[center][h2][i]A Merry Band[/i][/h2][/center]

Gregory groaned as his horse pushed forth out of his control. The stallion was hard to control, untrained and uncontrollable, and he knew that his good lord had already far surpassed him. But Gregory was good at being the vanguard, so he continued, forcing the stubborn bastard onward at speed to at least catch up to the rest of them, but who knows how far the men had already gone, for all Gregory knew they had already reached Harrenhal, and that was a scary thought, considering he was still out of seeing distance of the castle.

Thankfully his fears were unfounded, and he caught up with them within the hour, but his horse continued to fight him, something which seemed to please the rest of them. Young Ser Lomas waited for the rest of the group to laugh before nervously joining in. Ser Pate acted smug as usual, yelling back at him in a half chuckle, "Hopefully you fuck better than you ride, or I pity your wife!" Gregory knew that it was a joke, but it infuriated him anyways, not that he cared to respond, Lord Guy would do so for him. Guy did not, instead he continued to focus on the path ahead. [i]'So much for that.'[/i] 

Gregory silently fantasized of driving a dirk through Pate's throat, as he wished he could remain, but his silence was disturbed by Ser Daven jabbing into him as well, his voice hard on the ears with a whistle on every "S". "I hope so, your wife would make a good wench for me to sheath my sword into, maybe give you a son worth anything." Gregory threw his horse forwards, an force unknown to him driving his hands and sending his teeth together with the force of a cavalry charge. He'd heard their insults and their jabs before, but if they dared insult his sons, then it was enough for him to finally end it. His horse pushed against him, but Gregory continued throwing himself in their direction, falling from the saddle and gripping Daven's hip. He slapped into the cold mud with the other knight still in hand, pulling his foot loose of the stirrup and planting his fist into the smug bastard's face until his knuckles ached. Another fist fell, and despite his rage, Gregory was able to hear the thump of men climbing off of horse, and he felt the clap of glove on his shoulders, yet he didn't stop, he swung pointlessly into the air, his hands covered in bloody mud that cracked like rock on his palm, a cool breeze hardening it against his hand and bringing his face to a stinging pain. "What in seven hells was that for?" Lord Guy's mug entered his view, blowing a cloud of hot breath into his face. Guy frowned, as was usual, his smooth round face beset upon by red spots of adolescence. Gregory pushed away the young lord by the collar, the other knights yelling and pulling at him.

Daven remained in the mud, gargling blood and teeth, growling under his breath at Gregory. He stumbled to a kneel, spitting out a pint of blood from his teeth. He turned to Gregory, and his face was that of a wild animal, barely restrained fury hidden behind a mask of blood. Guy walked up to him, standing between him and the restrained Gregory, placing a hand gently against Daven's bloodied chest. "I am Lord Guy Baelish of The Fingers, and by my orders, you two will cease this honorless shit at once!" Daven Connington growled at the little lord, who stood oddly, like he had no clue where to put his arms, his breeches baggy around his boots, dripping wetly into the ground. Gregory struggled against the firm hands on his arms, causing them to become sore and imprinted with knightly hands. He chuckled as he saw Connington's now disheveled face, his fruit colored hair stained redder than it's natural bleached orange. "You look like a dog, Connington, aye, a dog! The bitch of Griffon's Roost, they'll call you, all the honor that comes with, the honor that your forefathers earned for you, and the honor that you waste like some Lannister!" Daven barred bloodied teeth, half his face buried in a mask of crimson and blackened purple. But before he could speak his part, a worthless part from an honorless man, Guy shoved him to the ground, going into a half run and kicking Gregory in the bollocks. Immediately it was as if a giant hand was gripping the lower half of his body and crushing it in it's grasp, it was too much for Gegory to stay up through, and he collapsed, ass in the air, head in the dirt.

"I said enough!" Guy screamed, and everything else went quiet. "I said enough! I said it! I did!" Daven pushed himself up from the mud, or at least Gregory assumed from the sound of squelching, all he could see was his dirtied knees. "Yes you did, now, may we move towards finding a dragon?" A female voice spoke up, gruff as a man's and twice as powerful. Gregory heard more squelching, and before he knew it, he was pulled back to his horse and forced to ride. "Yes, my lady, we shall, hopefully the dragon is nowhere near King's Landing." Guy Baelish was no warrior, a poor diplomat and worse mathematician, but he was willful, quiet, and an excellent strategist, but untamable, unfashionable, odd, and his wife was at least twice as mad. Gregory cursed the Crone for landing him in a party of lunatics.

But hey, he got to kill a dragon!

[hr]

"I am Prince Gerald Crakehall, you pretender, kneel as your people seem to be so skilled at doing!" The young king gripped the Valyrian blade tight, and the two kingsguards moved themselves in front, the white beard of Royce and the square jawed scowl of... the other one, who's name Gerald could not hope to remember.

The armies of the Blackwater bay had arrived shortly after Gerald reached the Grand Sept of Baelor and burned the High Septon like a piece of driftwood. They's moved fast, moved themselves into a ring around the dragonpit.

And then the dragons flew.

It was crippling, half the army fled in an instant, and the rest attacked the leaders for praying to the very flames that aimed to destroy them. Lord Spicer was torn limb from limb in front of Gerald, but five men were not even close to enough to bring down a boar. After that had been done, Gerald gathered what remained of his men and rode for the dragonpit, if not to take the city, than to finally end the threat of dragons once and for all, for his brother's sake if not at all his own. What he found was a boy king and two white cloaks, all of them having bloodied their swords, and the child bearing the emptiness in his eyes that comes with one's first battle. The finest swords in Westeros, they were called. Gerald smiled wide behind his golden boar helm, drawing a bloody hand across his blade and allowing it to light. Fine swords were meant to be taken.

"Come, Sers!" He yelled alone, his guard having been felled earlier. "Come and kill the meal!" Gerald's heart filled with a warmth that only battle could bring, his blade held tight in his hands.

What followed next was too fast for Gerald to process, a flurry of metal, anywhere he went a blade was sure to follow. This was a battle! The finest swords in Westeros against the skinny lad from Crakehall! Gerald threw his flaming sword to his right to deflect a sword, only to have a shield smash into his left, knocking him into a stumble that nearly cost him his head. Gerald flew back, sliding on his heels, leaving a trail of ember and flame behind him. He had to regroup, for that was far too close. He fell to a kneel, the black cloak he wore covering him like a blanket, the yellow of it's edges reflecting the sunlight every which way.

The Kingsguards were anything but sloppy, but patterns could be seen in their swordplay. Royce was precise and methodical, while... the other was powerful yet mechanical, like a maester's words rather than a blade, a wildling's axe to Royce's Braavosi water dancer. Against them, Gerald's defensive style would only last so long, he needed to do something insane, like he had done when he sparred against Tyg.

Gerald stood from his kneel, pulling a rose from his lapels, he made no eye contact with the other knights, and took a stance of ease, which seemed to work, as the two didn't attack. After taking a full sniff from the rose, Gerald threw it at the two, the rose lit alight from contact with Gerald's sword, and quickly buried itself in Ser... the other's cloak. Royce turned away to help extinguish it, and did not turn back in time to stop Gerald's thrust, though Gerald felt valyrian steel bury itself in his side, as his sword pierced the bronze knight's chest. He felt warm blood from the knight's mouth land on his brow through the heavy helm, and heard the throes of a dead man. Gerald twisted the blade free, but he knew that his injury was too severe to leave unattended, but for now, he had to kill the other. He turned towards the man, only to get a faceful of flaming cloak, followed by a shield slamming into, and denting, his helm. Stepping back, Gerald was stunned by the ferocity of the onslaught that followed, and his injury wasn't making it any better. His men had retreated or died, his lords killed, and now he was alone, he had lost.

But hell if he wasn't killing this bastard. Gerald lept into the air, ferocity bellowing from his lungs, and slashed again and again into the cloakless knight.

They went on like that for quite a time, and the blood leaking from his side had left Gerald quite tired. He stood, blade pointed into the ground. The kingsguard hid behind his shield, a worthy opponent among many unworthy. Gerald smirked, gripping his pommel.

This was just getting interesting.