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

"Call it a hunch, but this man is dead." The group chuckled heartily, Gerald included, though his wasn't heartfelt, he laughed harder than he ever had before, without even feeling it. Pyke grappled with the dead man's jaw, opening and speaking as if the corpse were.
"Aye, I'm a greenlander, I sow crops and bastards, swords are sharp and scary, I can lead much better from my castle." Everyone laughed, including Lord North and his heir, neither of whom seemed to understand humor that well. Guy Baelish was too, an odd sounding thing that only made the rest laugh louder. Eventually they stopped with a sigh, Pyke dropped the man, walking over to the guards who had taken to the door to the keep.

It had been a slaughter, Gerald remembered, birds and men. Thus fell Tumbleton he guessed, as had the Golden road once Connington got there, both Westerlander castles and Reachmen castles taken in a fortnight, thereby establishing a power base for this new third party, and with Harrenhal, they had established a new rebel capital under the nose of all the others.

"Kill the ravens." The younger lord North had said, his father agreeing heartily. The young heir turned out to be a lot more than just an oaf who masturbated in court, he was an exceptional tactician, and with the efficiency of the Ironborn mercenaries, they had taken the castle before the maester had even sent the bloody things. Turns out Lord North was pushing neither side but his own, conquering upon the justification of Gerald's claim, what little there was to that. It was very similar to the Ironborn's capture of Bear Island, and Winterfell before that, turns out they were experts at taking fortresses quickly and efficiently, holding them however... well, it was a good thing Lord North was there. In an open battle, they would be destroyed, so North made plans to strike fast at weak places without letting the messengers be sent, he was planning to head down the eastern Reachlands, strike at Storm's End, drawing out the royal force, allowing Connington to take the capital, and with the large amount of clout the lord of Harrenhal held over the diplomatic relations of the realm, he had assured Gerald that some others would be joining to forge an army to defeat the royal corps, he had even agreed to a possible alliance with Tyget if it would become necessary.

Unfortunately there had been a lot more men than first anticipated, apparently raised by Loras Hightower-Tyrell to build a second standing army. Utilizing tactics, and to Gerald's surprise, war dogs, they had managed to decimate the Tumbleton forces, capturing those who weren't killed to prevent them from escaping. It had however, cost them much of their already supple strength, forcing Lord North to rethink his strategy, as they no longer had the troops to siege Storm's End. Currently, he and the others were being marched into the forest to do some clean up, even then, they were not to return, aiming to perhaps find some hedge-knights to recruit.

An arrow interrupted this, slamming worthlessly into Tambur the Wull's tough leather gambeson. The mountain clansman found himself face to face with a young archer, shaking as he drew his bow back again. The boy wore Royce colors, and Gerald quickly identified him as Lord Royce's last son, one who had recently been sent North for a marriage, disappearing soon after. Tambur moved forwards quickly, pulling a large axe off of his back and holding it over his head. The boy wept. 

The axe fell about halfway, finding itself stopped by an old man with a stick, white haired and clean-shaven, dressed like a sparrow.
"Damnit boy! I told you to stay!"
"Uncle!" The old man's mouth shifted down at this word, and Gerald knew what that meant.

"Remember me Harys?! I killed you!" Harys looked at him, confused, before sighing and throwing Tambur to the side.
"You killed an old man who I killed days ago, where's my sword?" Gerald had no clue what he meant by this, but all the others simply backed away, including Tambur, who did so with bruised pride.
"What in seven hells does that mean?"
"Aerys sent me away, foolish boy thought me too soft, chopped my beard off and sent me to the Quit Isle to die." He spat.
"Now I've found a mummer's prince and the merry band of cockshites, lucky me." Gerald drew his blade.
"I don't have your sword, Royce, take your nephew and leave, before I stick this up your arse and use you as a banner." Harys roared with confident laughter.
"Try it boy! I'll have you picking your teeth out of my fist." Gerald did, throwing himself at the old man with a confident thrust, Harys parried and slammed the stick he carried into Gerald's face, throwing him off balance and into the ground.
"Get up and I'll smash your skull so hard it will come out in your shit, I'm leaving for Runestone, you can go straight to all the Seven hells that your fathers rest in!" He growled in his aged throat.

"Lord Royce."
"Wights strangle you North, I'll sooner see an other riding a dragon than speak to you!" He was definitely a lot more bitter than the decoy Kingsguard. Gerald climbed to his feet, wiping at the blood that ran from his split lip.
"Lord Royce, listen to me, we have an offer-"
"The fuck did I just say?! I see no goddamn dragons do I?" North climbed from his horse and approached Royce.
"I aim not to infuriate yo-" Gregory Lorch shot forth, sword drawn and aiming for Royce's throat. Royce drew a knife and ran it through the young man's trachea, causing Gregory to breathe in like he was drowning, a sound nearly bringing Gerald to vomit. Royce threw Lorch to the ground and was livid.
"Aim not to infuriate me eh? Well that ship has fucking gone across the summer sea now hasn't it you bloody cunt!"
Royce threw the stick at North, knocking him off of his feet, before taking the younger one and darting away into the woods.

"Well shit."

[center][h1]Harys Royce[/h1][/center]

Cunts.

"Uncle..." Walton was crying in Harys' arms as they ran. Harys rolled his eyes, sitting his nephew down once they had gotten to a safe distance.
"Stay with me next time okay?" Harys instructed calmly. Walton sniffed, nodding as he wiped his eyes.
"You're twelve, not old enough to go off fighting on your own." Somewhere, Harys felt like he had just insulted someone somehow.
"Yes uncle, I..." He began to cry again, Harys hugged him close, still seething in his mind, but gentle in his hands.

This fucking shit always happened like this didn't it?

Harys thought his cynical days behind him back when he was still Lord Commander, but the fucking Targaryen boy decided to alienate one of the few people he had left, sending Harys away to die. Royal brat even shaved his beard and shortened his hair so that no-one would recognize him. He'd made it out though, not even the Crakehalls could stop him. He started pissing during the fight due to his age, by the end he had slipped into a ditch, covered by blood and his own piss, landing in a pile of horse-shit.

That had made him feel real good about the situation.

"Uncle?" Harys looked at his young nephew.
"Yes?"
"We can't go home."
"I think I'll be the judge of that."
"No, uncle, if we don't do something, the king's going to die."
"Others take the king."
"But uncle-"
"Walton, shut up." Walton opened his mouth, before nodding sadly. Harys noted how irritable he was becoming, he had prided himself on his stiff upper lip, but now, he just felt worthless, and it's hard to be polite when no one else is.

"There's no honor in my being dismissed, I didn't teach the brat well enough I guess."
"Uncle, you're mumbling."
"I know." He only wished that the brat was there to hear it.

"Oy! You two!"
"FUCK OFF!" They weren't happy with that, the soldiers of House North drew their weapons and set upon Harys.

[hr]

"New sword! Nice." He examined the blade that he had taken off of one of the many corpses, it was well balanced, no chips, not valyrian steel, but it'd do.