe here, behind the walls that have stood for hundreds of years. You need to rest, to recover from your wounds, so that you may live to fight another day." She smiled, bowing cordially before the man, before stepping to the side, allowing her sister to speak up as well.

"You look like death warmed over... I thought you were supposed to be a good swordsman, Lord Garland," Baela quipped, a playful smile upon her lips, as she spoke to the Young Rose. She softend her expression, bowing her head slightly, before continuing to speak. "I am glad that you are alright though, and to hell with the Crakehall's, they've yet to face a dragon, let alone two." She turned, looking on to her sister, seeing that Rhaenyra wanted to speak some more.

"Lord Garland, we know that you must be tired, and no doubt taxed from your battle, but, what do you suggest our next move is? You were the Lord Hand, and you've have the most experience running this city at least. So, what now?" Rhaenyra asked, unease unable to be hidden from the tone and inflection within her voice. "Not to mention, from the sound of it... Drogon is about... and who knows what else is with him." She'd finished speaking, and awaited Lord Garland to respond.

"I killed a good few...but Lord Lorch is a big, cumbersome man. I am a young Lord. Bravery has it's problems." Garland replied to her earlier comment, barely being able to grab a small flask of water from behind him on the table to clear his throat with. The Maester helped to place it into his hands, as he barely took a drink, using only his right hand to sip some of the water, resting it by his wounded side, as he moved onto their other questions. They both looked charming, Rhaenyra was clearly the more stateswoman-like of the two, Baela the warrior, and Garland always did have a soft spot for the younger of the two sisters, from a distant blur of a memory at a tourney her remembered, both holding their Targaryen beauty well. Perhaps they were not mad, but born to be great women of their dynasty...perhaps like Aerys would have been. Drogon's arrival had to have reason, and what it meant, Garland did not understand. He was not torching the city, he was not Daenys's, it seemed...or could he be wild? Garland did not know dragons, hence didn't want to respond to that idea.

"You are right, Rhaenyra. I cannot explain it, I am afraid we are far more familliar with our Roses than we are with our Dragons. But as for this city, we need to holdfast. The Crakehalls will continue a siege, and I am prepared to wait it out, we have time. And by the time the news of the fight spreads across the Kingdoms, my own Hand should respond appropriately. Loras is an oaf...but he can make a reasonable decision when he can. And the Redwynes are still able to outflank the Crakehall fleets." Garland said, almost thinking out loud, as he looked across to the two, thinking, just working over things in general.

"We can't fight them in direct confrontation, but you must both remember, whilst you may ride dragons, you are the only two that I know that have any true claim to the Throne, so having you support my forces would be risky. We must take caution." He added, knowing that Baela wasn't going to respond well to it, but he had to speak truth. It was honest- otherwise, two dead dragons and two dead Targaryens would leave the Tyrell position very, very frail.

"As for what with the Throne, I do not know...Dorne is convinced that Aerys is alive. And to some extent, so am I. The words of a madman, of Daenys Targaryen, a man who tried to murder me and is assumed to have murdered the King. Even a madman wouldn't kill his only son. He has a very, very strong claim, and no doubt, would easily become King if he was shown to be alive. Again, we have to be careful, no matter how mad it seems." He said to them both, leaning his right, good side on his arm a little, wincing a little as he looked over.

"As much as I know it could be true...I think we cannot rush. Dorne is an ally in our wars to come if we present this, and if they think Aerys is alive, supporting them for the moment being would be a wise move. It would still keep your Protectorship, and if we find that he is nowhere to be seen, you become Queen, Rhaenyra."

Both Rhaenyra and Baela listened on as Lord Garland spoke. Each reacting differently to the news as it unfolded. Rhaenyra more calm and collected, while Baela amused, if not slightly disappointed that she could not ride out and lay was to the Crakehall armies. Still, it was not her choice in the end, and all that could truly be said, was that Rhaenyra may have some modicum of power, but the true power lay in Lord Garland's hands, for he had laid out the plans, and ensured their continued furthering. Rhaenyra spoke first, looking at Lord Garland with a curious gaze, before speaking in a determined tone. "I will not have the free people of King's Landing cower before a bunch of bandits and highway men. The Crownlands, and the whole of the Seven Kingdoms deserve better than to fear the likes of Lord Crakehall. What can we do to show the people that we have control, and that they should support us, rather than Lord Tygett?"

Baela smiled, letting out a chuckle as her sister spoke. Rhaenyra rarely got this fired up, but it was nice to see it when it did happen. Her gaze turned to look back at Lord Garland, patiently waiting for her sister to finish speaking before she added in what she was thinking about. "Lord Garland, we are both inept in these types of things, but my sister is right, we need to do something about the criminals who are camped out infront of the city's walls. What can we do, that shows not only the Crakehall forces, but the rest of the realm that we are in the position of power?"

Rhaenyra moved to sit upon the edge of Lord Garland's bed, to be at a more even level with him as she spoke with him. This man was far more powerful than she was. He may not be of the Targaryen blood line, but his family was still as wealthy, powerful, and great as her own, if not greater, due to the recent events concening Prince Daenys. She sighed, looking away to her sister, smiling at Baela before turning her attention back to Lord Garland, the Young Rose. Her gaze was one of concern and looking for reasurance, looking to the Lord Hand for guidance.

"Lord Garland, I will be honest with you. The very possibility of Prince Aerys being alive scares me. I have never met my nephew, and I know so little of him. No one has seen him since his birth fourteen years ago. And while my cousin Prince Daenys may be insane, unbalanced, touched with madness, I can not say beyond a shadow of a doubt that he did not commit the foulest of crimes against his own kin, let alone his wife. If, and only if Aerys lives, that means that I have no claim upon the throne, making me as much as a usurper as Lord Crakehall is. While you have the confidence to say that I could become a Queen in my own right, I would not dare to take something that I have no right to, nor not having worked to. I doubt Drogon has gone wild. A dragon as aged as he would not venture forth without due cause. I fear that he has a rider, and that the rider who claims ownership of him is none other than Prince Aerys. So, tell me, what would you do in my position? I am but a young woman, who up until a few weeks ago, had no concerns nor worries in the world other than who I would be marrying. Lord Garland, tell me, what would you have me do? What should we all do, for we are balanced upon the edge of a knife, any mistep leading to disaster." She finished, looking ever concerned as she looked to Lord Garland to speak his mind.

Garland did not know what to think, as he thoought to himself, pondering her words over, just knowing that perhaps she was right. If Aerys rode Drogon... well, it would not be something that would be impossible, but it felt strange to see the large dragon, centuries old, it's enormous span reminding the Tyrell that it was a beast that perhaps breathed the Targaryen dynasty's fire, and that could have been Aerys himself, if he was so chosen by the family's crown jewel of a dragon.

"We all serve the Crown loyally, and perhaps you are right. You are no usurper, as much as we are not. We are Protectors, we protect the right from those who wish to befowl it all. And I paid for it with this." Garland said, nodding to his wound, shaking his head.

"You have done well, the pair of you. Done a duty to the Kingdoms that shall not be forgotten, as the Princesses that ruled in the true heir's absence. Aerys may be the son to a disinherrited twin, but he is the only decendent of the strongest Targaryen line, and you say it yourself. You will likely be needed to stay in King's Landing, to help us run these Seven Kingdoms of ours. As Protector or what have you. I heard from Willas you treat the Lowborn with respect. If they see a Targaryen help them, the smallfolk will surely view us not as occupiers, but as righteous in our cause. We Tyrells do charity well....but that is something far more wonderful." Garland added with a distinct smile, before coughing as he looked out the window once more, sipping a little water as he looked back at the two, smiling.

"It makes me afraid, too about Aerys...but I have a feeling that there are few white-haired, purple eyed boys in this world, so I would guess the pieces shall soon make their moves. And these men that siege us, these foolish men. We may not seem powerful, but if the Prince is alive...then he is here if Drogon watched." The Young Rose continued to ponder, his thoughts not usually as fluid as he liked them to be, as he downed a little more, sitting up against the pillow further.

"So, here is what I propose then... if you are willing, then I shall serve to advise you in the best way I can. Baela can ride Jadefyre against the Southern Westerman forces on the evening, they only need see the dragon close, and a couple of men burnt before they realize they can't fight a war against us. Alone, yes, but it will be enough to send fear into their hearts. Not scores dead...the fuckers may have done this to me, but if we burn a whole army, we lose any face with the other Kingdoms we had. If we can prove to those Westermen that we hold the power, they'll bend the knee, or run. Or die from the swords of the Rose or the flames of Jadefyre. It is dangerous, but wait until then, let us see what Drogon does. And as for these matters, let us leave that as that for now...it is a lot on my mind, and once I am able to finally breathe a little better, I shall began writing letters and . Let us err on caution for now, before we burn the bastards. They shall get their comuppance. I promise you, it shall happen." Garland rounded the topic off nicely, wanting to shift it away. He had something on his mind, and it was from back when Willas wrote to him, before the siege began. Baela did look truly wonderful, and he couldn't help himself.

"Princess Baela, if you don't mind me saying, Willas told me you're still just as beautiful as you were at the Tourney, two years ago. The Hand's Tourney, if you remember....I remember you felling some very skilled Knights indeed." Garland knew he shouldn't have began the flirt, but he did anyway. Even in this wounded state, while Rhaenyra looked charming, Baela's warrior-like looks and rocky nature seemed to remind him so much of Alerie, that if Alerie could fight and ride a dragon, it would be Baela.

Perhaps she was no spider, but Garland recognized a good girl when he saw one, and this was a man who had several unknown bastards to his name, that much he knew himself. Last count, it had to be six wenches, and none had ever come forward about it, nor did anyone beyond the Tyrell household know. All that was truly known was that the Young Rose was a beauty, and a lot of Reachwomen did swoon for him, and they got their chance sometimes. This was the way of the Reach with many things- chivalry, beset with absolute bastardry, the latter being something that wasn't entirely frowned upon. Garland knew that sometimes, alcohol did not combine well, and Jehrilla was his latest and greatest, particularly in the literal sense of the word, conquest off the battlefield. He actually had fond memories of it now...it was so warm, so comfortable! Perhaps those Yunkish women were right to be so gluttonous....but he sickened himself when he reminded himself that she had a terrible flautence.

He calmed himself down in that snapshot of thought, knowing full well he felt for Baela, more so than Rhaenyra, seeing something in her general way, and those memories of the Tourney came back to mind. The Lord Tyrell recognized that it would be a strong person to marry, and she was far within her childbearing years, still developing as a soldier, and most of all, was a fellow jouster and a dragon rider. Dragon's blood had intertwined with the Rose's before, but it had never been on this scale, not of a Lord's marriage, and there was no reason why not with Baela, Garland thought to himself. That and the fact that in honesty, she looked a little different to the regular Reachwomen or other houses, they seemed to have a glaring, wonderful fire in their minds, something he deeply appreciated.

Rhaenyra listened while Lord Garland spoke. He was very right about the matter, in that she had never truly declared herself Queen, and thus, no wrong had been committed in the eyes of the Seven. She still could not shake the ominuous feeling that somehow fell about her shoulders, as she listened to Lord Garland finish speaking. He made a fair point overall, speaking his mind, but leaving room for discussion. It was by his leave that any sort of conflict could occur, and it was his men the were most at risk, let alone the paltry number of soldiers that Rhaenyra and Baela were able to muster to their own cause. Still, it was a fools errand to rush out into battle, risking everything when far more could be gained by seeing what would unfold with the arrival of Drogon, the Black Dread reborn.

"You are right Lord Garland... and I thank you for your sage counsel. As much as it would benefit all of us in the short term to burn this entire Crakehall host to a crisp, it will do little to gain us any allies and friends. The ways of the past sometimes are not best suited for these new and trying times. I simply want to do what is best for myself and my sister, along with the realm. We both serve as Protector's to the realm, in the chaos that has ensued with the death of the rightful King. I will admit, the thought of being a Queen did greatly uplift me, all the while it was terrifying. But, you speak truthfully, in that we must await to see what the Seven have destined for us, whether it is as King's and Queen's, or as loyal and leal subjects to the rightful heir. I trust that you will help guide us in the right direction, wherever that may lead us, and we will both do what we can to be there for you, both in spirit, and through our forces, own hands, and dragons." She smiled, rising up to move across the room to look out a window, to get a breath of fresh air while Baela began to converse with Lord Garland.

"Well, I hope that you will let me show those cowards what it means to anger the dragon sometime soon... but as my sister said, we both defer to you for the time being." Baela smiled, moving her dress about to sit upon the bed, while continuing to speak with the Young Rose.

"You speak rather boldly for a man with one foot in the grave..." Baela started off with a jest, offering a wicked smile to Lord Garland, "And besides, I doubt you could even lift a sword right now, let alone a boquet of roses for such a lovely lady like myself." Baela let loose a soft peel of girlish laughter, smiling at Lord Garland, even batting her eyes at him, before straightening her dress, and rising up to her feet. "But, your compliment has not gone unoticed, I am honored that such a renowned Lord as yourself would find me to be beautiful." She bowed, perhaps mockingly, perhaps out of defered respect, but either way, she twirled about as she moved across the room, her hair and dress swirling in a wave of silver, red, and black, before she made her way to stand at her sister's side, looking at the same window.

Garland chuckled, looking over. He felt terrible, but somehow, seeing visitors like these made him feel better, and his mind was busy at work, trying to rush through at least thinking things over, to clarify the situation, and to at least put his pain somewhere else, to focus on doing what Garland felt like his young years had been spent doing.
"Oh, how I wish I had met you when I wasn't like this. I guess I wouldn't mind having one foot in the Stranger's door, with you close by." He added with a distinct giggle of his own, brushing his hair aside a little behind his curled mane of a beard, knowing full well that Baela was at least receptive to it. Even with his pale face, he seemed to be a man of the Reach, as chivalrious and kind-spirited as they could come across, in their apperance and words. Adjusting his position once more, he looked at his wound. It was not going to improve instantly, that was for certain. Whatever the Maester had done, the bandage and the clay cast that sat a little below it, to hold it better in place, before he looked up at Baela again, watching her stand up and walk to her sister's side. That was, not before she twirled, her dress and hair a flurry, as she looked from the window.

"There are many women in the Reach, my Princess. But very few know how to handle a sword. Especially not with someone who has looks as good as yours. I guess I can't help myself." He added, as an off-hand comment to Baela, finishing the rest of the water, as he put it back, a charming chuckle prior, as he sat up once more.
"And I can't die yet, not with all this unfinished buisness to go. Oh, it shall be most excellent. Daenys to be tried, Seven Kingdoms to be reunited under someone of your dynasty, Crakehalls to burn, and Baela to flirt with. And my health to find again. So little time, so many things." Garland simply added, looking out the window once more, before looking at the Targaryen sisters, smiling. Things were bad, he could have died, and right now, that would be a lukewarm place to go to. But perhaps he had succeeded in defending those he loved, those who he did care for. And all in the while reminding himself of a Targaryen's beauty. Garland knew this was the Lord he was, and that it couldn't change, not easily.

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





The arrival of the Tyrells had not gone smoothly, from what Alerie knew. While Daenys was locked away, and the rest of the soldiering Reachmen inside, they had taken significant casualties. Almost 6,000 dead, and 3,000 had retreated back to Ashford, breaking contact with the Westerman forces. That, and the fact that she had sobbed when she saw Garland, just praying and praying again to the Seven for his health. The last time she had seen him, he was still wounded, badly. She wore her usual attire, the green and gold dress having a little cut off at the arms, furled up, revealing her slender but beautiful frame. She had not entirely buttoned it up, and a little of her cleavage showed, though of course, it was nothing that would be deemed disturbing, just appropriate for a Reachwoman in a nice clime such as this one, her burgandy hair allowed to flow, bringing out the colour in her eyes.

The gardens of King's Landing were similar in size to that of what Highgarden's were yet did not feel as personal, they felt clinical in comparison to home, Alerie thought to herself. Looking at the horizon, through a cutting in a rosebush, Alerie could see the bustling city below, though it did not seem as busy as usual. Drogon had vanished too, it seemed. The sight of Drogon was an impressive one, but she could no longer see it, the Tyrell unaware that the winged beast had flown down to Aerys's side.

She turned to the Rosebush, plucking her hand in. Oh, how she reminded herself, the thorns would hurt anyone else, cut through their skin so easy, but the Tyrells, their sigil was a rose, after all. Like the Starks had their Direwolves, and the Targaryens seemed to be born of their flames, the Tyrells had something of their own, though it was less well known. Being able to stick your hand in a rosebush came from just being used to flowers, she said to herself, it wasn't a trait of the family that came from something of a higher power. Even the Ladies of the Reach were familliar with the sweet smells and the types of flowers that existed, always seeking to find exotic and wonderful varieties for their gardens, and for the Tyrells, it seemed that it had taken a literal meaning, that in that moment, you could have indeed, called her the Lady of Thorns, Alerie pulled a Rose out, white in colour, among the Red and other thorny greenery. Their sigil, no less. A white Rose, well, a golden one, but white was the other colour she could use to show their symbol, and it was a proud one. Not a Wolf, or a Dragon, or a Lion...or a leaping fish or bird of prey. A mere flower. She inhaled it, pushing it down her dress a little, leaving it sticking out by her neck. It smelled good, that much she knew....oh, she missed gardening in Highgarden. Such a pursuit was not for a lady, they kept telling her. But the flowers, the smells, the wonders. It was a good way to relax, if there were no fairs.

Walking on, she made her way to a small marble pavillion, overlooking the city below, and the rest of the gardens, a couple of Tyrell guards keeping their distance, just keepng an eye out, as she took a seat, the burgandy-haired Tyrell exhaling as she sat down. Things were simple once...now, she had to play this game again.

Alyssa rushed into the castle gardens, her guard following closely behind. The sound of clacking armour filled the air as the guards struggled to keep up with the more lightly armoured Alyssa. She was almost running towards the keep. There, she saw a woman in front of a rosebush, with a rose in hand.

"Where is the Lord Garland Tyrell?" she asked, trying to force out her words.

Turning her head, she saw the Baratheon girl, the Tyrell guards closer by now, as they kept their Poleaxes close.
"Alyssa Baratheon, I assume? He's wounded, you understand. He is not in a state to do negotiations right now, my brother is fighting for his life!" She said, standing up, as she walked over, offering out her hand, her own outburst a little pre-empative, as she calmed herself down again.
"For now, you can talk to me, he is not able as of now. I am Alerie Tyrell, sister to this "Young Rose" that you know of. I am pleased to meet you, my lady." She warmly said, a smile on her face, trying to just hide her displeasure at Alyssa's immedate outburst, knowing that it was the Baratheon hot temper at play. Alerie was good at this, at being the beautiful, charming, and warm Lady of the Reach that you could talk to...and that these things happened. You were just charitable, and friendly in return, and they always came down, especially in the dire want that it seemed that Alyssa wished to have with Garland. She drew the rose from between her dress, the stalk barely above her bust, as she placed it down on the table, holding a distinct smile, something about the general way that she beamed seeming to invite hospitality.

Alyssa thought of her father. He never liked King's Landing, and the complicated politics that went into living there. "Nothing people say in King's Landing is true. Words do not escape their mouths as much as poison," he would say when he came back from his visits there.

"Very well. I am Alyssa Baratheon, and I speak on behalf of the Lord of the Stormlands, Gris Baratheon. We recieved a response from your brother, in the previous week. It implored us to swear fealty to Rheanyra Targaryen. I have traveled from Storm's End to accept his offer." She was wary of this other girl, seemingly the perfect diplomat, an actress fitting in perfectly with the backdrop of King's Landing.

Alerie smiled, nodding, knowing full well what Garland had done. Sworn fealty to the Lady Protector, meant sworn fielty to the Crown, and the people that held the city...the Reach. And whilst it was hardly a suprise, Alerie knew that Alyssa came to negociate something too, and that of course, she would ask for The Reach to save her fledglingly rebellious kingdom, led by her incompetent brother. Alyssa seemed smart, like a Lady of the Stormlands ought to have, brave too. Wrothful, of course, but that was the Stormlander way, much like hers was the way of the Reach.

"I am glad to hear of this acceptance, Lady Baratheon. I cannot take it for the Princess, but I would assume that it puts us into alliance. " She simply said, smiling, as she paused for a moment to clear her throat.
"Indeed, I know that you too understand that Princess Rhaenyra is as of yet just the Lady Protector to the Crown, she is no Queen. But we serve her loyally, against any false claimants. It is good to hear that our two Kingdoms will be united in this pursuit." Alerie added, before looking out on the view of King's Landing, not being able to see the walls, but only the Narrow Sea from here.
"As you know, the Westermen engaged Reachman forces, just to get myself, Garland and our recent prisoner, Daenys Targaryen, inside these walls. We gave an awful lot, just to make it here. But we can finally consolidate our position, and show some legitimacy at last. I cannot speak for Garland, as he is the head of the council, but you shall almost certainly be rewarded with a Council Seat for yourself, or Gris, if you so wish to take it." Alerie's tone was a polite, tidy one, her voice as comforting as the sight of a field of flowers, such she seemed to sound. Gone was the playful nature that she seemed to keep with her brother, it was a gregarious and well-kept appearance that she gave off.
"Would you wish to partake in some wine with me? We could have some brought down from the Cellars, our finest Arbor Gold on a day like this, I understand that in The Red Keep, our situation is most secure. Alyssa, it seems to me that we have more in common than you would like think."

"The Red Keep may be safe, but I cannot rest until Storm's End can feel the same way. Just tell me where Rheanyra is, so I may negotiate terms of fealty with her." Alyssa was beginning to grow annoyed with this. There was no time for wine, no time for enjoying the sun, and most certainly no time for debating with a girl that never seems to stop talking. Even now, hundreds of thousands of rebels barrel towards Storm's End, eager to put down Gris and whatever's left of his bannermen.

"The last I saw, they were in the apartments. And while I would not understand that feeling of siege, though we are in one now, I can only say that perhaps I can offer you a solution." Alerie simply stated fact, as she looked out to the ocean once more, before back at Alyssa once more.
"The Reach can help you, Alyssa. My brother didn't seem too confident to send men to you, the last I heard from him. Me and you both know this, Alyssa, that Gris is not a man of war, in a time that requires him to be able to show his steel....it is common knowledge in the Seven Kingdoms. You're a strong woman, I can already tell that...let us not jest, you know how to run your Kingdom and he is not helping. But I know that there are around 20,000 Yunkish Mercenaries that will be setting sail for Westeros this morning, and they will want to shed blood and earn gold when they arrive in two to three weeks time. For your loyalty, we asked you to send the men of Tarth to King's Landing and in return...we shall keep your seat for you, and crush your revolt. When we hear of it, then we can continue our alliance to hold these Seven Kingdoms together, against those who wish to destroy it all. Your men in among the Reach retinues to keep the peace in King's Landing, and ours to keep the peace in your Kingdom. A natural alliance." Lady Tyrell seemed not too overconfident, but proposing, diplomatic, outreaching almost, not wanting to cause alarm. She could read Alyssa well, and firstborns would always feel that way. Of course Alyssa would care for Gris, but stating fact that could not be reputed, due to the sheer comonality of that knowledge, felt like something worthwhile.

"20 thousand Yunkish? Surely that's more power than merely 5000 Tarth knights. Why do you send them to us, instead of keeping them in King's Landing. Why help us?" asked Alyssa. She tried to guess what Alerie was thinking by looking at her face, but it revealed nothing, almost as if she was thinking nothing. However, Alyssa knew this was not true. Everyone had an ulterior motive in the snake pit, and the walls are riddled with piercing eyes and focused ears.

Nodding, Alerie knew that she was right on the face of it, though of course, she knew that this was not a militaristic move, it was a diplomatic and political one. Why send 20,000 men to the Stormlands, when it was clear that the capital needed them far more? That they could land and already augment the forces of the Reach, rather than be diverted to deal with popular uprisings?
"It shows allegience, Alyssa, and it shows that you are comitted to us, as we are comitted to you. I am glad you accept, but the point being, it is a show of trust. Oh, there will be men marching from Highgarden when they hear what happened outside these walls, and there are two dragons that Rhaenyra and Baela have. We can wait, so the number is not of my concern." Alerie said with a slightly more analytical voice, as she looked out on the sea once more, thinking of the mercenaries. It seemed like she had not entirely departed from her young, fresh-faced and beautiful demeanor, but was using something deeper, more convincing, political.
"I know Lord Tarth could be used as a another commander in the city, and his forces are among the best the Stormlands could offer...against a Rebellion, they would be wasted. It will give you an existing stake in the capital, too. You have your forces with ours, and we send our mercenaries to you, as a sign of our alliance. That we work together, not against each other. That we support each other, in these desperate times, be it in soldiers, or food. And if we cannot arrange a marriage as of now, then I would propose this is the best thing to do for us both." She added, finishing off as she looked over the Baratheon of a counterpart, knowing that the Rose and the Deer did not have a natural friendship in times past, but they could make this change now.

"I know of the ability of the Reach warriors, and of their numbers relative to ours. From what I hear, the Dornish to the south are interested in annexing our kingdom to theirs. How do I know you don't share in that goal?" countered Alyssa.

Alerie stood, offering out her her hand, a glowing smile emerging on her face.
"If we sought to destroy you, we would have let those rebels run a riot. We are facing a succession crisis, so whatever resources we can spare, we'll provide. We cannot let you be destroyed, or else, the vaccum of power could create more problems for everyone." She said, watching Alyssa stand, a couple of Baratheon guards in their plate close by, as she made another comment.

"And the Dornish follow the Red God, Alyssa. We share many traits with those Dornishmen in what we wish for the Kingdom, but their conversion of your Kingdom to the Red God could yield terrible, terrible effects. So we shall at the very least, help police your Kingdom from that threat, whether Dorne wishes it or not, that we do not know ourselves. These rebels...the smallfolk never make things clear, and just what it is they want, do they? Annexation in a time when we have no strong alliance would be a fool's move, Alyssa. and we all know that you are a Great House, that which has been around since Aegon's Invasion. Your men are angrier than ours...that is for sure...the peasants just need to be put aside." The Tyrell added to her comment, chuckling lightly, in her soft tone, not to offend but to just make an addition, as she continued, to round things off. "So, we are agreed?"

"Very well. The Stormlands will forever remember the generosity of the Reach. May our alliance stand forever," finished Alyssa, bowing to the other diplomat. She then looked to a guard to her right. "Luftum, I want you to ride for Evenfall Hall like the Seven Hells are after you. Tell them their services are needed here, more so than back in Storm's End." The guard nodded, and ran off. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with Rheanyra Targaryen." Alyssa turned and began walking towards the Red Keep.

"That is good to hear. I will join you later on, Alyssa." Alerie simply replied, knowing that indeed, she was very fast, to the point. The Stormlanders never changed, she reminded herself. "Ours is the Fury". She remembered those words, because they were actually the scariest of any House's, that much the Tyrell knew. Alerie could guess that it worked where she came from, and that at the very least, it was better than a Northman's gruff in diplomacy....Seven Hells, that was difficult to deal with. At least the other Southern Kingdoms respected a pretty, witted Reachwoman when they talked about delicate affairs.

Watching her leave, the Tyrell exhaled. Alerie did not know that her brother had called for her, not as of yet, as she looked back across towards the sea, standing up. She held the rose in her hand once more, and breathed the air in, plucking out the central petal with her soft hand, grinning. Oh, it was fun to at least play this game sometimes. They were the foundations of this, and once the Baratheon revolt was stopped, it would yield benefits. Two Kingdoms that already folded their allegiance to the Iron Throne, potentially three, if Dorne stopped squabbling.

There was much to still do, and Garland would no doubt not be entirely pleased, but she knew that she could handle affairs well such as these, and once he was competent again, he could deal in the logistics and the formal arrangement of such an action. He was broadly in support, so Alerie saw no problem with it, as she clutched the rose once more in her hand, around it's thorned stalk, her fingers a little in pain, but nothing that a gardener's hand would not feel uncomfortable with. The thorns wrapped themselves tighter around this city, and Alerie knew that the Iron Throne was not worth the squabble. That was for everyone else. For them, they were here to keep whoever justly deserved it on their Throne, all while keeping and improving their standing, to continue as the right hand of the Targaryen dynasty. Alerie knew that it was their power to serve, advise and make Kings, and that it had been, since Aegon I Conqueror had made his mark in the Reach. She put the White Rose down, brushing her burgandy hair over her shoulder, as she walked out from the Pavillion, and once more through the gardens.

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



The horses were rushing down, and it seemed that what information had spread in King's Landing had made it to Ser Willas Tyrell in time, the Goldcloaks relaying it down. He personally wanted to see Garland once more, but this was something he could not ignore. The boy had been seen, and it was something that did not seem false, it seemed so convincing, so real, they simply had to go. Down at the docks, he had arrived, and the sight of the enormous dragon in the skies seemed to reinforce it. He did not know what in Seven Hells he would find...and if the Kingsguard were by his side.

Willas arrived to the smell of fire, something to the tune of burning meat, though much worse. The sound of pained screams from the nearby smallfolk filled the air, and the dragon was angrily growling, apparently at nothing at particular.

He finally turned a corner to see what he feared, a flaming corpse, absolutely bathed in flames, the black silhouette within unmoving, only twitching occasionally, accompanied by the crack of the flame. Scanning up, he saw a youth standing in front of...Drogon, so what he had been told was correct, he honestly thought it all to have been lies, but the black beast sat, resting it's upper body on it's wings. The youth had white hair, bright as the sun, and was glaring with a kind of fury only a Targaryen could have. To his side, he noticed an overturned carriage, a white cloak peeking around the wheel.

It was a terrible sight, but one that he could not begin to imagine the concequences of. But he had to face this. Willas always told himself, what he did was right, but if by their standards it was not, then he had to face it, rather than run from it. He had a duty, and he had to serve it to his death, if it came to that. It was what he had enlisted in the Kingsguard for, and even if he had broken his vows by doing what he did, he knew it was for the greater good of the boy.

Stopping the horse, he dismounted, with a distinct metallic clank, looking over at the scene in front of him. A man was close to ashes on the floor, burnt to a crisp, and the dragon looked uneasy. Willas knew that Drogon could engulf all of King's Landing in his fires if he wished, and yet, he was merely a dozen meters or so in front of him. But the boy, he was content, calm, a breathing human fire that did not seem uneasy about it at all. He was Aerys Targaryen, the boy that had gone missing, and a boy that Willas did not see as false. He had the white hair, the looks that many had talked about at the Tourney of his birth, albeit in a developed frame. He was barely an adolecent, but he seemed to have seen the fires himself. The shock was what stopped him from realizing what was going on next to him. And Willas knew their faces, they were faces he had served with for almost a decade now. Brothers, he had allegedly ran from. They would not have mercy for him. But he had to do what little he could right here. Worst of all, Lady Dalla Baratheon was dead, and of all the people that

"Rossetier, get a Maester here, now! Keep Jullon still, don't pull the arrow out!" Willas yelled back at one of his men before looking back at the other Kingsguard, as he looked at Aerys, brushing the sweat from his brow, the heat of the dragon something he could even feel from here. It wasn't like Jadefyre or Visaxes, it was a dragon that felt like it breathed an ungodly amount of fire. He turned to the boy, clearing his throat.

"It can't be.....my name is Ser Willas Tyrell....and I will only assume you are Aerys Targaryen, the lost son of Daenys Targaryen. I'm the member of your Kingsguard that didn't come." Willas said, words coming out slow, but confident, feeling a little in shock at all of this. But it was real. Garland had nearly died for this, and as far as Willas knew, the Young Rose's action was perhaps vindicated entirely. But his own, he did not know. He had to turn to the Kingsguard that crowded around. He felt sick, but he had to hold his resolve. There was much to deal with, the bodies, the mess that he had arrived to, it all needed to be dealt with.

"Brothers....I cannot begin to explain why I did what I did. But the city is secure for us, Daenys is locked away in the city's dungeons, and our Hand is back, but injured. Let us get Aerys to the Red Keep, then we can get around to what I did." He simply said, holding a frank and clear expression, not wanting to hear any arguements, the voice authorative and clear.

"That's King Aerys to you, ser!" Walking out from behind a nearby building came a young man dressed in sailor's garb, a sword hanging from his hip. He had yellow hair, nearly as bright as the young Prince. He didn't look twice at Willas, instead walking over to the deceased Queen and kingsguard, making the seven pointed star on his chest, before praying a second.

He stood slowly, turning to Willas, gripping his sword in his left hand, a grin crossing his face, a pained grin, as if his eyes didn't want to smile.

"I'll spare you the need to ask my name, I am Lord Paramount Lyman Lannister of the westerlands, and designated regent if Lord Commander Royce is to fall." He looked at his hands, seemingly ignoring Willas.

"Well, de jure, de facto, the Crakehalls hold my seat." He looked back at Willas, smiling truly this time, blue eyes crunching inwards.

"Too bad for them."

From the right, Lord Commander Royce walked out from behind the carriage, he looked at Willas, his brow furrowed. He stopped, rested on his right leg, and crossed his arms, clearing his throat loudly.

"I forgive you, Ser Willas, now take us to a maester, and hurry, Ser Jullon won't last long without one." He seemed uninterested in every word he said, as if he was reading them from a page. Aerys looked at Willas skeptically, just about a head shorter than him, and already half as muscular.

Willas was suprised. The man was arrogant....usefully arrogant. This wasn't his politics to play, it was Garland's, that much he only knew, as he saw Rossestier, one of the Retinuemen he had kept with his general guard, continue to run down the street. He didn't seem too concerned with Lyman at the moment, mainly because one of his . He didn't know what to make of this man, if he truly was a Lannister or not, he may have looked like one, but so did many people in these Seven Kingdoms...and anyway. he had to help save Jullon's life, the Reachman someone he couldn't let die. There were already low in number, and Willas wasn't going to let a brother he abandoned die here.

"One of my men is fetching one, Ser Royce. Just don't pull it out. Even if it was poisoned, pulling it out is going to cause more blood loss to happen than you can imagine. Once we take a look, we'll carry him to whoever we find can deal with it." He simply said, looking across to Royce, kneeling on the floor, looking to Aerys as the other Reachmen dismounted, covering the area, sweeping through. They warded people away, wanting to completely clear this area of anyone that wasn't directly dealing with the problem.

"The reason I know is because Garland almost died from it merely a day and a half ago, and I won't let it happen to Jullon." The Tyrell said, as he looked over at the whole scene once more, the sight of Dayne with an arrow through his head driving a dagger through Willas's heart. He was a good man, even if he was a Dornishman, he had a good heart, and seeing it just felt like a bittersweet fruit to eat, to see the boy that could rule the Seven Kingdoms peacefully again, contrasted among so many people that he had cared for or served with, dead. The Kingsguard weren't complete, that much he could tell, and he was rather relieved to hear that he wasn't going to have his head on a pike. He had to stay with these men now, not with his family.

Royce nodded, walking over to the carriage, and grabbing around Florent's legs.
"Footly! Help me!" This was followed by two groans, and Footly emerged, hands under Florent's shoulders. They carefully shuffled over to Willas, carefully placing Florent down on the dirt, resting his cloak under his leg to keep it clean. They then proceeded to kneel over the young Reachman, examining the leg. Royce stood, groaning as his knees popped.
"His knee is shattered, there's bone in the wound, and there's a lot of blood coming out, even with the arrow, and..." He frowned, concern written in his eyes.

"The blood is dark, near black, that... can only mean poison... hopefully you get a good maester, because this doesn't look good."

Footly removed his gauntlet carefully, it took longer than it should have. He threw it to the ground, then placed a tanned hand on Jullon's forehead. He then turned to Royce, frowning as he always did.

"He's feverish already." He reached behind his back, pulling out a small flask of wine, opening Florent's mouth and pouring it down his throat.

Rossetier did return with a Maester, the robed man dragged out of some Apothecary of sorts, the rest of the Reachmen keeping their distance from. In the heat of the moment, Willas knew that nobody was distinctly close to Aerys, but he knew that Drogon was close, and that his men were spread out, forming a perimeter throughout most of the street. If there were any more, they would find it very, very difficult indeed. So for now, Willas occupied himself with Jullon, kneeling down by his side, as he looked up, the Reach Retinueman with the Maester, presented before Willas, as the Tyrell took another look at Jullon. It did not look good, but he said to himself, he had saved Garland, they would save Jullon. They would both live, that he had to tell himself, hoping, just knowing the Seven had to listen for once.
"Shit....Maester, what is your name?"

The maester looked at the situation with widened eyes, his hands trembling nervously at his sides.

"Uh... Robyn, Robyn, I..." He continued shaking, before kneeling before the injured knight, hands running through his own hair, forcing it up into a spiked arrangement.

"...Uhh, he's in shock, probably because of the pain, and..." He cringed, his face contorting oddly for a second.

"That blood, that's not normal, I'm inclined to believe it's Dornish poison, but... I can't really treat it without my medicines, fetch them quickly!" He motioned to Willas, before returning to examining Jullon, maesters weren't supposed to be this nervous, right?

Willas gave a simple nod to Rossetier, the Reachman running back up, running down the street once more, the poor man direly out of breath, what with the fact he was wearing a hefty amount of mail on a warm day like today. Looking across at Robyn, the Tyrell shook his head,
"Calm down, Robyn. Just think, and we'll do exactly as you say. Right now, we need to stop the flow of poison to the rest of his body, or provide an antidote. What poison do you think it is, and how long have we got?" He asked, looking across at the Maester, a look of deep concern on his face, as he looked down again at Jullon. It didn't look good, and while the wound looked far less severe than Garland's, it was the sight of black blood forming around the skin that chilled Willas to the bone.

Robyn frowned and shook his head.

"It's not only the Dornish poison, it's mixed with manticore venom, if it reaches his heart, he's dead, my antidotes won't help... we... we have only one choice here." Robyn stood up, shuffling over to Royce, and pointing to his blade.

"Valyrian steel?" Royce nodded.

" Aye, House Royce's sword, lost during the Dance, I found it in some peasant's hovel." The maester nodded.

"Good, it'll cut cleaner that way." Royce's eyes opened slightly, but he solemnly nodded, drawing the blade slowly.

"You all may not want to look at this." He lifted the sword up, grimaced for a moment, his hands trembling slightly, before bringing the blade down.

A shower of blood greeted the rest of the nearby group, Florent awoke and began screaming, clawing at the dirt and crying pitifully.

"Hold him down!" Footly and Royce gripped a shoulder, forcing him to the ground.
"I need a bandage! Quickly!" The maester yelled at Willas, his eyes focused and intense.

The sight was a horrific one, the blade cutting like butter through Jullon's lower thigh, just above his knee. The bone had been sliced through cleanly, but the blood. The blood was not black, but the severed limb looked almost entirely spent, Willas holding his stomach together on this occasion. Willas tore some of the cloth from his goldcloak, pushing it against the wound, physically pressing in, Jullon screaming out in pain.

"Royce, heat the fucking sword somehow, if we don't cauterise the wound, he'll spill his guts here!" Willas yelled, looking at Jullon, then up at Rossetier. He actually didn't know how Royce was going to do it- Willas had seen fights and had to offer some medical help to one of his men, but nothing like this. Nothing, nothing like this.

"Get him some wine, and stuff a rag into his mouth, quick! It'll calm him down, last thing we want is for him to move!" The Reachman responded quickly, one of the other soldiers throwing a cowhide flask, filled with Arbor, as he ran over. Willas held the wound, while Rossetier made his way by Jullon.

"Jullon, just keep calm, we're going to clean the wound and stop the bleeding, if we don't do this, you're going to die. You hear me?" Willas said, looking into his eyes, the screaming horror something that couldn't be produced as a war cry, it was ear-drillingly loud.

Jullon moaned loudly, but his movements slowed, and eventually stopped, but the moans continued, like a dying animal. Royce looked down at his sword, then over to the dragon, his eyes narrowed, and he looked between them for a few seconds.

"This had better not ruin my fucking sword." He grumbled, before rushing over to the dragon's left, as to point the fire away from the injured knight. He then lifted the blade over his head, pointing towards the sun.

"Aerys! Say Draterys or whatever!" Aerys looked at the man, nodding silently, before pointing his finger at the blade. Drogon looked at this attentively, his eyes scanning up the old knight's body. Rossetier took the flask, pouring it down his throat, being careful not to choke him with the Arbor, but aware that in this quantitiy this fast, it would at least numb what was going on, it would take his mind off things quickly, and it would distract him, as he finished the bottle off, Jullong spluttering a little, but most of it down the right hole, Rossetier guessed. Willas looked on, shocked at the sight, as Aerys stood, looking at Drogon, Royce awaiting the command. He was going to heat the sword from dragonfire...it was inventive, not Willas's first thought, but the fastest when a Blacksmith's could be still a walk away.

"Dracarys!" He yelled, his scream urgent and sharp. The dragon's mouth opened, and a cloud of flame followed, consuming the sword, Royce groaned at the head, his body lit up by the immense flame. Aerys lifted up his hand in a fist, and the flames stopped, revealing the valyrian blade, glowing orange and yellow, Royce lowered it carefully, examining it slowly, before rushing over to the injured bodyguard. Rossetier already stuffed it in, as he waited for Royce to begin, the blood spewing out of his severed thigh, watching the Commander of the Kingsguard come down. He dropped to his knees, falling hard into the ground. He groaned and a crack was heard from the old knight's legs, but he began jabbing the blade against the wound, the hissing that followed seemed to make Jullon calm slightly, though he bit his lip to the point of bleeding between gulps of wine, avoiding the rag by biting with his furthest teeth into the corner of his lip.

Royce jabbed haphazardly, Robyn ran in, grabbing the sword out of the knight's hands, and cauterized it much more carefully. After a few jabs, the bleeding had slowed, though the burns were not pretty to look at. He sighed in relief, passing the blade onto it's rightful owner, who looked at it angrily.
"Seven hells do I do now?"

Willas gulped, looking on at Robyn, before looking back down at Jullon.
"Keep giving him wine, get him as numb as possible before we get him some Milk of the Poppy. It'll be the only way to keep him from screaming." Willas said, looking down at him.
"We need to get him out of here. At least it's another death I don't have to see. Seven Hells." The Tyrell said, looking at Royce, nodding.

"We need to get to the Red Keep. There's more medicines and a better place to treat him properly, for now, he'll live. I will pass on whatever City Guard duties I assumed to Ser Davos Maxwell, and Aerys needs to meet his family again."

Looking across, Willas put a hand on Robyn's shoulder. The Maester had served well, and had responded fast, and dutifuly. Willas didn't often like to act all noble, but he knew it was a token of respect he owed to him.

"You did well. Come with us. I don't know what you do for a living in this part of the harbour of King's Landing, but a man like you would serve well to assist the Maesters of The Red Keep, in caring for the sick and wounded. You are owed a debt of the Kingsguard's gratitude, and your deed shall not go forgotten." He simply said across to the Maester, a small smile cracking out, as he knew that it was something that they did owe to the Maester right now. He had done well, and under that pressure, the Tyrell knew he couldn't forget his Knightly ways. None of the Kingsguard could, and he was sure that Royce would have done exactly the same.

Robyn smiled, like a mouse, or some other small pitiful creature, his wrists limp and hands hanging.

"That is quite an honor, Ser Tyrell, but... I don't think I'd be well suited to the Red Keep, I'd much rather remain here, maybe help the smallfolk, I'm not sure, but whatever the case, I'll be sure to help if you ask it of me." He bowed before the knights, and then he turned back towards his apothecary, and walked in that direction, tugging quietly at his maester's chain, he stopped for a second to look at Florent, before walking onwards.

"I understand, Maester. But know that the Kingsguard, we will owe our due to you, when you require it, for saving his life." Willas simply said, looking over as the Maester walked away, before standing up and looking back over at Jullon Florent, now getting copiously drunk and with a pool of red blood around his thigh, black covering the rest of the amputated leg.

Rossetier was helping to grab his good leg, letting one of the other Kingsguards grab his stump and side, to help keep the balance. They would need to load him on a spare horse, which one of the Retinuemen could give up, and get moving quickly to The Red Keep. From here, it would barely be a few minutes, but inside, Willas knew that they had saved another life. First his nephew's, now a sworn brother. He was no Maester, but he knew he had served them both well, and perhaps, it was one small victory among all this. How Jullon would ever fight again....he wouldn't, Willas said to himself. Permenently with a wooden prosthetic for the rest of his days, but he would not fight in the guard. As they mounted Jullon's body, Willas turned to the rest. To Aerys and his dragon, watching on quietly as the Tyrell men stared, and the other Kingsguard.

Lyman had been watching in silent worry, but as the group turned to leave, he frowned, slowly following.

"I Don't have a horse! Wait a second! Seriously!... Others take you all!" He sighed, before walking behind, kicking stones out of his path as he did, as he did, he looked at Dayne's corpse, the sword, Dawn, by his side. Lyman looked around, searching for anyone looking, before snatching it quickly, throwing away his sword, and sheathing it quietly. He chuckled, pleased wih himself.

The rest followed, but the wind blew faster when Drogon took to the air, and dirt and stones flew into the skies, cloaks sent one direction and bodies not. Willas looked back, not seeing Aerys among those following, he worried for a moment, before hearing Royce behind him.
"What? You thought a Targaryen would walk when they have a dragon?" He chuckled, before digging his heels into his horse and cantering past.

Willas chuckled, looking across, yelling back to Royce. It was like old times...well, nothing would ever be the same again. There was so much blood, horror. He felt like he would be sick, and the bitter sweet apple that he felt like he had bit was getting stronger, his mind rushed by what he had seen. Drogon, Aerys, another Lannister....shit, they'd left him behind! Willas just guessed a Reachman would give him a ride up to The Red Keep in time, for now, he had to keep with the rest of the Kingsguard, to his brothers, that man was important, but he would know exactly why they had to move fast, and that there was no time to waste, not when there was certainty about Aerys. The Reach may have been his Kingdom that he served, and indeed, he knew he had done all of this to keep their power in the Kingdoms' capital, but it was so that the Tyrells could continue to serve the right heir, as they had done for centuries prior. Nobody could stop that. And here, Willas knew again, he was back to his duties, as Royce cantered by.

"No doubt! The Dragon Pit has another two that the Targaryens have brought, it's going to be crowded!" Willas yelled back, kicking into his own horse, the sound of wings beating above, and the young Targaryen King, no less, flying to his home. From what he knew, Willas could only guess the tide was finally turning. All this pain, misery, it ended with the cauterisation of Jullon's wound, Willas said to himself.

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

Within the Red Keep, it had barely taken minutes for Willas and the Tyrell Retinuemen to arrive, to open the Dragon Pit once more. Storing three dragons in one pit was going to make it crowded, that was for sure, but Willas knew that the Targaryens knew their beasts well enough to build a pit of such epic proportions in order to cater for it, as Willas dismounted his steed once more. It had been a very busy day indeed, and now, taking Aerys up to the Apartments, would be a need. He had much to still explain to the boy, and Willas could guess that there was much even he had to learn. That he rode the legendary dragon, and any man, Targaryen or otherwise that did that, was a man of importance. Aerys may have been a boy, but he had a mantle on his shoulders.

The sight of Visaxes and Jadefyre seemed completely dwarfed by Drogon within the pit, the walls barely even lit up, the dragons all cooped up within a very small space indeed, as Willas looked at the white-haired, purple eyed boy, kneeling. It never got old, and it felt terrifying, it felt truly intimidating. If Aerys was not here, then Willas wouldn't have entered, and he was a brave, brave man...if they smelt the blood of someone that was not their rider come close, it would be almost certain death, the Tyrell assumed. As per usual, the Reachman and Crownlander men were outside, guarding the pit, Willas accompanied by Royce- with Footly assigned to the Targaryen sisters, even though Willas knew that a girl like Baela was more than capable of defeating a foe that came for her. Almost 1,000 men, it was an incredible number, but Rhaenyra's orders were clear, and Willas agreed whole-heartedly. In a city where there was discontent, if there was even a single attempt to kill a dragon, it would undermine any element of power the Reach held in King's Landing.
"Your grace." He simply said to Aerys, as he then stood up once more, clearing his throat.
Aerys nodded at this, not smiling, but still appearing to be pleased by this gesture, from what he assumed the boy had heard, Willas was not a very loyal man, but Willas assumed that he would win the king over.

"It is good to see you alive, Aerys...many in the Kingdom did give up hope, but we held your city for you, in the hope that we could determine what was going on. The Reach is at your disposal, Aerys, as are the 13,000 strong retinue of the Reachman and Crownlander forces." Willas simply stated fact, as he continued.

"I need you to know, that whatever happens, you have to stay strong for the Kingdom. Garland will help you more than I ever will, he will show you how to rule, and he served your uncle without question.The last time I spoke to Rhaenyra and Baela, they were willing for you to take the Throne, so you should not worry. They've acted as Protectors, but it belongs to you, Aerys. Anyone else staking a claim to the Throne, is now an enemy of the realm." Willas added, knowing he had to give a detail on what was going on in this capital to Aerys, knowing he was likely confused, but had to take it in.

Aerys looked at Willas for a second, his eyebrows lowered, and mouth raised nearly to his nose, and his hands clenching into fists. He coughed for a second, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, before starting to speak.

"I have to agree, Ser Willas, I was never one for courtesy or the such, so excuse any outbursts, but, I have to ask." He frowned, his purple eyes near aflame, and heavy lines forming on his face as if the mere thought of what he had in mind infuriated him.
"Where in the Seven Hells is my father?" He asked, his voice too strained for one of his tender age.

The Tyrell had to take a breath in, sighing almost.
"Aerys....this is going to come as a shock to you. But he's the man responsible for trying to kill you, and currently, we all suspect that he murdered your uncle, Aerys." Willas said, his voice trying to buffer the blow, as he shook his head.

Aerys seemed to scoff at this, running a hand over his forehead, near laughter.
"Please Ser, I understand that, I would prefer if you let me know something I didn't already know." Willas simply nodded, his face still one of just trying to explain this entirely, not too sure what he could do.

"In which case, you should know of something far more recent. He also attempted to murder my nephew, Lord Garland Tyrell, Lord Paramount of The Reach, and Aegon's Hand. Left him with nothing more than a scar.." Willas paused for a moment, clearing his throat.

"My nephew is a noble man, so he spared your father after he captured him, and brought him to King's Landing. They will try him in front of the Seven for his crimes." The Tyrell put emphasis on the fact that it was a plural, because in truth, it was. Particularly Garland's attempted assasination, by the laws of the Realm, could have meant that Daenys could have been immediately killed by Garland as a result of unquestioning evidence. Yet this didn't seem to happen, and for Willas, that was not his concern.

Aerys sighed, calming visibly.
"Good, that's good." He clapped his hands together, rubbing them vigorously.
"Well, I'll have to deal with that some other time, for now, I need to take my throne, and send for the High Septon, hopefully they still have Aegon the Third's crown." He smiled, but it seemed empty, forced even, and his eyes told the real story. They looked pained, hurt, though having to see what he had seen, it was hardly unwarrented.

Willas couldn't entirely read him, but could at the very least, see he was tired.
"We've got a horse waiting for you, so whenever you are ready, we can take you to the Throne . As for the crown, I am certain we can have it arranged, my King." Willas simply said, as he looked over at the exit, and over at Royce. Willas knew he had to clear facts with Aerys personally, but he knew he was in the way of the two, Royce looking after Aerys, and Willas fully aware that he was just a third party in all of this.
"Aegon is still in the Septry, and I am sure you will wish to see him once again, soon. Rhaenyra and Baela are in the Apartments, they will no doubt wish to come." Willas added, as he looked back at Royce once more.
"We should gather the guard, Royce. King Aerys, Third of his Name, will take his seat, if he wills it." The Tyrell looked worn down, the events of the last few days seeing two people almost die in his arms, of very different meaning to him. But saying those words, it felt like it kept his strength going, a hope of some kind at the very least.

Royce nodded silently, his sword still hot to the touch, and too hot for him to put away, so he held it out, the valyrian steel turning a darker red as it cooled.
"I normally don't take commands from you, but I'll let it slip this time." He laughed, a jolly old laugh, before he left the area, walking towards the barracks. Aerys looked on, a young squire more willful than most, but still too young, many wouldn't take him as their king, but Willas knew that he would be in good company.
"Royce!" Harys turned back for a second, holding his blade at his side.
"Talk to the maester, tell him I'll be there, with a letter." The Lord Commander nodded, before continuing on his way. Aerys turned back, gripping onto the rope belt that held up a pair of brown slacks, he looked at them, frowning.
"I do hope they have something more kingly for me to wear." He turned away, looking over his shoulder at Willas.
"I'm going to sit the throne, I'll meet with the others afterwards, for now, I'm tired." He groaned breathily as the statement went on. And with that, he began walking, despite his clothing, he still appeared to have the walk of a prince.

"Of course, my King. We'll have you fit with robes and a tunic for a King as soon as you establish yourself in the Red Keep." Willas added, before turning back to Royce.
"And that is noted, Harys. I spent too much time with the Goldcloaks, so you must forgive me." Willas chuckled a little, as he followed close to Aerys and Royce,

The three horses waited, as Willas mounted his steed once more, the Reachmen opening the huge steel gates once again, and the three set off once Aerys was on his horse, a far more docile steed for the boy's age, though Willas could only guess "docile" was a word that was never, ever used to describe a dragon, especially not Drogon! A few other Reachmen followed, no banners carried, as they made the short journey, barely under 500m up to the top of the Red Keep, to the Throne Room.

Looking across to Royce on the other horse, Willas held his look of concern a little more.
"I don't know if you heard, but we're under siege at the moment by around 30,000 men, if not more. Crakehalls, allegedly under "King" Tyget. There are pidgeons with better claims." Following closely to Aerys, shielding him almost with his position, he wiped the sweat from his brow, as they trotted through the cobbled track, the city's eerie quiet still something that did remind Willas that there was a military force inside the Seven Kingdoms' capital, and that they had orders beyond the usual remit of a City Watch.

"As for the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, Garland will explain it better, but as far as I have been told, the Riverlands, Vale and North are not concerned at all with who sits on the Iron Throne, though I am certain they wiill change their minds when they hear of Aerys. Dorne, I believe they support us, but I can never tell....not with the Church of the Red God."

Royce nodded, running a hand through his beard and spinning his sword in his hand, before finally sheathing it with a quiet rubbing against the leather.
"Aye, I've heard, the latest news came from the Lannister, I was told they were marching on the city, but I thought Garland was riding against them?"
"He did....though . I can't gather what in Seven Hells happened, but he diverted almost 6,000 men to take the Crakehall sieging force head on, whilst getting himself, Alerie and Daenys in with the other 6,000. Out of those, maybe 4,000 are in the city. My nephew is a good jouster and tourneyman, but he took on Lord Lorch....it's lucky he's alive. Brave, but he is young." Royce looked confused, his eyes widening for a second.
"Weren't the forces commanded by Tyget's son? Isn't he a poor leader?"
"Not at all, Lord Lorch was in command, but he was killed after he chased Garland's rear-guard. I haven't a clue where....I think it's Tywin, Tywin Crakehall is, last I heard, he was in Harrenhall." Willas said, as a direct response to Royce's question, as the convoy turned the corner.

" But what concerns me is that we sent almost six thousand men to die. Garland wouldn't have done something as brash as that....he is a solid strategist but he still clings to his chivalry. So it suprises me, I can't imagine him making that order. Fuck, Garland is a good man, but he has a lot to learn about the reality of this world, beyond the rivers and meadows of the Reach." Willas added, pondering over the situation again in general.
"So perhaps we have time, the Crakehall forces are without a strong leader, but they still massively outnumber us, and we cannot get in or out any longer. The Tumbleton Retinue are all set up to await an assault, not to attack."

Royce thought for a second, before smiling, and smacking his chestplate.
"Well, it's a good thing we have a rich Lannister isn't it?" He laughed again.
"And you have me, I'm a good commander, I think." He frowned, looking off somewhere only he could see.
"I haven't actually commanded in years, hopefully I still know the ropes." He placed a hand on Willas' shoulder, a strong clap rang out.
"I understand everything that you have done, and I'm proud of you lad, I doubt any of your brothers would be willing do what you've done." He smiled, his white hair curtaining his face, angering him slightly, and he frowned, pushing it out of the way.

"You think? Royce...you seriously underestimate yourself. The naval route is still clear, for how long, the Warrior only knows. As I say, coin is not a problem, blood is." Willas said, chuckling lightly. It seemed that Royce definitely seemed in a good mood, and he had reason to be, after all this shit that he had been through.
"I did what I did for the Realm, Royce. I can't say there was nothing we lost. But I did what had to be done. Just as we always do. The moment I realized that Garland was not in the city, I had to keep it ready for his presence, and I did not follow you. I am glad you understand...if so be it, I would have let my punishment come. No shame in saying that." Willas added, sighing, as he looked back into Royce's eyes, not really showing too much emotion, a mixture of relief, weariness, and in some way, just acknowledgement that he wasn't going to be without his head.

They were close to the greatness that was the Red Keep, as they pulled into a small stable, Willas clambering off the horse and tying it up, keeping Aerys outside for the moment, as he let Royce do the same. He would not step in horseshit, not before he sat on his, distinctly the Throne that he was made to take, as he walked out, helping Aerys clamber off the steed.

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

The apartments of Lord Garland Tyrell, The Red Keep.

Rhaenyra looked away from the window as the door to the chambers was thrust open, a runner who was out of breath standing there, holding a sealed scroll. He caught his breath, taking what felt as though an eternity to finally get his message out.

"King Aerys has returned. He makes his way to the Red Keep now. All are summoned to attend him within the throne room before the Iron Throne. Long live the King." The runner bowed, still out of breath, before offering the scroll to one of the guards, and turning to head back to wherever he had come from. And like that, the world had drastically changed, all the while the three protectors thought their own seperate thoughts.

Both women exchanged a look of utter disbelief, before turning to look at Lord Garland, looking to him for guidance.

Garland looked on at the man, unable to even get up, aware that it wasn't going to be expected that he could go downstairs. But for a moment, things seemed to be suddenly validated, as he looked to Baela and Rhaenyra. The two Princesses had stayed close to his room, that much he knew, and words seemed only a formality.

"Well....he hasn't got much family that can look after him. Just go and serve him for now, it is his time. I won't make it down there, not like this." Lord Tyrell said to the two, simply nodding, as he knew that he had to say it. He was going to miss this moment, and wanted to see the boy....but the cast and the wound were too grevious, he was not going to go anywhere for now with him looking like this. Aerys would perhaps visit later, though even Garland's regenting abillities were cut short....it was a shock. To hear the boy was alive....and in the Throne Room! Such an event felt majestic, noble, and most of all, vindicating to Garland.

Rhaenyra nodded to Garland, bowing before him before speaking quickly before she left. "Lord Garland, I will speak all that I can on your behalf to tell of the great service you've done unto the throne and the realm. King Aerys will be deeply appreciative of all that you have done and and sacrificed, as much as I have been. Is there anything else you would like for me to do for you, or will you be fine till I can return and speak with you, and no doubt, for you to speak with my sister." She offered a wry smile, heading over towards the door, getting ready to leave, but of course, awaiting Lord Garland's response.

"Just send him to me after. I need to see this for myself. Apart from that, I'll be fine." Garland was clear, as he saw Baela came back, Rhaenyra by the door.

"Okay, well....you are right on Baela coming back to speak. Send her too."

Baela spun about from the window to quickly make her way over to the bedside of Lord Garland, offering him a wolfish grin, before blowing him a kiss, and offering a jest to him, "Don't die on me now, Rose man, I expect you to know how to treat a lady and I hear that you have some of the best cooks in the realm. And maybe, you will be able to hold a boquet of flowers without breaking into a sweat from all that hard work you are doing laying there." She smiled, even offering a wink, before dancing away to join her sister, the two such a striking difference from one another, before taking one another's arm, and bowing before Lord Garland.

"I made a promise to Alerie not to pass my soul away to the Stranger. You're helping." He made the comment again, off the cuff, but he smiled as he did it, knowing full well that indeed, she felt exactly the same way back. There were too many emotions going through Garland right now, so he put his head back into thought, watching them leave the room, just knowing that despite all this, everything was going to be alright.

Both sisters bowed once more, before turning to hurry off, taking their guards with them as they made the decending journey to the throne room, and what awaited them there.

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




Stepping through the doors, the greatness of the Red Keep's Great Hall came into view, the stained glass pouring light inside, reflecting off of the well kept yellowish brown walls, lighting the room near fully, with only a small dark spot in the corner, where the Master of Whisperers sat in if he was required, damn Aegon and his symbolism, as Willas turned to Royce, by the steps of the great chair itself. The Iron Throne, in all it's empty glory.

"Well....Aerys, Third of his Name, King of the Seven Kingdoms, Ruler of all the First Men and Andals. I believe this chair belongs to you." Willas reached out his hand, bowing down, knowing it was a momentous moment. It would be the second that would validate it, and watching Aerys, he knew that the young lad was going to be overwhelmed. Even if it was just a chair, it was a duty that had to perform, for the rightful King. Kneeling on the floor, he bowed his head, watching sternly.

Aerys nodded, breathtaken by the hall before him, scanning every part of the golden grand hall, rounding off at the walls and windows. He took a deep breath, and walked up the golden bronze steps to the throne, taking them slowly, and never looking away from the huge chair of melted blades. He reached the top, examining the throne for about ten seconds, before turning slowly, and settling into the chair, resting his head upon his fist, running a hand along the sharp armrest and sighing, staring at his hand, a small cut visible on one of his fingers. He chuckled to himself.

(Soundtrack)

"My namesake did that a lot from what I've heard." Resting into the chair, he looked up at the decorated dome above him, art of Aegon The Conqueror and his sisters glaring at him, judging with their eyes.

"This is it, I'm finally home." He knew that he would be a king to make them proud.

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

Rhaenyra and Baela had finally arrived before the doors of the throne room. Their personal guards were close behind them, all of them having run to get to the ground levels of the Red Keep with all due haste. They took a moment to compose themselves, staring on at the Tyrell guards who barred entry to the throne room. It was clear that either Aerys, or someone was awaiting them inside. Both sisters pushed their hair back into place, taking deep breaths, and then awaited to be summoned into the throne room at the behest of their new king.

A guard entered the throne room, looking smaller than ever from Aerys' position.
"Your grace, Ladies Rhaenyra and Baela Targaryen of House Targaryen of Dragon's Rest await entry." All those present turned to face the guard, who stood silently, his hands resting on his hips. Aerys cleared his throat and nodded.

"Let them in." The guard nodded, returning to the door, opening it slowly, and peeking his head out.
"My Ladies, King Aerys has allowed you entry." He announced gruffly.

Looking on across the room, Willas turned behind, to see Rhaenyra and Baela. Well, this was now a family reunion, not just a King taking his seat. The two Princesses were allowed to walk in, as he looked across to the Throne once more, at the boy sat in it's uncomfortable but prestigious position. It felt momentous, the air felt heavy to Willas, looking on from the steps, his hand close to his sheath, as he would know Royce and Footly had. The sisters were people he knew would treat Aerys well, and seemed to have a gentle, but proud demeanor that would help to guide Aerys, no doubt. He was not one for politics, Willas thought to himself. But he understood family, and he understood the power, especially of this situation here.

Rhaenyra and Baela steeled themselves for what was to follow. Rhaenyra smiled at her sister, before turning, and taking the lead. She strode through the doors that lead into the throne room, leading her sister Baela, and four of their personal guard, leaving the rest to wait outside in the foyer. With them came Ser Trevan Waters, Lord Mooton, Lord Rykker, and Lord Crabb. They walked the length of the throne room, pressing forward until they stood at the foot of the Iron Throne, or rather, a few paces from it, leaving the Kingsguard to stand between them and the new King, King Aerys. Both sisters looked up at this young man, between boyhood and adulthood, and smiled to him.

And in unison, they all knelt deeply before their King, heads bowed low, in respect and reverence, making sure their swords did not clang against the floor, before Rhaenyra spoke up for the small party. "We are honored to be here before you, your grace. I speak for the Lords of the Northern Crownlands, and we pledge our fealty unto you." She looked up, and smiled at her younger nephew. "It is nice to finally meet you, King Aerys. I am Lady Rhaenyra Targaryen, and this is my sister, Lady Baela Targaryen." She took a small breath, before finishing with, "We are yours to command."

Aerys smiled at these words, but he wasn't sure how much his heart followed his face, he had only just met his... Aunt... Cousin? Cadet branches were confusing, but he still didn't know this woman's character, whether she suffered from the Targaryen madness or not. He decided it really didn't matter, Prince Daemon Targaryen suffered from the madness, but he followed his brother Viserys until the latter's death, and then his heir Rhaenyra... well, she was never a queen, but it still counted just the same.

Aerys made a dismissive motion with his hand, a false smile upon his face.
"Spare the pleasentries, cousin, we're family, I never called my mother 'Your Grace', so I don't expect the same courtesy." He stood, and descended the stairs slowly, his steps echoing from the rounded walls. He approached the Lady, holding out a hand.
"I cannot accept your allegience until you shake my hand." He said coyly, playing a game that even he didn't understand. He smiled, giving his usual hollow smile, a smile that he'd had to learn quickly while in hiding on Driftmark, for everytime his father came to visit.

Lady Rhaenyra rose up, brushing dust from the knees of her dress, before accepting King Aerys outstretched hand. The man had an odd way of conducting himself, but it was not for her to question him. She took the hand that was offered out to her, and shook it firmly, something odd for her, for she was used to proper etequite of a man taking a woman's hand and kissing it. She smiled at her King, her smile true and well meaning. "Thank you your Grace, but I must insist in these formal settings to call you properly at least. I offer my fealty to you King Aerys, and that of all those who are sworn to me." Rhaenyra bowed her head once more, as she spoke those words, to show that she was being honest and truthful.

She looked back up, and allowed her hand to fall as the handshake had completed. It was at this moment that her sister Baela, and the three lords and one knight stood as well, awaiting what was to happen now, what their new King would ask of them, and what the future held. Baela looked curiously at King Aerys, not sure of what to make of him. He seemed rough, in the political sense, but she guessed that whatever he may have been through may have molded him into the man that he was now. Still, she just felt as though something about him was just not... normal. She shrugged, and bowed her head to King Aerys, awaiting for what he was to say next.

Aerys frowned at her words, one half of his head filling with questions as to why she insisted on these worthless courtesies, and the other half filled with her breasts. He shook his head, resting it upon the fingertips of his right hand.

"Well, I thank you for your fealty, but I still don't understand why you insist on these courtesies." He turned away, walking back towards the throne.

He spoke again as he began climbing the steps once more.

"I'm going to need your armies, and your dragons if what I believe is going to happen does happen." He reached the top of the stairs, resting back into the chair, shifting uncomfortably.

"And possibly some scorpions." He added, grimacing as he remembered the news of his father's dragon.

"If Bloodfyre is truly on Dragonstone, then we need to slay it before it can return to my father," He rotated his shoulders as the chair caused them to ache.

"This world has no more room for dragonriders." He grumbled bitterly, worried about what descendants Viserion and Rhaegal had left in Essos, if what Lyman had said was true, than they had settled in the Old Valyrian penninsula, and if anyone was foolhardy enough to claim them, then there would be a powerful man.

Rhaenyra watched King Aerys mount the steps to the Iron Throne, before he sat down upon the mound of melted swords. She let him finish speaking before she responded the best that she could. "Your Grace, perhaps it is but the time that I have spent around court that has made me the way I am. I apologize if it bothers you, but, forgive me if I speak too boldly, you too will have to pay heed to these customs and courtisies for the sake of the realm. Some Lords are easily offended by even the smallest things. But, I digress." She smiled, fixing her dress to try and remove some of the wrinkles in it.

"As for the dragon of your father, Prince Daenys, if it is your decree to have the creature put to death, then we will do what we can to help you ensure that it does not wreak havoc upon you and the realm. As for my armies, we are but few, but we will do all that we can to help you in the path that we all must walk in the coming days." She turned, looking at her sister, and beckoned her to speak.

"King Aerys, the Northern Crownlands have few if any scorpions. There should be a decent amount within the armories of the Red Keep, and they can be assembled quickly no doubt. You need but command the forces here to begin the process." She moved to stand infront of her sister, in a manner of protecting her or shielding her, "My sister means the best, and we will do all that we can to ensure your claim stays rock solid. If it is war that you want, then we shall bring war to your enemies. We only ask that we be allowed to know what you have planned." She did not smile, looking at the King with a gaze of unsurity, as though she did not really know what to make of him. They both awaited his response.

Royce took a breath in through teeth as Rhaenyra first spoke, a noise usually reserved for pain or the such, and Lyman, who had just entered quietly, smiled ear to ear, running a thumb along his throat, tracing the Adam's apple. Aerys' false smile had disappeared, replaced by a cold glare, one that made him look more like his father than anyone else.

"Lords are easily offended eh?" He scoffed, angrily moving in the chair, unable to sit still.
"I'd love to see how offended they are when a dragon burns their hovels." He spoke clearly and with little emotion.

"It is true that a lady's armor is her courtesies, but I am a man, and I am a king, and not only am I a king, I am a king with a dragon, I have little need for your worthless words." He cleared his throat, and immediately his temprament changed. I must keep my composure. His smile did not return, but his eyes relaxed and he stopped fidgeting.
"Yes, well the order has been given, have Bloodfyre killed immediately, if it lives to see the morrow than I will consider my words ignored." He covered his mouth for about ten seconds as he thought.

"My plans? Well, I've never really had time to consider them, but for now, I know that we must have my father put to trial before the court."

"And I will have it known that Tyget Crakehall is a traitor to the realm, and will be tried as such before the gods, old and new." He sat back in the Throne, shuffling his buttocks against the unforgiving metal.

"Is that known?"

Baela spoke first, cutting off her sister. She could see that this was a touchy situation, and gave her sister a look that brokered no arguement. 'We will speak later.' She turned her attention back to King Aerys. He was what she had feared deep down. Still a child, or at the least very inmature still for his age. His anger had shown through, his true colors coming out as he spoke down at the Crownlanders. She pushed Rhaenyra behind her, cover her from the withering gaze of King Aerys. He was his father's son, and it was clear, at least to Baela, that he had also been passed on the dreaded curse that plagued the Targaryen's for centuries.

"As you command Aerys Targaryen. We, and we alone, will see to the death of Bloodfyre, dragon of Prince Daenys Targaryen." She chose to ignore the comment he had made about burning down the lands of offended Lords... it would not be wise to anger him any more. "My sister is rigid in her customs, and she meant no offense. But we will focus on what you asked of us. My sister and I will sail for Dragonstone today, and we will ensure the demise of Bloodfyre with all due haste. Our forces of the Northern Crownlands, and our forces alone, shall take down this beast for you. I will not allow your command to be ignored." She bowed her head in rather military fashion, before continuing.

She looked to Ser Trevan, beckoning him to begin to move Rhaenyra further back. He nodded, and complied, moving the women to the center of her cadre. Baela turned back to King Aerys, to speak again, "Then you father will face the King's justice, and that of the Seven, may he pay for his crimes against you and the realm. The same goes for Lord Tygett Crakehall. These usurpers will pay for their crimes, and will burn in righteous fire." She moved her hand unconciously across the pommel of her ancestral Valaryian steel sword, "Your plans are known, and we will carry them out with all due haste. Permission to be dismissed, Aerys?" She was ready to leave, to be on her way, with her sister, and heading out on their mission.

Aerys placed a hand over his mouth, something that was well on it's way to becoming his nervous tick.
"Aye, permission granted, but I do have a question." As he spoke, he gestured towards Footly, still looking at Baela.
"Ser Footly will serve as your guard until further notice, but the Kingsguard has vacancies, if there are any knights that you believe worthy, bring them to me, and I will determine their worth." He then motioned them away with his hand, before looking away and losing himself in thought.

Baela bowed before her King, nodding to Ser Footly, before motioning her cadre to follow her out. It was best if they left now, and not a moment to lose. She led her sister out, along with the rest of the Crownlanders, plus Ser Footly, as she made her way from the Red Keep to her destination. She had much to discuss, and little time to speak of it.

(Inside! For refrence's sake, have collabs with @bluetommy2, @Abefroeman, and @bloonewb)

Qarl watched the sea, as he had usually done when he was bored and contemplative, or drunk, probably drunk. The moon rested high above the horizon, reflecting off the water and lighting the waters below. Qarl took a drink of his ale, wiping it off of his beard before stumbling to the edge of his ship and vomiting into the salty sea.

Pulling himself back up, he noticed the horizon of the waters had changed shape, maybe a wave? No, it was too cubical to be a wave. He squinted as the object got bigger and bigger, a boat? But who would be sailing to Pyke alone? At this time of night? That would just be asking to be raided. Maybe whoever was on that ship wasn't afraid of being raided? He stumbled to his feet and wobbled below deck, awaking the captain of the boat with a jab to the ribs.
"Captain, there's a' odd ship ou' there." The captain stretched, sitting up slowly and rubbing his head.
"Wha' they want?"
"They're too far, can't speak across the wat'rs." The captain snorted, before following Qarl up deck.

The ship was much closer now, and Qarl could near make out the skeletal hand of House Drumm on the mast.
"Drumms?" The captain shook his head.
"Nah, Only Drumms's sittin' in 'arbor, those ain't Drumms." The ship's mast caught wind, and it picked up speed, parting the seas as it approached. Even in a drunken stupor, Qarl realized the problem with this.
"*Hic* Why ain't they stoppin'?" The captain frowned, glaring at the ship with his one remaining eye.
"Maybe they's asleep?" The ship didn't stop.
"Shouldn't they's be turnin'?"
"Aye, that's no good is it?"
"No good at all." The ship slammed into the front of their boat, splinters flying across the sky, one of which had the anchor attached to it, the speed of the ship knocked that piece right into the air, and the wooden chunk smashed across the deck, chain digging through the relatively hard wood.

Qarl looked around, groaning as he fell to the ground, he looked up at the moon, and a piece of wood was visible flying above, covered in some strange green slop. He moved to a sit, noticing that this green liquid was splattered all over his shirt, and then one of the wine barrels exploded, sending green flames and sparks every which way. Qarl frowned, though he wasn't sure what face he was making.
"That... That's not goo-" An explosion rocked the hull, and the ship quickly sank below the waves.

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

Lorch pointed from the ship's deck at the galley rapidly crashing through long boats, "Your Grace, the ship is nearly at its destination.", Tyget nodded, and raised his arm, the master of the ship nodded, and shiuted to the archers on the ship, "KNOCK ARROWS!", the archers knocked their flaming arrows, "DRAW!", the mariners drew their bows taught, pointed high into the night sky to hit their target, and waited. Tyget watched, then, once the galley was near the middle of what he could tell of the massive fleet, he dropped his arm, and the shipmaster shouted the climactic order, "LOOSE!", at least 50 flaming arrows flew through the night sky, away from Tyget's flagship. They flew towards the sleeping Ironborn, but not at them. It was hard to tell, if the first arrow lit the water or the ship, but the result was the same. Where once a great many ships sat, a massive coloumn of rapidly spreading green fire had appeared as if from nowhere. The Night sky lit up, blindingly bright, and all watching swiftly shielded their eyes... all but Tyget who simply squinted as the massive explosion caught the air and sea aflame. It exploded once, twice, three times before the galley was gone, its massive storage of Wildfire now depleted as it rained from the sky in flaming wood. It had worked, exactly as it was meant to, and as the light faded, still making the fleet fare brighter than it had been before, the screams could be heard.

Hundreds, possibly thousands of men, killed instantly, and many more now burning, even in the water. Tyget smiled, and turned to the shipmaster, "Sound the drums Captain, let the fleet know we move to take Pyke, and let the Ironborn know who is paying the Iron price for their home.", the drums began to beat, and were joined by the drums of a further 219 ships, pirates, Slavers, Mercenaries, and loyal westermen all shouted into the night air as the drums beat and the ships moved. Sails unfurled, swords were drawn and arrows were again knocked as the fleet of Lannisport and its allies sailed toward the burning heap that was once the Kraken Fleet.

Tyget was in armor appropriate for ship combat, as were all the men. Light breastplates over leather or padded coats, leather gloves and the distinctive Crakehall helmet. The Kingsguard wore a similar, albeit more ostentatious set of similar armor, their cloaks replaced with sashes worn about their waists. Tyget drew Widow's Wail as his ship drew closer. Only two Ironborn Longships were left in the vanguard, the remainder of the surviving fleet unable to oppose the approaching Westermen. The Captain ordered an arrow volley, and the deck of the nearest was peppered in flaming hatred as Ironborn sailors fell, some alighting due to an ever so thin film of Wildfire clinging to them. As they passed the two pitiful ships, the rest of the Kraken fleet was attempting to pass the burning wrecks of their comrades, to stop Tyget from landing. They were not quick enough, and the Boar's Fury struck the ground of Pyke, and its planks hit the ground shortly after. A small contingent of Ironborn rushed toward the ship, having been not on the ships.

Tyget exhaled calmly, and cut his hand with a dagger, dropping the small blade after, and squeezing his blood onto Widow's Wail, saying the words as Gerald had taught him, and the blade grew alight with fearsome blue Wildfire. Tyget smiled, looked the the Ironborn below him, and charged, the Sword of a King before him, alight with his blood.

The Ironborn stood, watching the king rush forth, a blade of blue flame in his hand, and a blue glow lighting up his face. They looked at eachother, attempting a shield wall, but the young raiders quickly turned to run, leaping into the sea and swimming for Pyke.

Most of them would drown. The oldest captain gripped his axe tightly, looking down at his wood shield.
"Not much use for that now is there?" He lifted it up, before throwing it back behind his head, lunging forth, and throwing the shield for Tyget's throat, rushing behind it with axe at the ready, his fellow warriors charging into the westermen soldiers.

Tyget batted the shield away with ease with his own, Falwell and Lorch flanking him their own blades drawn, followed by the many Westermen marines behind them. The asymetrical contingents met, and one could hardly call it a fight. The first casualty was the first mate, Rushing Falwell, who simply parried his sword away and skewered the poor bastard throught neck, smiling gleefuly as he did. Tyget had a short clash with the captain who had thrown his shield, but it ended with Tyget's magical blade cutting through his axe and biting from his upper right shoulder to his navel. Skin and armor hardly slowed the blade at all, and Tyget removed it the parry another sailors swing away, and swiftly 'disarm' him.

His arm, cut just above the elbow, smacked into the rocky earth still clutching his sword. The islander screamed shortly, before Tyget Brought the blade across the top of his head, cutting it in half at his eyes. This was exhilarating! The blade had never felt so gratifying to swing! Magic flame and Valyrian steel mixed quite well. Tyget looked around, seeing that the rest of the contingent was dead or running, pointed Widow's Wail at castle Pyke, shouting to his men, "Any man who can bring me the head of any Greyjoy in that damn castle will get 30 silver stags and a Knighthood!", the Marines cheered, and surged with their King, as more landed behind them, and the battle at sea raged.

Boats smashed into eachother, arrows flying everywhich way, and the noise of blade against blade, and shield against skull filled the air. Bodies splashed into the water, heads rolled against wood. Screams of the wounded and dying echoing off of the cliffs of Pyke. Tyget saw a wounded marine bite an Ironborn's nose off and crush another's fingers, bleeding heavily from what remained of his arms, before a blade pierced his mouth, chopping the head off easily. No sword cut that well... Valyrian steel was the only answer. The man fell, and standing there, was a man in scale mail, a red sword in hand.

He glared at Tyget for a second, before returning to combat, slicing through armor like butter. Lord Drumm then, Tyget was a boat away from him, but he could easily manage to climb over on one of the ropes.

Tyget watched as the blade he knew as Red Rain cut through his men, and decided then and their he was taking that sword. "Falwell! With Me! Twenty men! Lorch, take the fight to Pyke! Kill every fucking Greyjoy you Find!", with that Tyget ran across the deck, Falwell and however many men behind him, as he got to the ropes and threw himself on to one. Having to use only one arm, holding the flaming Widow's Wail in the other, Tyget made slow progress, several arrows nearly hitting him, before the archers were set upon by marines on their own ship. Tyget barely made it, pulling himself up and onto the deck, glancing around for Lord Drumm. A raider charged the King with his flaming blade, an axe in each hand. Tyget sidestepped him, dodging his blows until the screaming fool caught an axe in the bannister. Tyget impaled him through the chest, a flaming blade piercing his front, and flaming blade exiting his back. As Tyget drew back and Falwell and several marines joined him, he spotted the Lord Drumm. He had just cut a man in half, as he was a fair bit larger than Tyget. He met eyes with him, shouting to his men, "Lord Drumm's mine! Haven't had a good fight in ages.", and stalked toward his opponent.

Drumm looked at Tyget approaching, his lip curled into a frown, and his mail coated with blood, his own and others.
"Come then! King boy!" He rotated his arms, swinging the blood from his sword.
"Show me your Red God's power, and I'll show you mine." He crouched, screamed, and ran forth, sword pointed towards Tyget's chest. As he approached, he stopped, spun on his heels, and swung the blade through the air towards Tyget's left shoulder.

Tyget barely got his shield up in time, but even still the blade bit deep, nearly hitting his shield arm through the shield, Tyget rushed forward, slamming the trapped balde away and bringing his own forward in a thrust aimed for Drumm's chest.

Drumm took a few steps back, before swinging the blade in a manner that appeared wild, but managed to deflect the flaming sword enough to make it miss his heart, he stopped on his left foot, and followed with a thrust of his own, stretching his body behind it.

Tyget had no choice but to bring in his shield again, battering the thrust aside just in time, he was lucky that the aged Lord Drumm was even slower than he, and brought his blade back to guard, waiting for the aggressive Lord to strike again.

Drumm fell back, pointing the sword at Tyget's throat, every once in a while prodding forth against his shield, circling slowly, never advancing far enough to be hit. He feinted a backhand swing, only to bring the sword back and thrusted for Tyget's throat.

Tyget had misinterpreted Drumm's move and his blade not there to parry the thrust. In desperation, he brought the shield up again, for the thrust to impale his shield, and the arm behind it.

Red Rain slid through the shield and Tyget's arm easily, nearly reaching Tyget's adam's apple. Drumm pushed his shoulder against the King's shield, before backing away and pulling at the blade, which remained in the ironwood, stuck in Tyget's forearm.

The pain was incredible, though adrenaline flowed through his vains, the embedded Valyrian steel felt as if it was on fire in his arm. The tugging of Lord Drumm did not help the matter, and Tyget's face twisted into a scowl of pain... though now he had an opening. Drumm was too far off to cut, but his hand and arm were not. Pulling his shield arm to his left, inflaming the pain as he did, he brought the flaming Widow's Wail into the middle of Drumm's forearm, seperating it from the rest of his arm, though it still hed the blade in his shield and arm.

Drumm groaned in agony, but didn't let up, gripping the blade with his other hand, he again threw his body against it, forcing it further into the shield, poking against Tyget's throat. He then let go, drew a dagger from his belt, and stabbed it into Tyget's foot. Drumm backed away, leaving Tyget pinned to the floor. His face crunched into a grimacing frown, before starting to run, and slamming his body into Tyget's.

"AH! Ironborn fucker!", as Drumm impaled Tyget's foot and backed off, before slamming into the King. He narrowly avoided the blade in his arm as it plunged toward his chest, and he landed on his side with the blade clanging against ther deck, the hand attached to it flying off. Tyget rolled back trying to get to his feet, but threw a blind swing with Widow's Wail behind him, trying to catch Drumm on the ground and unable to defend himself.

Drumm flipped over Tyget, landing hard on his back, Tyget's swing passed over his nose, and Drumm rolled to Tyget's left, climbing to a crawl, before groaning as the wound continued to bleed. He crawled over to his sword, grabbing at it like a rat does food.

Tyget groaned again, as Drumm pulled at Red Rain, and decided enough was enough. He rushed Drumm, surging forward against his shield fighting through the intense pain of the sword further impaling his arm, and brought his blade down at Drumm's neck.

The sword connected, sticking itself in Drumm's neck, Drumm choked on blood rushing down his throat, his eyes widening in shock and horror, before his brow furrowed, and he yanked at the sword one last time, pulling it loose, and then driving it into Tyget's abdomen, and then he lurched over, expiring upon the deck, his blood surrounding him.

Tyget felt the cold steel run through his, his blade growing dim and smoldering in Drumm's neck, and Red Rain in his guts. He coughed up blood, falling back, the red blade grasped in his hands. Falwell was with him almost immediately, shouting words Tyget could not hear. It started fading, all of it... blurring into one great color... so cold... so final... and all was now nothing...

... before a light... no, not a light... a fire, a great blaze filled his mind after what felt like eternity in the dark... warmth, heat... anger, vengeance.

Tyget's eyes shot open, and Falwell jumped back as he sat up, Red Rain laying at his side where Falwell had put it after removing it from the Kings guts. Tyget slowly looked down, no blood came from the hole in the breastplate, and looked at his left arm, pulling away his glove, it too was free of blood, or the hole where the blade had been, only a harsh scar from a burn, as if it was closed with fire. He exhaled slowly, and stood, taking Red Rain in his hand, and turning to the Marines and Falwell, transfixed on their King.

Over the fury of the battle, over the sound of the waves, Tyget heard it, a voice, he could not tell what it said but it rang in his ears like a great bell.

"Rise, son of Azor Ahai, and burn all who dare challenge you." Thousands of voices at once, talking over eachother, Tyget could barely understand, but he somehow knew without fully hearing the words.

Tyget looked to the assembled soldiers, and a smile broke across his face, "Men! You've seen it! The Lord of Light has restored me! Now, we will break the Servants of the Drowned God! For they know not our Light!", he looked up to Pyke, before throwing away his shield and taking up Widow's Wail in his left hand, he looked to falwell, "Your dagger Falwell.", he nodded, walked to his King, and drew the blade across his hand. Tyget again squeezed his blood from his hand, onto both blades. He took them up, Red Rain in the right and Widow's Wail in his left, saying the words of a God he could no longer doubt. The blades burst again into flames, and he pointed Rain to Pyke, "With me! Break down the doors of Pyke! For the Lord of Light!", the men cheered as the boat crashed into the bank, the planks were dropped, and for the second time a warrior with a flaming sword lead the breach of Pyke.

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

Smoke rose from the Castles of Pyke, the bay stll smoldering from the night before. Blackened husks of over 400 ships were spread throughout the bay, the smoldering wrecks of the once proud Kraken fleet. Less than a hundred ships had escaped, and as far as Tyget was concerned the Kraken fleet was gone, it would not recover for at least a hundred years. He looked around, Ironborn prisoners, what few there were. He heard them approaching, Lorch and Falwell, and then threw the Lord Valorion Greyjoy at his feet.

Tyget looked down at the Greyjoy, he was bleeding from several wounds about his person, "Lord Greyjoy, a pleasure to finally meet you."

Valorion glared daggers at Tyget, before lurching over and coughing up a bucket of blood, being pulled brutally back up into a kneel.
"Kill me then, If you're as worthless as you greenlanders are, than I'd rather die than be your hostage! I will never be a part of your worthless culture of indulgence and lust!"

Tyget laughed at Valorion, the proud Kraken on his knees and spitting insults at his betters. He leered at the man, a cruel smile parting his lips, "Hostage? Is that why you think I torched your fleet and crushed your army? To bring the Greyjoy's to heel? You have quite the opinion of yourself, or perhaps you think too little of me. I had no intention of letting you live from the moment I decided to sail against you. I'm not here to break your family Valorion, I'm here to end it.", he let Valorion think on what had just been said before continuing, "I will kill you, your Saltwives, your Rock wife, your brothers, your nephews and niece, your bastards every single Islander with a claim to your name will die. Do you now understand why I have come?"

Valorion chuckled, but it rang hollow, a broken thing, pointless and defeated.
"Good, let your 'honor' die from your actions, become what you greenlanders struggle so hard to avoid." He smiled up at Tyget, as if he had won a battle or a hard-faught battle.
"Let your precious knighthood die with me, and bring ruin to your family name." He looked at the ground, closing himself off from anything that Tyget had to say.

Tyget shook his head, "Idle threats that mean nothing, from the mouth of a whipped dog. There is no honor to be lost in pulling out weeds.", He looked at Falwell now, done with Valorion Greyjoy, "Falwell, have the men build a pyre. Once it is done, cut of his manhood, and burn it and him. It is time the Iron Islander's learned what it truly means to 'pay the iron price', wouldn't you agree?", Falwell smiled wickedly, yanking Greyjoy to his feet, but before he pulled him away Tyget looked the man in the eyes, "I wonder Greyjoy, if I burn your body, will your soul go to your drowned God? No, R'hllor will devour your soul, I will make you his.", with this last decree, Greyjoy was taken, his fate sealed.

Tyget turned away, looking out over the bay filled with the great burnt skeletons of ships still smouldering. There would be no more Salt Kings, this was the end of an era for the Ironborn, Tyget would make sure of it.

Baela slammed the door behind her, in a furious mood as she and her sister came into their room. The new King was a child, a fool, and by her first impressions, had the be-cursed blood of his father and the mad Targaryen’s of old. She could not help but think of three people, all from the annuals of history, men, and child, reviled and hated by all. Jofferey Lannister, Aerys Targaryen, the Mad King, and Prince Daenys Targaryen, the boy King’s father. The way he talked, how he looked, and how he acted towards Rhaenyra and Baela was demeaning and very concerning. She moved across the room to slump down into an open chair.

“What’s wrong Baela? Please, tell me, what is going through your mind right now?” Rhaenyra asked in a concerned tone. She walked over to her sister, kneeling down before Baela, reaching out to hold her hands as she looked up at her. Baela was scarcely ever like this, let alone not willing to talk. Her sister’s eyes were full of anger and fear, the same look she had when their parents had died.

Baela shook her head, not wishing to speak. Her face was scowled into an angry glare, turning away from her elder sister to try and ignore her and her inquiries. She did not wish to speak aloud what she felt, let alone bring her sister into this. Rhaenyra was kind and intelligent, but Baela feared that her sister was too trusting of this new King, of young Aerys, who already had shown he had little to now control over his emotions. Furthermore, Baela could not help but notice that Aerys smile seemed practiced… something hollow to hide the true face that was his own.

“Damnit, Baela, I am talking to you… answer me sister, tell me what is going through your mind right now. Do not close me out. We promised to be there for one another, no matter what, ever since Mom and Dad died… you promised, you promised Baela… please, speak to me…” Rhaenyra spoke in a pleading tone, full of concern and compassion. She looked up at her sister, holding both her hands within hers, offering a smile of truly heartfelt sisterly love. “I love you sister, my little Baela, go on… speak.”

Baela sighed, letting her anger and distrust wash over her and away. Her expression softened, the scowl turning into a loving smile as she looked at Rhaenyra, the smile then giving way to a concerned look. “Rhae… please, forgive me. I, I shouldn’t have shut you out like I did. I just, I just do not know how to best convey what I am feeling and thinking to you…” Sighing, she looked up and away, out at the window of their entrance foyer. She stared out of this simple portal separating the inside world from the outside world. “I love you sister, just hear me out before you say anything else… I need you to hear what I am saying, and what the implications of all of this.” Baela spoke in a concerned tone, wanting her sister to fully understand what she was about to say.

Baela rose up from her chair, helping Rhaenyra rise up with her as well. She smiled at her sister, embracing her softly, before leading her deeper into the apartments that they lived in. They walked past their rooms and dining area, to finally end up in an open air garden that overlooked the Blackwater Bay. She turned to Rhaenyra, motioning her to sit down and listen. Baela took a deep breath, enjoying the warmth of the morning sun upon her face, before turning to face her sister once more and choosing to speak her mind. She was thankful that they had left Ser Footly and Ser Trevan outside, guarding the doors to their apartments, for no doubt Ser Footly would find what was about to transpire to be borderline, if not complete treason.

“I don’t think we can trust King Aerys sister… I don’t think the realm can suffer another tyrant and Mad King.” Her tone was low and hushed. She looked at her sister with grave concern, knowing that what she spoke was something not to be taken lightly nor foolishly. The words would have grave affect upon the events that would follow in the future, good or bad. Baela looked down at her sister, rubbing her temples as she spoke, “Do you remember the history lesson we read about Joffrey Lannister? Or perhaps the Mad King Aerys Targaryen? Or if it’s easier, how about Daenys Targaryen? We’ve personally met him and spoke with him many a time. What do they all have in common with young King Aerys?” She looked away, sighing as she eased herself down to sit next to Rhaenyra.

“Baela… you don’t really mean that… do you?” Rhaenyra was concerned, her tone full of doubt and unease. Baela couldn’t really mean that, could she? Aerys did lose his composure, but, was he truly evil and mad? She stopped, looking away from her sister to think about it. The young boy had been gone for many years, born to a mad father at the very least. He had no court training, nor any real etiquette. His eyes though, they had look at her as though she were but a piece of meat, to be had, and then thrown aside. “He… he isn’t that bad, is he?” She felt so naïve for asking that question, but, she needed to be sure.

“Look in your heart, and you will find the answer dear sister. Look deep within you, and you will know what I say is true. He can not be allowed to ascend the throne, no matter what. The realm will bleed, and bleed, and bleed if he becomes kings. You can see it as well as I can. You merely have to look past the false mask he wore for you, and look at what he really is.” Baela spoke softly and compassionately to her sister. She looked at Rhaenyra in the eyes. She was the prettiest woman in all the Seven Kingdoms, full of life, love, and laughter. And yet, as she looked in her sister’s eyes, all she could she was doubt and uncertainty. “Don’t let his false masks fool you. Look deep within yourself. Remember what father taught us, what mother helped us understand. Look at who our family is, and what can happen when parents are not careful, when their children become what their parents were… remember what happened to the realm when Aerys II sat the throne, when Joffrey sat the throne, when Daenys tried to sit the throne. Look to the bad men who have tried to rule the realm, and see what came of their rules, what came of them… look, and you will see.”

Rhaenyra closed her eyes, closing off the world around her as she thought in quiet recollection. She played the meeting over and over again in her head. How Aerys had spoken to her, how he looked at her, how he yelled at her, how he wanted to burn his enemies. He was young, yes, but the very way he spoke and acted… it was almost as if Aerys II had been reborn. The son was like the father, perhaps more or less, but he was just and dangerous and unstable as Daenys. She opened her eyes, like coming to from a deep sleep, like breaking free of a dream. “He… he is the Mad King Reborn.” She looked at Baela. The fire had returned to her eyes, the life, love, the laughter, it all came crashing back… “We have to stop him… no matter the cost. King Aerys must die.”

Master of Coin, Lyman Lannister

"Lannisters don't sit, they make empires fall and burn with a single coin, you'd do well to learn that."

Lyman giggled to himself, examining the letters that he had received, he felt so popular! But, Lannisters often have to do away with that to help themselves. He stood, knocking his knuckles against his chamber door. A shirtless man, bronze skinned and bearded, opened the door, arakh in hand. Lyman smiled, nodding at Doro, one of his hired swords.
"You've made it, good. It's time." The Dothraki nodded, walking down the hallway, Lyman not far behind him.
"I hate this wretched place, all women, wine, and food." Lyman chuckled at the man's statement, for it wasn't far off, and Lyman too hated the horrible city, and he couldn't wait to make it learn to be humble.

Entering the Red Keep proper, they stomped along, soon joined by others, hidden as washermen and household guards, all gripping their weapons and walking behind. They took corners sharply, running their hands along walls, knocking over handmaidens and servant boys. Lyman's smile never faltered, and he held Dawn's pommel tightly in his hand. They reached the royal apartments easily, only having to slit the throat of one household guard. Lyman hadn't expected it to be this easy, but most of the household guards were dead or missing, probably joining a side during the chaos that followed.
"Lyman!" Harys yelled loudly as they came upon the door to the royal chambers. Lyman smiled at him, tilting his head at the man.
"Hello Ser." Lyman greeted. Royce growled at him, his eyes pinched together and his teeth clenched.
"What is this nonsense!? Lord Tyrell won't stand for this!"
"Lord Tyrell will bow to his Lord Regent!" Harys frowned, mouth closed, as if he had figured out what was going on here.
"I trusted you Lyman, you were a hero! Bringing the king back to us! And now you turn and-"
"Did you really trust me? Or did you just want help doing your job? Because I was never trustworthy! I made it clear, that my only motive was to get my ancestral home back, and I will not let Tyrell wrestle that chance from me!" Lyman yelled angrily, his head ablaze with "Treason" and "Traitor" but most of all "Bastard".

"Bastard, bastard, bastard." The word rang in his ears, dried out his mouth. He was not trueborn yes, but he still had a claim, but he knew that the voices meant it in another way.
"Royce! You will be receiving a promotion, 'Royal Cupbearer', and in that position, you shall report on every action the king does, and the report will come directly to me, I know you wouldn't dare poison your precious squire."
"What if I poison you?"
"A man dares, a man dies, don't make the executioner weep over your grave, now, inform the King about these changes, and I will sit in on court while the king sleeps." Royce stared for a long time, before nodding sorrowfully and returning to his post, some of the sellswords spitting in his direction. The knight simply stood, not batting an eye.

Lyman grinned as he entered the throne room, and quickly moved to sit the throne, but stopped before taking it, he turned to the others, and grinned.
"I'm not sitting on that thing, bring me a chair please, and while you're out, have your pick of the treasury." They quickly left the room, leaving Lyman alone, very pleased with himself.

---

Daenys Targaryen- The Black Cells

Daenys yelled at the walls of his cell, one of the few times he was awake, most of the time he simply slept, waiting for them to come and kill him, the black cells were even worse than the cells at Highgarden, and the low light had to be taking a toll on him, and he wanted something else to yell at than the wall.

He sighed angrily, he had hoped that this would have gone better, but instead, it failed horribly, and now he was guarded by Tyrells, so there was no room for convincing, so they just left him to rot. On the plus side, his arm had healed quicker than he'd thought, it still hurt to use it too much, but now he was at least able to use it.

Daenys sank into the floor, waiting for sleep to take him, when he heard the opening of the cell doors. Light stung at his eyes, and he looked up to see a Tyrell guardsman approaching, his face hidden by a great helm.
"Come to end me are ye? Make it quick, I can't wait to meet Garland when the Stranger comes for him too." The guard laughed, it echoed within his helm, making him sound more beast than man.
"No, I've come to bring you to Lord Lyman Lannister, to serve him." Daenys was confused by this in more ways than one, but decided against questioning it, as he was going to be free!

They quickly sneaked out of the main cell block, climbing up the stairs towards the normal dungeons. As the light once more stung Daenys' eyes, he heard screams and the sound of metal in flesh. When his tears cleared from his eyes, he noticed that the Tyrell guardsman laid dead at the feet of two others. Daenys chuckled weakly, slowly raising his hands, before running into the nearest wall, which swung open, and then closed behind him.
"Thank you Maegor." He whispered to himself, his shoulder cramping up as he began to move again.

He crawled through the dismal and wet chambers, a rat crawling in front of him, twitching it's whiskers, and approaching, skittering against the stone floor.
"Bugger off ya' bloody rat." The rat ran away at the first word, scampering away to another part of the chambers. Daenys chuckled at how similar the two were at this moment, a prince acting like a rat, and not just any prince, him!

He emerged from a sewer near the docks, not anywhere near where he meant to emerge, but he was groggy, and the sunlight had made him slightly sick after so long without it. The moon rested high in the sky, so it was around midnight. Daenys was pleased, he could make it to the Red Keep, maybe finally become king! It was near too much for him to bear. He quickly stumbled towards the huge castle, pacing down the empty streets, seeing one or two brigands in alleyways, one attempting to attack, only to be deterred by a glare of purple eyes.

What was not in the mood to run however, was the group of goldcloaks he turned into. They stopped in their tracks, weapons in hand.
"Daenys Targaryen? Aren't you suppos-" He didn't hear the end of that one, as he was already running for the docks again.

Eventually, they forced him against a cliff, which led to the Blackwater. Daenys looked back and forth, his situation looking more and more dire.
"Give up Daenys!" And there it was, his decision was made.
"You'll have to fish up my corpse! Fools!"

He allowed himself back, the rushing wind against his face as he tumbled towards the churning sea. He thought of his son, his brother, Garland, all those he had met, and how they had wronged him, he only wished he had more time to end them, and then he slammed into the sea.

The two walked in, Garland having a smile on his face, as he sat up. The morning had given Garland a little more strength, and it seemed that he was on the path to recovery, though of course, the Maester did agree, it would take about a week or so before he was walking again, if he found that strength. He still wore the bandage on his armpit/chest, but couldn't help but smile when he saw Alerie and Willas Tyrell. Sister, and uncle.

"Garland!" Alerie said, running over, hugging her brother, as he winced. She realized, as she backed off, sitting at the end of Garland's bed, looking at the wound.
"Kept my promise, didn't I? It is so good to see you, sister. And thank you, Willas. You saved me. I never properly got to thank you." Garland said, smiling, as Alerie's smile was just as equal, as she brushed her hands through Garland's hair, then running it down the scar by his ear.
"Don't ever do that to me again." She simply replied, kissing him on the forehead, as he smirked, Willas nodding.
"You're not the last, either. I had to save Jullon Florent too, cut the Kingsguard's leg off in the end. Looks like the Kingsguard need me again, so I've passed my duties in the City Watch to Ser Maxwell. He's a good man, a responsible one too, and loyal as anything." Willas added, as he took a seat on a chair close to Garland, looking over at The Young Rose.
"It was a foolish thing you did, but you did what you had to, Garland. I hope you at least learned what happens when you risk yourself like that. This is a war, and people are going to die." Willas said to Lord Tyrell, as he nodded, a little disagreeably.
"I kept the men from routing, then Seven knows, they'd have attacked the others. We broke in...and this was a misfortune." Garland replied, as he shook his head.

"But I am thankful, you know that."
"We look after each other, nephew. You did well. But you have affairs to deal with. And the news of Aerys then? Where does it place us?" Willas asked, as Garland nodded once more, shifting his weight delicately, looking over at the Kingsguard.
"It is good. But the boy needs tuition." Garland added, as Willas agreed.
"He is no fool, but I would agree. He is angry, very scripted, a little mad. But he can be controlled, and that control comes from teaching. I may suggest a Maester, alongside yourself, and Harys Royce. A balanced education, to make him at the very least, understanding of how to rule. What think you?"
"Agreed, Willas. I need to teach him how to run a Kingdom, and how to keep control of the situation...to not burn people alive, to keep the King's peace. I saw Rhaenyra and Baela Targaryen earlier. Baela seems...well, she seems to be made of great things...a fine Targaryen indeed. I'll pursue her."
"A good move, Garland. I would agree in your choice. She can be wrothful, but she is no fool. I still need to properly talk to them, my last meeting was far too brief. And remember, Baela is permanent if you do, I know you understand that. No more bastards, or you'll have your cock served to you." She giggled, as Garland shook his head, laughing.

"I don't mind that. I have seen the women of the Reach, and beyond. I think I'm ready. For our family. We need a tie that gives us the power and prosperity we deserve, and they owe it to us too. What about you, sister? How has King's Landing treated you?"
"Well, Garland. I recently spoke to Alyssa Baratheon, I believe we have an alliance. She needs assistance in dealing with her rebellion, and I would assume the Yunkish men that we hired can relieve that for her...in return for the men of Tarth, all 5,000 of them, arriving in King's Landing within three days to offer their presence in the capital and give legitimacy to our Kingdoms. The Yunkish will be raiding the Westerland coast too, their fleets should be arriving soon to do that....and they have no idea who their paymaster is. So it seems that we already have one Kingdom in our pocket, and a King in our control." Alerie interupted, as Garland looked across.
"Not just yet, but soon, perhaps we shall. Alerie, I trust your judgement with this...I know the capital needs relief...but we can only guess that Loras is either raising the banners now. You know I trust you with these things, but remember, be careful. You're a good spider, but don't make a mistake for our family. You need to be wed too, my sweet sister, and I know it will hurt when it happens." Garland added, as Alerie gave a simple, but clear smile back, a formal one.
"I won't, brother."

As Garland took a sip from the jug, he looked again to Willas, for answers.
"So, if I stand on my two feet again and hobble downstairs, what will I be? A Regent, or a man who will have his head on a pike? I hope the former."
"Aerys has not been specific. For the moment being, Royce is his Knight, and squires Aerys...so I would assume he currently holds the position. But it is yours, most likely. By rights, it is yours. Former Hand, and probably the best candidate currently in King's Landing. To refuse would be to betray The Reach of it's duty to the Iron Throne, it would be madness. Although Aerys seems a little mad himself, agreed, any man is taught what our Kingdom provides for the Seven Kingdoms, what it has provided for Targaryen Kings and Queens of past, and especially so what you did." Willas said, as he adjusted his gauntlets a little, shifting them closer against his hands, the Kingsguarder Tyrell still in his plate.
"That is good. Our family demands nothing else than that, and our service has been more than just loyal." Garland simply said back to Willas, as he looked out the window once more.

"The besiegers still hold us, they might be leaderless, but they'll be massing soon. They know they hit us hard. That other force must have almost have been destroyed. Fuck, I knew we shouldn't have divided our forces as badly as that, it would never have gone well." Garland said, his voice vague, as Alerie shook her head.
"Don't fret, brother. It happened so we could get in. We made our move. And you did what you had to, for the rear guard, remember?" She said, a rather reassuring voice
"Thousands of men are dead because of me. Say what you wish about my wounds, but I don't want to be remembered for that action. I guess you are right." Garland exhaled, looking out once more, before hearing a yelling down the corridor. The guard was allowed passage, the Reachman entering the small room.

"Lord Garland, Ser Willas! It's Lyman, he's declaring himself Regent!" The guard yelled, as Willas stood up.
"What in the name of the Seven?" Willas replied, as eyes were cast on Garland.

"Speak of the fucking stranger....Willas, remove him from that seat, bring him to me in chains, and I will talk to him privately....fucking Lannisters, they never change. And do it now, grab the Retinue and make it so, it would only take a raven to the Barrack, and they will march up. He has nobody with him. We have 13,000 men willing to act, and at least half of those are within easy reach, Ser Maxwell will follow us. Aerys will not stand for it either. If he does, then fuck him...I am Hand of the King, and I gave him his fucking city! I am the King's Regent! It is my duty, from Aegon, and Aerys would do well to respect that. If he doesn't, he'll have a long, long list of people to burn. He is young, but no fool. He knows he needs us, or he'll die, invaded from all sides!" Garland said, as Willas nodded.
"That is a bold move, nephew, are you..."

"Do it, for fuck's sake! Lyman Lannister is going to fucking take anything he can, and the coffers of this city too. If he had fucking waited...I would have rewarded him. But now, we're going to have to make this a fucking mess. Kill him, if you have to. I don't care what he did for Aerys, gut him if he attacks. Argh." Garland was barely able to sit up, as he now seemed a little less frail, albeit just as pale. He looked out of the window, and looked across to Alerie.
"Aye, my Lord." Willas simply replied, as he left the room, commanding to a few of the other guards. They stayed close to the entrance, as Alerie herself looked back at Garland, who sat up sternly, looking back.
"I hate shedding blood. But there is no point wasting time any longer. If he consolidates, he'll have supporters, or he'll run with as much gold as he can, that Lannister bastard."

Men were moving quickly, and the Household Guard of the Tyrells was now practically sitting outside Garland's room in the Hand's Tower, with Willas being able to get through to the Maester's quarters in this tower. There was much to be done, and no doubt, the next few moments would be very, very busy.

-------------
Soundtrack

Within minutes, the raven had been sent, and Goldcloaks and Tyrell Retinues were marching to the Red Keep, the sight of bodies of guards, Dothraki and other men around the exterior areas a horrid sight. It was not a slow move, it was a fast one, it was urgent, and pronounced. Willas led the way in as he met with the leading force that was entering, before moving on the Great Hall. There was a good number of Dothraki by Lyman's side, the rest gone elsewhere. They were somewhere else...no doubt the greedy fucker had them in the Treasury. As for Royce and Footly, Willas did not know where they were- the former was probably close to Aerys, and the latter was close to the other two Targaryens, though he didn't understand where on earth Royce was exactly. He was protecting the crown once more, Willas said. Just not in the way that would be normal. When things like this happened, it was anger that voiced itself properly, and Willas knew that this would be Garland's job, if he were able.
"What the fuck is the meaning of this, Lyman!?" Willas's voice carried itself across the Great Hall, as he looked on, his face furious. This was an outrage, and indeed, it was madness. He had left Alerie with Garland, and a good number of guards, enough to repel any would-be attackers, simply because they could afford it right now. It left the city thin, but it was a flood with Reachmen now, green and gold being the colour of the day.

"You want your Westerlands back? You just lost any fucking hope! You're no Regent, Lyman! You'll never make it out of here alive if you disobey the Hand's command...there's 12,000 men out there that would help, so in the name of Lord Tyrell, Hand of the King, I order you to stand down! You are no Regent!" Willas roared, the man in his mid-forties still holding the gravity he did, the Tyrell retinuemen, clad in mail, some in plate, beginning to rush inside. He didn't care if he said he had the King's order. The King was a 12-year old, with no responsibility to choose his regent. As for Lyman, he was an assuming little shit, and no doubt, Willas knew that he had the power here. A good number of Reachmen could fit in here, and it was slowly filling. It seemed too dramatic a response, but Willas almost guessed they had been naive not to do this in the first place.

Garland had to recover for the King's sake....Royce was good enough a Regent in Garland's absence, but Lyman was a trickster, a thief, a fucking bastard, Willas thought to himself. He was no better than the Crakehalls sieging outside, that much he knew, as he drew his Poleaxe from his back, knowing full well that unless Lyman had something very good to say, they were not leaving here. King's words, or not. The King did not matter. The King...was a boy. And even if he had a dragon, he was not a man to give command unless it was in the Tyrells' best interests. Willas wondered why Royce wasn't here, but felt to himself that Royce would be a little inclined to agree with all of this, that he would at least respect what the hell was going on....he didn't seem to appreciate Lyman entirely, and Willas knew it full well. However more of those savages that Lyman had, the Tyrell Kingsguarder did not know, but there were around almost 100 Tyrells in the Great Hall, crowding in fact, with more outside. It was happening quickly, and it seemed like something was going to happen. The Reachmen were ready for it, and knew that they would easily be able to topple whatever was going to happen...though in which particular order, nobody knew entirely.

Tyget sat in the rookery of Pyke, he was only still there because he was expecting Lord Stark soon enough. And now he glared at the letter in his hands, knowing he had made SEVERAL serious mistakes. The letter was From Kevan in Kings Landing, no doubt having been smuggled out to his army outside the gates, and it was not good news. Garland Tyrell had made his move, and according to reports had almost died at the hands of Lord Lorch, this was the only good news in the entirety of the letter. Lorch was subsequently slain by Wilas Tyrell, meaning that either his brother was now in charge or no one was. They had yet to enter the city, though they were succesfully holding outside the walls, but that hardly mattered anymore. The Dornish were right, Elise was right. Aerys Targaryen was alive and had returned, and had declared Tyget a traitor to the crown, unsurprising. He would need to act quickly, VERY quickly now. He needed to appease Aerys, and so he looked to the maester of Pyke, "I need ink and parchment maester, quickly.", the maester complied and retrieved parchment, quill and ink. Tyget set to writng his letters.


The first letter he wrote to his men. The letter was very simple, pull back. Consolidate back at the westerlands at Casterly Rock. Immediately.

The next was by far of the greatest importance, and Tyget took a deep breath before beginning what may have been the most important letter of his life.


The next letter was to his brother... it was far more... interesting than the others.



The last was to Stark, a short letter, simply informing him Pyke had fallen to him, and the Kraken fleet was no more. It told him to sail for Pyke with due haste, for they must choose its new lords, and Tyget must give him Widow's Wail

He layed the quill down, giving the letters to the maester and telling him where they must be sent. He sighed then, walking to the Lord of Pyke's chamber's, where he had taken up temporary residence. He looked out at his fleet, they had lost less than 20 ships, and even captured 3 Itonborn Longboats. The Game had changed, and now Tyget had to do damage control, and he had to do it fast.