[h1][u][center]Gerald Crakehall[/center][/u][/h1]

Gerald's side ached like nothing ever could, he'd pulled off the bandages earlier, and what he had seen was not pretty, he doubted he'd make it back to Casterly in time, but buggering hell to that, he'd just come back, like Tyget, he lied to himself.

A shooting pain up and down his side threw him to a kneel, his arms flailing in front of him hopelessly, his face taking to the dirt quite nicely. One of the finest fighters in the Seven, downed by a dead man, he scoffed at his own failure, closing his eyes and grinding his teeth as the pain returned.

"Seven above!" A soft and cracking voice from the dark, Gerald saw nothing, and the pain quickly removed any chance of actually seeing anything.

"Ser Connington! Quick!" Stomping feet, blurring eyes, pain like no other, Gerald felt like he had been here before.

"Seven Hells! He's pissing everywhere!" A growled statement, interrupted in the middle by a gargle and then a clearing of the throat.
"The lord was right!" A new voice, louder than the others, with a heavy wildling accent.
"Osney bloody North is always right, bastard's probably made spies out of his own shit, shoved some up my arse and made it into it's own little King's Landing of little brown cocks." Gerald knew that shitmouth, Pate Barrowbridge, a hedge-knight he'd taken a fancy to during the siege, he had said he was taking a break from a quest, Gerald didn't care. Hedge-knights make for strange bedfellows, he'd found out, and the nights quickly became a lot more work and a lot less sleep.

Gerald thought back to when he'd last seen Pate, was it before the assault? Was it the night before? Was-

It the... [i]Where the hell?[/i] Gerald mouthed out as his eyes opened to the dim blue of a stone roof, in fact, everything was fucking blue, even the maester, who seemed to have a bloodied knife and a pan of rotting flesh.

"Gerald." Pate Barrowbridge spoke, muscles tensing and goatee much longer than he had last seen, a mop of black hair hanging from his face, swinging as he spoke.
"[i]Prince[/i] Gerald, Patey." Gerald found himself much more comfortable around Pate, the younger version of him also in the room must have been the effects of his wound.

Pate blew at his goatee, sending a hairy spider flying from it, much to his own shock.
"That's new." His body slightly twisted as his heel crushed the insect.
"Well, anyways, enough with the "Patey", my brother's here, and I'd rather he not be... confused." That was Lomas? He'd heard that the lad was tiny and weak, he looked just as large as Pate, just with a cleanly shaven face and bangs of black hair that nearly reached his mouth. His posture was closed off, and he slouched, but there was no mistaking the veins popping out of his large biceps. He was cute, but still manly, like a hermaphrodite of age. His back arched like an old man, his sword unrusted and seemingly unused, he was Pate's twin right? How come he didn't look anywhere near eight and twenty?

Lomas pulled his shoulders forth with a mighty inhale, his chest popping forth like a whore's breasts, then he opened his mouth... seven hells.
"I... uh... understand, m'lord, we all have our... interests." It was like a rat trying to speak common, a Tyroshi speaking YiTish, it was too high, nearly to the point that it hurt Gerald's ears.
"Seven hells boy..." Gerald cringed. Before he could speak again, a squirrelly maester walked over, examining Gerald carefully.
"You're awake, good, only took you two moons." Gerald was steaming.
"Two moons? What does Tyget know?"
"He's heard you've died, just so that you can serve Lord North better." Pate cracked at his shoulder.
"Robyn, let's let the Lord talk to the Prince..." He groaned and pulled at his neck.
"...He'd probably be much more tactful." The maester agreed.

The orange court of North's keep rested between the large towers of Harrenhal's structure, a few statues formerly standing in it's place having been torn down to make room, the towers, left to ruin, had already begun to rot during the time of House Lothston, now, Kingspyre had lost about half it's size, a creek forming where it fell, jokingly referred to as "King's Creek". It was a muddy pile of shit, something that Gerald easily compared to his war effort. He's met a man by the name of Balon Pyke there, who said he'd been standing there for years, never once setting foot in the "Unlucky" castle, saying the last Ironborn to set foot there laid at the bottom of the creek.

"No souls rest easy there." He spoke, a wiry beard beating against his chest.
"No women remain dry-faced in that castle." Pyke had served for the Greyjoys, but after years and years of inaction, he left, taking up a band of his own to pillage at Seagard. They'd quickly met with Mallister's militia, and were slaughtered. Pyke later found his way to Harrenhal, where North had hired him around five years ago.
"Ironmen aren't meant for land, we walk with a stagger and fuck like Jogos Nhai on land, at sea we dance like mummers and fuck like Dothraki."

Also fallen, a large statue of a man astride a horse, not long after it fell, it's head had been taken by one of the Lord's knights. The knight had later been cut open by Pate, who hung the horse's head above his door, and the knight's skull above his bed.
"My way of making the place like home, no problem in that, s'there?"

Guy Baelish was a riddle wrapped in a boy. He was no older than two and twenty, and yet his body moved like a man ten times that age, like a wight mixed with human blood. His eyes didn't speak when his mouth did, and he had no imagination to be thought of. His quarters were well kept, but arranged in an odd manner that made it so that there was only one path to him. He asked odd questions and laughed at unfunny jokes. Gerald was more than a little displeased whenever he had to enter the lad's lodgings.

Lomas, as Gerald came to learn, was an excellent knight, a courtly chap, married, had five children, and was all around an excellent man. He was just quiet, and with little to no defining features.

The Connington and the Lorch had come upon a dragon in the dirt on their way to Harroway's Town. Gerald ended up having to draw steel to stop them from fighting, and even then, Lorch had a fistful of hair ripped from his head. They fought over everything, supposedly it had started on the way to Harrenhal, when Connington made too many jokes at Lorch's expense, and now, it had cost Connington the use of his nose (at least until Robyn had fixed it), Lorch a patch of hair, and the both of them a finger.

Above Lord North's bedchambers rested his personal arms, a red knight upon green and yellow cyvasse pieces.

"The knight is my father, a Westerlander from Fang Tower, daft cunt got himself in a fight with fifteen assassins, cut him to ribbons, stained his armor red." He had coughed out, wrapped in a blanket.
"It represents what I do not wish to be." He hated the idea of a knightly lord, apparently a true man was one that gained respect through his words, not through the girth of his sword.
"The cyvasse pieces represent who I am, a dragon, a knight, a king, and a soldier. I have been all of them. A dragon who King Aegon rode upon when at his lowest, a knight, anointed before the seven, a king in my own lands, and a soldier, who fought down seven rebellions at once."

Gerald was the oddest of them all, and why he was there was even worse.