Gerald Crakehall- The Siege of King's Landing

"Is the prisoner alive?" Spicer spat a glob of yellow pus, it slapped into the ground, splatting in a way Gerald would consider satisfying if it weren't so disgusting.
"Yes, though I can't speak for his long-term survivability, his body is horrifically mangled, we're lucky we found him when we did." Gerald nodded, scratching through his beard, which had now lengthened to the point where he found a braiding was necessary.

"Your grace! Your brother has sent a message, he has taken Pyke, but the rest of the letter was for your eyes only." The messenger ran into the tent, kneeling before both him and Spicer. Gerald looked on, confused, but he held out his hand, worried as to what this may entail, for his brother had taken a little much to the Red God, hopefully this wasn't one of his questions.

Gerald broke the seal, sitting at the head of his table and reading in. Upon reading the section, he couldn't help but shoot wine out of his nose, slamming into the table. He shot back up, but knocked over his chair, and tumbled towards the fireplace.
"Noooo nonono! He's kidding right?" Spicer shook his head slightly, raising his palm upwards and letting a bit of gum out of his lips.
"What? What is it?" Gerald coughed, the rest of the wine coming out of his mouth. He looked at Spicer and the messenger, his face focused.

"It means we assault today, for the Lord of Light rides beside us." The messenger bowed.
"I cannot your grace, for I carry a peace treaty." Gerald's eyes opened wide, and he growled to himself.
"Is there a problem?" Gerald walked towards the messenger, glaring up at the taller man, before driving his blade through him. Spicer shot up.
"The hells Gerald?" Gerald glared at the man, fire in his heart.
"No! We will not surrender! Hear me?! I will not see my brother die! And I will not bow before whatever king the Tyrells are playing with like a puppet! We have been denied for too long! And we will take what is ours!" Spicer frowned, his normal expression.
"Against my better judgement, I will serve with you my lord." Gerald nodded, letting the messenger drop from his sword, before leaving to ready the burning.

---

The prisoner struggled to breath through shattered lungs, tied uncomfortably to a wooden post. He bled through multiple brutal gashes, his left cheek torn to the point that his tongue could be seen within, Gerald hated to look at him, his injuries were so awful, the Blackwater was not kind to someone who falls from such a height.

Gerald walked in front of the man, and his army, who looked on, eyes near closed and focused.
"Daenys Targaryen, for your crimes against the Seven, I, Prince Gerald Crakehall, sentence you to death." The Targaryen's lungs groaned, and his collapsed chest lifted like a balloon with each breath.
"Kill me!" He screamed with what little strength he had left, he fell to his knees and his lungs howled against their wounds.

Gerald frowned at the piteous sight, before nodding, and some soldiers walked forth with a blade. He knew that this poor fool couldn't suffer any longer, he would burn, but he wouldn't burn alive. The soldier gripped Daenys' white hair, placed the blade against his throat, and pulled.

The blood, dragon's blood, spread across the stone. Daenys' eyes emptied, but his face turned to one of bliss, his eyes glazing over and his head fell. Gerald looked down at the torch in his hand, and then threw it lightly into the dragon's corpse. It consumed him quickly, the waves of the sea beating against the rocks. Gerald frowned sorrowfully, Daenys was a rat, but he died as a dragon, aflame, with the gift of Old Valyria still running in his veins.

Gerald lowered his head, and fell to his knees, beginning his prayer.
"The blood of Valyria runs through this man's veins, and the Lord of Light take his vitality, his strength, and his mind." He looked up, eyes glazed in prayer.
"Defend your holy believers, and let us lead the people free from tyranny." He ended his prayer, instead of screaming, he lowered his head, the flames crackling into forms in front of him.
"Now we ride, take the walls! And then slaughter anyone who challenges you! Take any highborn wenches and have your way with them, capture the men and children, bring them before me to be sacrificed or ransomed." He stood, gripping his sword tightly in his hand. He yanked it out, raising it towards The Red Keep. Doing this again am I?
"Join me! And we will burn the wrongdoers from The Broken Arm to Thenn! And we will take what is ours!" The rest cheered, Spicer however, simply folded his arms and frowned angrily, grey brows bearing a new scar.

If my brother is the son of Azor Ahai, then I am just as worthy, he will be king, and I will be his stalwart sword, burning the unbelievers and fixing the broken. Listen to me, Father, Mother, and Crone, if you do exist! Bow before your king! And bow before your Lord of Light!

(Unexplained instant messaging for the win!)

"Willas! Take no further steps, or this keep burns!" An empty threat, but Lyman knew that Willas had no way of knowing that.
"My men have torches at the ready, ready to light The Mad King's wildfire with only a word." He gestured towards the walls of the keep, his face twisted into a Lion's mask.
"I will be regent! And I will see the Crakehalls bent before me!" Aerys entered the room then, wearing a ceremonial suit of black armor, a red cape clasped about his shoulders.
"What is this Lyman? Cease this nonsense at once and bow before your betters!" He held a hand out to Willas, no fear visible on his face.
"Give me your sword! I need something to defend myself with. As for the rest of you! Whoever takes that bastard's head will be my next Kingsguard!" Lyman drew Dawn, allowing the silver blade to shine in the light of the windows to each side.
"I dare you! I'll kill all I have to!" Another empty threat, Lyman was never trained in sword-fighting. Aerys looked at the man, his eyebrows furrowed.
"Never you mind! Willas! Keep your sword! I'm going to go get your nephew out of here, make sure he dies!" He pointed angrily at Lyman, before running from the room, aiming to head to the Cadet branch's office, get them and their guard, then get to Garland's quarters, get them all onto dragon-back, and fly for Highgarden or something, he hadn't fully thought this through, but he had to do something, none of them truly trusted him, he recognized that, but bravery was a kingly thing, right, maybe he'd earn their trust? He hoped at least, that it would be worth it.

Lyman stepped forth, lowering into what he assumed could be seen as a fighting posture.
"Dammit! Remember my words Willas! Don't make me do this!" A group of his men came from the direction of the royal treasury, the rest continuing to stomp through the Red Keep, murdering and reaping. The Essosi quickly surrounded Lyman, drawing their own weapons and taking postures.
"It will burn! You'll all burn!"

He fancied he could see the smoke from here. Cidran Harlaw stood on one of the many balconies of the ten towers of Ten Towers Keep. The ravens and long boats from Pyke had arrived a good few days ago, and told him of the carnage. House Crakehall had sailed on Pyke, Lordsport and the Greyjoys. No one had come to ask for support. So the Greyjoy fleet had burned and sunk, giving the Drowned God a number of new oarsmen. And if the ravens from the survivors and those who escaped are anything to do on, then the Crakehalls are on Pyke in force. The numbers that the survivors and fleeing captains had spoke of were astounding. Some said ten thousand, some said a million. Cidran honestly took all of that with a grain of salt, no man no matter how powerful sails into unfamiliar territory with his full forces.

He hrmed softly rubbing at his beard. As he did his wife looked up at him, Tillia Harlaw nee Blacktyde, such a dark haired warrior woman in her own right. She could read him like a book easily. And she could see his pondering. She put aside her work on a coat of chainmail, and leaned back in her chair, “You’re thinking about Pyke aren’t you? I read the ravens too Ran, I saw what you did.” Cidran rumbled in his throat, “I’m worried about how stupid Crakehall might be, what he’s going to do now that he’s taken Pyke and burned the Greyjoys. My loyalty is too the Iron Islands and then to the Greyjoys. No one came to request help, no call for the Greyjoy bannermen to set sail. Which means the Pyke fleet and army stood alone. Lord Greyjoy would always say he could field eight hundred long ships, and almost ten thousand men. But how many of that number were mine? Harlaw men at arms and Harlaw ships? Greyjoy stood only with their own men and ships.” Tillia nodded, “This is true. But what are you intending now then? What will we do?” Cidran boomed a laugh, “That’s my wife. Ready to back me up! Like always.” He chuckles softly, moving to her side and mashing their lips together, Tillia grabbing the tip of his beard and pulling him closer during the kiss. The kiss broke, and the pair shared a smile. A voice called to them though, “And to walk in on my parents sharing a kiss, as heated and rough as the old tales. I’m not sure if I should be disgusted or glad to know that it’s love and not lust.”

The Lord and Lady looked up from their position at the young dark haired man standing in the door to their chambers. Young Peytr Harlaw, heir of the House of Harlaw, dressed like a reaver in sailing leathers and standing armed with a spiked metal club at his hip. He grinned at his parents. Tillia licked her lips, “An equal amount of both my son.” Peytr smiled, “I heard the news, mother…father, is it true?” Cidran nodded motion for his son to enter, “True as the fact I visit the shoals every other day to pay respects to the Drowned God. Pyke burns, honestly I feel as if I can see the smoke and flames from here.” Peytr slips into the room and leans on the wall beside the fireplace, soaking up some of the heat. He nods, “So? Should I ready my ship? Get my crew together? Should we sail out there, and blockade the island? We’d be able to keep the Crakehall fleet penned in, starve them out.” Cidran chuckled, “Good idea, and doable, but we’d lose half our ships and men in doing so. I’d rather have our full strength.”

Tillia cooed, “How about we gather up the family. I’ll send a letter to my uncle on Blacktyde. You send letters to your brothers and to the other houses here on Harlaw. Start gathering forces. See what the Crakehalls do before making any moves. And when we know what they are doing, we start showing our hand. We’re Harlaws, Greyjoy may rule as the Noble House, but Harlaw has the purse. We all know that here. You’ve taught me that much Cidran.” Cidran nods, “And you’ve learned well Lady Harlaw. Learned very well.” He looks to Petyr, “In the meantime, keep your training. But remember you are the heir. Your job is to survive.” Petyr frowned, “Don’t you dare. If fighting begins, I’m sailing my ship with my crew and forty men at arms right into the teeth of those ships to sink as many as I can.” The older Harlaw man could only chuckle, “Can’t keep a good Harlaw off the water I guess..” Petyr grinned at his father, “I may be young, but I’ve every right to go into battle that you do. If it comes to that.”

Cidran nodded, “True. I’m going to go to my study in the Gold Tower. I have some letters to write.” He looked to his wife, “Write to your uncle and brothers. They don’t owe House Harlaw anything but I’m sure they’ll be as essenced as we are.” She giggled, “Of course oh Great Lord.” Cidran snorted and made for the door, “Ahhh feck yourself woman! I wonder why I put up with you sometimes!” As the door swung closed Tillia called, “Because you love me!” Her rich salty laugh followed after him. And Cidran’s own powerful heavy laugh joined it.

A few minutes later in another part of the Ten Tower castle, Cidran sat at a big heavy drift wood desk that a ship maker had made him one day. He never did get the straight of that. The top was varnished to a near mirror state. Smooth as polished ice. Cidran unrolled a parchment, and started writing the first of four nearly identical letters. They all started the same way…

Brother,
It’s been awhile since our last fishing trip. But sadly this isn’t a simple social letter.
A matter of great import has developed. I’m sure ravens have flown in and captains have docked in your ports as well. And you’ve heard of the attack on Lordsport. Crakehall has come brother. And we need to be ready for them. I’m not asking you to go to war with me yet brother….

Cidran wrote out four nearly identical letters to his brothers. Summoned runners to take them to Grey Garden, Tower of Glimmering, Harlaw Hall and Harridan Hill. Once those letters were sent he wrote up four more letters to four more lords. Volmark, Stonetree, Kenning and Myre. If anything came from this, the entirety of Harlaw Island would be prepared. Putting his quill down. And swinging out of the big chair behind his desk, Cidran walked over to a corner of the room, where a pewter ewer sat, and a seastone basin. He poured the contents of the ewer into the basin, then picked up a silver goblet from beside it. The contents of the basin looked like water. But smelled of brine. He scooped up a goblet full, and went out onto the balcony. Below him, far below him, was nothing but the roiling, boiling waves of the sea.

Cidran raised the goblet then quaffed the entire salt sea water out of it. Gritting his teeth against the bite of the brine on his system. He twisted his mouth into a rictus of slight glee, “Your move Crakehall. What are you going to get up to next?” He turned and hollored out as he made his way down the hall, “Make me a meal! Mead, good beef and bread! A feast! I want to toast to the Drowned God and all the Greyjoys that man his oars tonight!” His booming laughter rocked Castle Ten Towers.

The sun shined brightly over King's Landing, but not normally, the clouds blocking it, turning the sky a bright shade of orangeish-yellow, the sun slowly raising over the horizon. Smoke had already begun wafting towards the clouds, carried by the wind into a leaning column of choking grey waste, something that hadn't gone unnoticed by Alyssa Baratheon.

"What's going on?" Alyssa asked a passing citizen, who was running from the conflict.

The citizen ran past, tripping over his feet, before collapsing, an arrow stuck in his back, blood staining his heavily stained brown shirt. No one was around, suggesting that the arrow hadn't been a recent wound, it was surprising how far he had run, from Flea Bottom all the way to the Red Keep, but judging by the placement of the arrow, he hadn't much longer to run.

He weezed, rolling over onto his back, his hand slapping limply into the ground. He looked at Alyssa, his mouth hanging around halfway open.
"The stranger be a Lady so fine? I fear not my impending demise, no much moreso than a passing breeze." He spoke like a noble, considering his garb.

"Just tell me what's going on!" Alyssa demanded. "Luftum, help get him up."

"T'is too late f'r me I'm afraid, them Crakehalls got me good, but I'm safe now, safe in the hands of one who I'd never thought to pray to. I apologize, Lady Stranger, but t'is fr'wned 'pon..." He coughed, his breath slow and audible.

"Guards, with me. Let's go investigate the poor district," Alyssa commanded, turning her back to the well-spoken commoner. "Sreas, you get this man to a Maester. The arrow struck his lower back, he'll live."

"I'd not leave this spot until you bring me my father, Stranger. Who was taken from me too soon, and now you take me after I ran so far from the Iron Gate, why not then and there? Why make me suffer so?" The man never raised his voice above a drunken stupor, a smell of evacuated bowels wafted from his breeches.

"Would you rather be stabbed right now? Because I think I can help with that," a guard in the ranks remarked, raising his halberd.

"Shut up, Boberto," demanded another guard, slapping the first one on the back of the helm.

A goldcloak approached at a brisk pace, flanked by Tyrell household guards, wielding a silver sword stained red by the blood of whatever person had challenged him. He scrambled to a stop, the guards doing so as well.
"My lady!" He bowed, lowering to one knee, yet never losing eye contact.
"You must leave, the Iron, Lion, and River gates have been assaulted, we need to get you to your quarters immediately!" He pushed up to his feet, walking up to the lady, grabbing at her upper arm.

Alyssa yanked her own arm out of the guard's grasp. "You think I can't handle a few pigs?" she asked. "Men, form up. 2 ranks of 10. Let's get moving." She then turned back to the soldier who grabbed her. "Just point me in the direction of the enemy," she said in a softer voice.

The guard was taken aback by her statement, but quickly pulled his hand down, it lightly slapped into his thigh. He gripped at his sheath, leather trimmed with yellow bronze.
"I must insist, a battlefield is no place for a Lady, and as I act on the orders of a former kingsguard, I have more authority than you, my lady." His voice was acidic, a tone that suggested that he thought less of her. A Tyrell smashed the ground with the bottom of his spear.
"I will not allow this my lady, a good knight protects a woman, and I shall ensure your safety."

"This will ensure my safety just fine, Tyrell guard," she declared, tapping the short, wide sword that rested in it's sheath on her hip. "I'm sure you're all much more needed on the battlefield down there, than you are defending trained warriors up here."

"I'm bored now, let's get to the part where I butcher something!" shouted a Stormguard in the back rank. Alyssa glared in that direction, and it quickly fell silent.

"A woman doesn't fight, that's the long and short of it, I will ensure your protection, with your permission or not." The goldcloak again grabbed at her, more forcefully.

Alyssa slapped his outreached hand away with her own guantlet. "Let us pass, or we will make you pass." She then turned to one of the Tyrell guards. "You wouldn't want Garland and Alerie to find out one of their loyal rank has raised arms against an ally, would you now?"

The Tyrells glared, before beginning to chuckle.
"Let a woman fight! Hah, my father would be brutalizing me for this." The two Tyrells then parted, but the goldcloak still remained.
"I am no Tyrell, and I answer not to you." Any hint of sarcasm in his statement had been washed away by bitterness.

Alyssa has had enough of this pompous child of inbreeding, deciding what she should do with herself. She forcefully pushed him aside, her brawny Baratheon warrior hand forcing itself against his chest, and drew her sword, walking towards Flea Bottom. Her guard team followed closely.

The goldcloak scoffed, but took no further action, other than screaming after her.
"I'm sure you will love being raped my lady! I'm sure that you'd prefer hard ground to a nice bed as your final resting place as well!"

"Luftum, when we return, I want you to ask around. Find out who he is, and shut him up for, oh, six months," Alyssa muttered, tapping the flat of the blade to her leg as she walked. Luftum nodded. No words were needed to get her command across.

In the poor district, it was hell. Unarmed citizens ran around, cowered in stalls, or were curled up in a fetal position, in a pool of suspiciously red liquid. Amidst them, armored men dashed from person to person, gorily hacking away with heavy axes.
"Get as many people out of here as possible alive. Sending a few Crakehalls to the grave is preferable," Alyssa noted, curtly. The Stormguards then charged into the fray, removing top halves from bottom halves and heads from necks.

The mercenaries and what Crakehall soldiers had gotten into the city clashed, axe meeting shield or sword, screams of dead men and maimed others. A heavily armored Essosi, blue hair streaming down his half-helm, speared through the gut of a young Westerosi in chain, a brown cloak with a boar upon it resting over the chain. The Essosi lifted the knight off of his feet, before throwing him away with a flick of his wrist. He looked over at the Stormlanders, scanning over them methodically, he reached lady Alyssa, passing her but then performing a double take, chuckling loudly and rubbing under his nose.
"A lady? On the field of battle? How odd! Well..." His voice was shrill and unassuming, and Alyssa guessed that if not for his hair he would fade into a crowd unnoticed, just take off his armor and he'd be no one. He stood at attention, his sword touching the ground, a curved scythe-like thing, an Arakh, probably taken during some battle far east.

"I am Nyessiphos Pahrinar, of Tyrosh, and I am here to take Westerosi heads!" He stepped forth, jabbing with his arakh. He flamboyantly spun it throught the air slowly, before pointing quickly at the Lady Baratheon.
"I fought in the pits of Meereen for years, all so that I could kill, and the next victim I take is you! You hear me!? I have taken warrior women from the Rhoyne to the Dorne, and I will take you next!" He yelled out a throaty cry, one that could shatter glass, before charging forth, his broad shoulders making his head look small in comparison.

Alyssa saw as the large brute, Ness- something or other, charged her. She hopped lightly to one side, trying to get out of the way. A heavily armoured knucklehead like him, he'll just pass right by. Gris liked to go on about his new science laws, Alyssa believed he called this one "mentum".

The pit-fighter yanked an axe from his belt with an off-hand, leaping into the air, landing on his left foot with the other still in the air, before throwing his arm up and sending the axe spinning through the air at an incredible speed, it seemed to be suspended in air with string of some sort. His body flew behind the axe, his head tucking in towards his legs, before rolling through and continuing his run.

Alyssa barely had time to register the 6 pound steel piece racing towards her. She clumsily held her sword up, to stand between her and the axe. It struck with a piercing clang, failing to cleave through her but succeeding in knocking her down and putting a nasty dent in the sword. Huh, Gris had sproken of "Conservation of mentum". Oh well, she barely listened anyways.

The Tyroshi quickly rushed into the nearest Baratheon guard, slamming his shoulder up into the man's chin, before quickly turning on an advancing other, throwing a handful of sand from god knows where into his face and then running the arakh through his chest, throwing the man away like an unwanted toy. He looked at the prone Lady Baratheon, running for her as well.

The Baratheon ranks were broken. Some sort of half man half bear crushed their ranks like a thousand pound horse, sending two of the twenty flying backwards. Well, two of the nineteen. One of them was running around much like the Crakehalls, wildly swinging his halberd around.
"Yeah! Get some!" yelled Boberto from somewhere in the huge dogpile of soldiers. Then he turned and saw the huge bear-man running at Lady Baratheon. Oh boy! he thought, a real challenge!
Alyssa saw, through blurry vision, Ness about to reach her, then suddenly an odd anomaly occured. She thought she saw Boberto tackling him. Was she hallucinating?

Nyessiphos felt the Baratheon guard tackling him, he planted his feet, and the man pushed pointlessly against the much larger mercenary, Nyessiphos grabbed Boberto by the face, pushing him away with great strength.
"How brave! But let me assure you, bravery kills, as it did The Young Dragon, as it will you." He swung the arakh through the air towards the guards neck, falling with the swing and grabbing something from the downed Baratheon guard.

Boberto thought back to a similar situation. It was back in the ring, back when he was named Arillos. He was on the ground, and a similarly large man had swung down with a similar sword. Then Boberto remembered how he had escaped that near scrape. He grabbed the small but surprisingly sturdy knife from his belt and blocked the sword with the blade in one swift motion.

Nyessiphos pushed up into a more comfortable kneel from his earlier position. He looked down at the Baratheon guard, his eyes widening slightly as he saw the man's face. He laughed heartily, pulling the arakh back, now with a helm in his other hand.
"Arillos the Armored! The little one with the huge plate! You were my first draw! I'm surprised you lasted this long! You only lived that time because you got lucky, and you know it, now, I'll finish the job that no one else seems able to!" He screeched his war cry again, feinting multiple times before hopping back and throwing the helm towards Boberto's knee.

How remarkably predictable, Nyessiphos hasn't changed at all, thought a very tired now Boberto. And his plate wasn't that big, he only earned that nickname because all the others barely had any metal on them. "Hey, Champ! I haven't seen you since the Melee!" called Boberto in Valyrian. He remembered the melee, where all of the pit fighters were released without weapons to beat each other to death by fist until the overseers said stop. That had resulted in a large purchase of them by the Baratheons, who were impressed by thei brutal slaughtering ability. The helm then bounced off his leg guards. It wasn't heavy enough back then, either.

Nyessiphos tilted his head, growling through barred teeth, swinging his sword seemingly violently, before bringing it to rest on his right hip. He then cackled, his shrill voice unfitting to his large frame.
"Are you scared yet? Haha! Your Valyrian is a bit rusty by the way." The same words he had said when they met in the melee.
"Ah, those were good times weren't they? Too bad you went with the Baratheons instead, I'd hoped to crush your skull like a grape. Nevermind that!" He gripped at his belt, pulling loose another axe, he feinted that he was to throw it, before skulking over to Boberto's right, aiming to slash at him as he flinched.

With Nyessiphos, the first attack was never an actual one. It's a shame very few people actually caught on to that. Boberto was an exception. With his small size, he had to make it up in either sheer insanity or keen observation. The problem was, after the first one it became hard to predict, so as the second attack was coming he flung himself backwards until he hit a wall.

Nyessiphos, seeing his opponent crumbling under him, rushed forth, again throwing the axe and rolling through, a tactic that often tricked his opponent enough to allow for him to hit the killing blow, after the roll, he rushed forth with a surprisingly conservative thrust, keeping the hilt close enough to his body to allow a parry.

The conservative thrust really caught Boberto off guard. Usually, he went crazy with his attacks, but this time a quick jab to his leg. Nyessiphos pierced through the metal leggings and into flesh. By R'hllor, it hurt. Then behind him, Boberto saw Sreas creep up and swing his halberd hilt first at the back of Nyessiphos's head. The hit knocked him out cold with a loud smack, but he would be up in a few minutes. Boberto held out his hand, letting Sreas help him up.
"I may need someone to help with my leg," he mumbled, wincing.

(Working in unity with @bluetommy2)

As the five wagons slowly headed down what seemed to be an endless road, the icy wind of the north started to pick up. The snow was constantly falling and everyone in the wagons were huddled up close to each to keep warm. A man dressed in all black led the company followed by another ten men in plate mail dressed in the colours of house Stanton.

In the front wagon sat Jamie Stanton staring at the floor, deep in thought. He'd been chained up for the past few days as a sort punishment for attacking his former ally, Addam Appleton. The shackles on his wrist had started to grate at his skin and there was a bit of blood surrounding it, his knuckles had started to heal.

They had passed through moat caitlin a few days prior and were slowly approaching Winterfell. "We stop here for the night!" The black brother growled as he suddenly stopped his horse. "No point goin any further tonight. Don't want half of these bastards to freeze to death by the time we get to the wall." The balding man said as he jumped off his horse and spat a load of murky green phlegm on the floor. "We'll get the fires started and then get these maggots out for feeding time."

Around ten minutes later all of the fires had been created and the doors were finally opened. "You know the drill by now. Get out in single file and wait why we chain you up together." The black brother instructed the group as he did every night. He was simply named Anders, he had no family name as far as Jamie knew, not that he cared to find out.

"Fool! We're waiting for you here." One of the guards shouted to Jamie who was in his own little world still thinking of what had happened back in Yellowmoor. The guard was a little weasel of a man.

Another guard stood closer to him the complete opposite in looks. "Yeah, hurry up fool." A slow dumb sounding laugh followed. "I'm still surprised our Lord Robert let you live. Lucky your his son or your head would be on a pike right now." The tall guard continued to say, laughing to himself. Jamie continued to say nothing keeping his head down as they attached his chains to the man in front.

The smaller guard stood watching Jamie's face expression. An evil smile came across his face. "Here I heard some disgusting news about you Jamie before we left." He paused for a moment knowing that he had finally gotten Jamie's attention. The taller guard looked confused as well. "I heard that when they found you in the inn that you were staying at. You was completely naked... bent over for Appleton." A scowl covered Jamies face as a disgusted look covered the dumb guards face. "I bet that's why you don't have any little kiddies running about because you're the one who likes to take it." He paused for a moment to let out an evil giggle. "I bet that wife of yours is happy now she's got rid of you. I bet you a golden dragon she's on her back right now getting it from every single guard."

Jamie still did not say anything back. They both stared at each other in the eyes for a few moments before suddenly Jamie thrusted his forehead violently into the weasel guards nose. Blood flew everywhere has cheers from the other prisoners came. The guard had gone down to one knee. Holding his nose, quite visibly in a lot of pain. "You... you... you bastard!" The guard screamed pulling out his sword from the sheath extremely embarrassed.

"That's enough!" A voice came out of nowhere and the camp fell deathly quiet. The black brother strode over to were the commotion was happening. "Put your fucking sword away now! I will not have any of you attack my new brothers!" The guard breathing heavily, with fire in his eyes looked at Anders. After a few seconds the weasel sheathed his sword and stormed off. "Back to your jobs now the shows over! The lot of yah!" Everyone quickly went back to what they were doing. Anders made eye contact with Jamie and simply nodded and pointed to the fires with his head. "Move."





Alerie kept close to Garland's side, knowing that down in the Great Hall, all hell was breaking loose, while the Apartments themselves had become themselves locked in. There were a good number of Reachmen that would stand between any would-be attacker and Lord Tyrell, that much she knew. Willas was calling the men, and things seemed busy outside...and unbeknownst to the Reachmen, the Crakehall forces were beginning to move on the gates, and the thousands of men that held the streets and roads in blockade, the two events seemingly parallel to each other. She could guess Willas would resolve it...Lyman had to be an idiot, surely....well, Lannisters were tricksters, but in a position like this, something was happening, and it certainly wasn't good.

Looking to the door, she heard the distinctive voice of her handmaiden asking one of the guards come in, as she stood up. Walking out, Alerie nodded to one of the sallet-helmet wearing men, as she looked across to Leyla Stanton, daughter of Lord Robert Stanton, a minor Reach house but one that the Tyrells still kept a relatively appreciative level of respect for. Lord Robert was a fool, but his daughters and sons were competent. Apart from Jamie...it wasn't often that a Reachman acted dishonorably, but Alerie was suprised that Garland had let Robert handle his affairs and send him to the Wall.

Looking on, she brushed her red hair aside, the Lady Tyrell of seventeen, almost eighteen, looked across at her.
"Let her in, guards. Leyla, I was wondering where you went to." Alerie said, knowing that while it would be nice to have her handmaiden around in a time like this, it wasn't essential. She was there to brush her hair, to look after her and her needs, a loyal servant, who in turn, was rewarded with not only coin but the prestige of serving such a noble house.. Her voice was soft, not commanding, and she seemed glowing, even in a time like this. She treated her handmaidens well, and Leyla was a pretty girl...though she seemed not as beautiful as Alerie in her dress, and for some reason, Alerie could already cotton onto the fact that she was a mere Lady, not a spider or a matriarch. She knew her place in the system....well, the Ladies of House Tyrell certainly did not adhere to that all the time, Alerie thought to herself, as she smiled at Leyla.

As Leyla wondered into the room to see Alerie sat next to Garland, she couldn't help but smile at him. Leyla had been infatuated by Garland since she'd move to Highgarden, but never plucked up the courage to speak to him. Looking back to Alerie, Leyla quielty spoke, "Oh sorry my lady... I'd gotten news that my brother was in Kings Landing. He was in the cavalry who attacked the Crakehalls with Willas. I wanted to see if he was okay, but the converstaion ended when the news about the Red Keep got to his camp, he had to get his armour on for the fight... I hope he's okay." A sad smile came across her face as she thought about the upcoming battle. She looked back at Garland and blushed, "How are you feeling today my Lord?"

Garland looked across at Alerie, then at Leyla, smiling, as he sat up a little, wincing in pain.
"Better, but fucking helpless." He said, his provincial words coming out strong and quick, as he shook his head, Alerie chuckling a little, knowing that Garland felt definitely a little simple in his tone to reply, as he smiled at Leyla. She was pretty, attractive...but his heart was on Baela, and if maybe in a past time he would have had sex with her, loved her then left her, now was not the time to think of such affairs when there were alliances to form and real marriages to be had. Still, she looked pretty, attractive like any Reachwoman, and even Garland could tell that Leyla was blushing a little, as he cleared his throat.
"Theo fought well, he was in the Rear Guard too. He made it out fine." Garland simply said, brushing his own hair aside, clearing his forehead, as he looked to his sister.

Alerie looked back, nodding, as she walked across the room, notioning to Leyla to follow.
"That is good to hear, I hope he is okay, Leyla. Lord Garland here took a sword from a Crakehall, and he helped defend the rest of us. Such a brave brother." She added, Garland visibly smirking a little, more out of the fact that Alerie was so blatant about it, knowing it was something they had between them as a formality. She took a seat by the window, looking out.
"Things are looking problematic, Leyla, but your House has given it's due to help us, and we protect yours. I am glad you are with me in this time." Alerie simply said, notioning with a hand gesture for Leyla to take a seat by her side, as she raised her dress a little to adjust herself, brushing her hair a little, as she looked over.

Her heart started to race as Garland answered Leylas question. She'd never been with a man entirely, all she had ever done with a man before was just a kiss. Two newly turned knights had competed in a melee to try and win her heart when she was still living in Yellowmoor. The winner was Gerold Appleton, a sweet boy with a mop of black hair on his head. He'd asked for Leylas hand in marriage, but Robert had declined knowing the boy wasn't even the first born of his Father. "I was just happy Theo was on his horse. People tell me that he rides like one of those barbarians in Essos... I hope this battle goes well..." Leyla walked towards Alerie as she listened to to her talk, noting the close bond between the two siblings to herself. Alerie was beautiful, she seemed to be a character that had come straight out of a love story. The green and gold dress that she had was spectacular, the colours complemented her the best which was a lucky coincidence. The dress that Leyla was wearings wasn't as flashy as Aleries but was a similar style, a dress what you would associate a Reach woman to wear. It was a dark blue dress with silver linings.

Leyla took a seat next to Alerie, staring right out the window the view was wonderful. "Thank you my Lady, we live to serve you. Theo won't let you down. He's better than Jamie, hopefully it doesn't take him long to learn how to rule. No one ever thought about teaching him how to rule a land." She took a few seconds to think. "He'll be a better Lord than my father... not that my Fathers a bad person, he... urm... he just isn't the best." Leyla knew she'd said a bit too much. "I'm sorry my lady." She put her head down in shame.

Alerie smiled at her Handmaiden, nodding agreeably, knowing she had let slip. She was not a stupid girl...just not very good with words, and Alerie could read that very, very well. Oh, she already knew about Robert, and it wasn't half implied that he ran his Lordship as a drunken oaf. Like some Reachmen could become, if allowed to ferment like Cider or Wine, they became irrelevant, unable to do any real good. There were always exceptions, but small Lords, even people like Loras, she knew were still just oafish and small-minded, concerned with their immediate surroundings and people, not the wider Kingdoms.
"Willas is clearing out the scum, and we've got protection. I wouldn't fear, he's a good man. But if the worst comes to the worst, I want you to know that you were a good handmaiden, Leyla." Alerie said, knowing full well what "worst comes to worst" meant, and that truly, she did mean that if there was something that happen that brought either rogue men or Crakehall forces, she would not hesitate in her actions. It was bad, but she was not going to lie, and it was the best way of putting it. Things could get bad, but they had to stay positive, stay confident, stay aware.

Clearing her throat, she placed her hands on her lap, adjusting her dress a little, as she looked out of the window also, the Crakehall forces advancing into the city barely even visible from here, though, it still looked like the same old siege scene outside. She thought over Robert Stanton a little more, as she looked back at Leyla.
"Oh, relax. We know the truths, woman to woman, Leyla. Your father enjoys his Arbor, and we all know this." Alerie said, as she looked on at Leyla, nodding agreeably. She seemed almost competely frank, breaking it simply to her, knowing that it would be a way that Leyla would understand.
"And that any man who can actually be sober enough to fight for our Kingdom here, without being a disloyal bastard can do a good job of that Lordship. Your family's fate is well placed if Theo is your future...Jamie is no longer in our lands, and Robert will eventually need Theo to run his fiefs for him anyway. If Garland can rule the Reach in the way he does, Theo can run Yellowmoor." She added, sighing as Garland chuckled.

"Aye, I can lend my thoughts to that. Theo's good with a sword, I'll give him that. I've sparred with Theo a few times, he gave me a good match." Garland added, as Alerie chuckled, nodding to her brother, as he looked across, sitting up against a little of the pillows, his wound still visible.
"See, there you are. I've always kept you safe, Leyla. So you need not worry about Robert...so long as he holds his loyalty to our Kingdom, and to the Iron Throne, then I am sure it will be fine." She said, as she reassured Leyla a little, knowing that it would in their best interest to keep this little conversation close to them, knowing it was a personal matter indeed. She couldn't speak well of Robert, no, he was truly that, a drunken oaf, no real figure that would be truly unifying in his people. Perhaps it would be a matter of time, when these wars ended, that it would happen again, this time with a different son. Robert was a good man at heart, Alerie knew that much, but it was his personality and his poor nature at being a Lord that ruined him...at least Garland had the ability to be able to find the right people and have a dab hand at administering the Seven Kingdoms, and he was half his age. No doubt, Leyla was right, but Alerie knew she had to keep her position correct, and not let her be down about saying such things.

Leyla was a little taken back Aleries statement. Worst comes to worst, Leyla thought to herself. Even though Alerie was three years younger than Leyla, she was a lot more confident in everything. The young Tyrell woman seemed a lot older than she actually was. Leyla listened to everything Alerie said intently. She was a little embarrassed about her own father, knowing this was the opinion that much of the Reach had on him. It might have been one of the reasons why Jamie tried to do what he did. "Thank you Alerie, I believe in my brother, he'll make our family proud." All Leyla could do was smile. Garlands voice perked up from over on the bed talking about Theo's skill with a blade. She'd not really heard much about his skill with a sword, most people usually complimented him on his horse riding abilities. "Thank you my Lord, Theo will appreciate that greatly." Alerie continued to talk and Leyla nodded in agreement with what she had to say. "My Father is nothing but loyal to House Tyrell." Leyla took a deep breath and finally said, "Is there anything you need from me, my lady?"

Alerie nodded, looking on.
"No, Leyla. You're welcome to stay with us, or to head back to the quarters. We've got guards scattered, but look out. And remember my words. If the worst comes to worst, I have my faith in you, and you have Lady Alerie Tyrell's faith to ask for. That is all, Leyla." Alerie simply said to her, her voice a positive one, despite the hell that was raining on outside, in the midst of this madness.

"If it's okay with you both, I'd like to stay here until everything has been dealt with." That's all Leyla said as she smiled at Alerie.



There was confusion all through Kings landing as soldiers were running in all different directions. News came through to everyone that a so called Lannister had taken over the Red Keep and Willas was assembling men to retake it. Benn Redwyne, a young squire stood fastening the straps of Theo's straps. Both of them didn’t say a word. Benn was only thirteen and Theo didn’t believe he was ready to join in the fight.

Tents had started to pop up all through the city to host all of the Reachmen. Theo and his men were set up around a five minute walk from the Lion’s gate. “Thank you Benn.” That’s all that Theo said to his young scrawny squire as he moved his arms and legs about to make sure all the armour was properly fitted. It was plate armour and it was easy to tell that it belonged to someone of the Reach, it had been tempered into a dark blue colour, giving the armour the illusion it was made out of sapphire. “Will you go and ready the horse Benn?” Theo calmly asked even though he knew the squire wouldn’t question him.

Two swords, a shield and a great helm were all laid on a table, Theo walked over and grabbed one of the swords. He pulled it out of the sheath for a quick inspection before strapping it to his left hip. That was his short sword, his main long sword came next strapping it a bit higher up than his short sword. Both weapons were castle forged steel that would be expected for a Lords son. The grips were both wrapped in a dark blue leather and had white dog’s heads for the pommels. The shield was a similar style to most of Westeros with his sigil drawn onto it (His personal sigil had two stars instead of one). He grabbed the straps of his shield with his left hand and the helmet with his right, then headed out of the tent.

As the flap to the tent lifted open, the noise of the city got extremely louder for Theo who had been preparing himself for the upcoming battle. Theo had decided to only take his cavalry, it would take too long to get to the Red Keep on foot. Benn came over to him holding his horse who had just been saddled up. The horse was a powerful animal with a grey coat, it was a thoroughbred that was the prize at the first tourney he’d won. “Hurry up Theo and get on that bloody horse, I’m itching to kill something!” An armoured knight on a horse came trotting over. The knight removed his helmet to reveal an ugly face. It was Theo’s best friend, Renly who he’d met in Highgarden they were both squires together and became close friends because they both got teased.

“Shut up you fool, you’ll get your chance soon enough.” Theo shouted to his friend laughing at him. He then jumped up on his horse and moved towards Renly putting his great helm on.

Suddenly out of nowhere a gold cloak came bursting towards them both shouting at anyone he saw. “To the gates! To the gates! The Crakehalls are attacking!” The look of panic was already set in his face. He continued to run straight past Theo still shouting the same thing over.

The sounds of fighting had started to get louder and louder. Theo took a few seconds to think, his orders were to head to the Red Keep and help out Willas. Anyone who was under the Stanton banner were too far away and Theo knew the immediate danger was the Crakehalls. “New plan men! We’re needed on the walls! Unless your horse can fire arrows I suggest you get off them now!” Without another word Theo jumped back off his destrier and moved into a fast pace heading towards the gate. The rest of the knights had started to get off their horses and were handing the reigns to their squires.

Renly and Theo’s second in command, Owen Yelshire, a man in his late forties that resembled an ox were already flanking him. “Owen get the word out to the rest of the men, as soon as they’re ready get them to walls. I’m heading there now with the troops that are ready.”

“As you say.” Straight away the old knight ran off screaming commands to any man who was sat down doing nothing.

It only took a few minutes for Theo and his men running to reach the top at the wall close to the gate. More men kept filling the walls getting ready for the upcoming fight as siege towers, ladders and battering rams headed towards the walls. On parts of the wall in the distance, the siege engines had already reached the walls and men from the opposing army had already breached the walls and some were even spilling into the city. A siege tower was slowly trudging along to Theo’s left. Everyone around him were shouting out insults pumping themselves up at the besiegers who would soon be on the walls. Theo pulled out his short sword pointing it in the air and screamed at the top of his longs with everyone else.

The tower was touching the wall now as the door smashed down and thirty men came running out of it straight into a wall shields, swords, axes and spears. Everyone had gotten cramped together and people were aimlessly lunging there weapons hoping to hit their enemies. All Theo could do was watch, he was stuck in the middle of his own men on the wall. It was going to be a long day. Renly was bunched next to him not being able to move as well. “Is this what you was looking forward to Renly?” Theo shouted laughing to himself.

Garland heard the noise of another visitor, waking from his early morning sleep, sitting up a little as he heard the noise of plate rattling a little more than usual. The guards muttered a little, and he heard her name being called. Baela Targaryen. He woke up, his eyes shooting open, as he looked across the room, hearing the footsteps of her shoes against the stone. Sitting up a little, he moaned, but smiled, the Reach Lord aware that Baela had come out of her way to visit this morning, to check on him. Well...maybe he had played his bluff correctly, as he grinned at her, a certain Reachman's charm coming out.
"Good morning, Baela. You handle mornings better than I do." He said, brushing his hair from over his eye, clutching his side a little as he looked at his wound. It was getting there, he was feeling better than yesterday, that much he could say. It was a slow recovery, but it was one he was getting used to...and with people like the white-haired Targaryen around, with the charm in her eyes, he felt able to at least see through to the end of it.

"Morning Lord Tyrell... or should I say, Lord Garland the Lucky?" she said with a smile, rolling her eyes as she entered the room. She bowed politely before Lord Garland, before moving across the room to sit in a stool by the edge of the bed. "I am sorry to bother you this early, but, I thought it would be nice to say hello to you once again, before we left to take the last holdfasts of the Mad Prince's loyalist forces." She flashed another smile, fixing the folds of her dress as she got comfortable at Garland's bedside.

Garland smirked once more, his hands over his chest, as he nodded appreciatively.
"The Lucky....I never liked to associate myself with being a lucky man, but a shrewd one. But so be it...." Garland said, smiling as he offered out his hand, placing it by Baela's side, wanting to feel her touch.
"We've got Crakehalls outside, and Aerys is sending you to deal with a dragon elsewhere. You'd be so much more useful here. And besides...he's in a cell." Garland added, his voice indeed a little weaker than usual, but still holding some authority, as he smiled at her once more, at the Targaryen Princess. She seemed to have a certain gravity, a certain attraction....a warrior inside, like many a great Queen of the past. Garland could sense her aurora, that Baela was a fighter, and that indeed, she would make for a great Lady Tyrell, if they were to marry. And in Garland's mind, that was his intention. Perhaps the Seven had directed him to this? She may not have been the most beautiful woman of the Seven Kingdoms, but she was close, and her other traits more than made up for that. That, and what he knew of her personality, it made up well. She had a fire that burned brighter than Rhaenyra's, it was one that was driven, detirmined....and Garland liked that.
"You came, especially for me....maybe you are right then. Lord Garland the Lucky I am." He chuckled lightly, sitting up a little closer to her, resting his hand on the bedside.

Baela smiled devilishly, rolling her eyes as she playfully ran her fingertips across the palm of Garland's outstretched hand. "Still working to climb out of the grave, and you lay there trying to keep me close... to you no doubt." She pulled back, fixing her hair lazily as she looked about the room. She divereted her attention back at Lord Garland, fixing her eyes with his, as she chose to speak more. "There is more than just wishing to say goodbye to you that I came here... I hope you realize that... that things are balanced upon a knife's edge, even as you and eye look upon one another." She smiled weakly, before leaning back in, the fabric of her dress tightening provacatively.

"Lord Garland, I want to know the truth about a few things, and I warn you... while it may seem mundane, or perhaps inquisitive, there is a reason why I bother you with these... how can I put it, trivial, yet on the flip side, important things. So, I ask, my lucky Pale Rose, will you be honest with me?" She smiled at Garland, taking his hand in hers, as she looked at him.

"I will, sweet Dragon. On my honor rest it. What do you wish to know?" Garland said, the Reachman knowing it was almost too stereotypical a phrase, but he knew it was a word of truth. He felt comfortable, and to someone like Baela, he could trust her, or at the least, know she wasn't here to kill him on some twisted bastard's orders. She saw the same in him, Garland assumed, or at least, he hoped she did. He looked across to Baela once more, knowing what she was doing. Well...her cleavage did seem impressive, but again, when didn't Alerie's, Garland asked himself. Ah, the nature of dresses that the Targaryens wore, it wasn't all that different to that of the Reach, Garland's mind jested to itself, and he was indeed, a little exited by it....though of course, the Young Rose was a seasoned veteran of these little conquests of his.

Baela smiled, and then sighed, knowing that what she was about to ask could determine the fate of tens, if not hundreds of thousands of people. Lord Garland was a good man, or so she hoped. His eyes were still very bright and alive, even with him confined to his bed to recover. Shaking her head, and letting a few loose strands of hair fall about her face, she spoke lowly. "Do you trust Aerys Targaryen..." she spoke those words as though they were a hammer hitting upon an anvil. She looked at Garland's eyes, hoping the feelings within hers would convey what she was asking.

Garland felt the weight of the words, as he gulped, nodding. He didn't let his mind slip, and knew that the answer he was going to give was as honest as it could have been. She knew this game, the Reach Lord guessed, and he did too, though how well his interest would, he didn't know. A good fighter, a good spider? Oh, how that would be wonderful to have...that and the fact that her Targaryen looks had not suffered the pitfall of the Targaryen inbreeding that could plague the family on occasion.
"I have barely met the boy yet, but I have heard things." Garland said at first, pausing for breath.
"I trust our King. Baela, his father was the Mad Prince, but he's still a boy who can be put on the right path. The right tutors, the right people around him, and he can at least hold his Seven Kingdoms together. You and Rhaenyra are a part of that process. That's all we need right now, a King, of some sort. Not more violence. It will only get worse when those Crakehalls enter...and right now, I am his Regent, his Hand, the individual that runs his Kingdoms for him, or at least...one, maybe two of them. ." Garland said to Baela, his voice honest, as he knew that if that didn't satisfy her, he wouldn't know what would do. He did not speak loudly or quietly, but in a tone that seemed appropriate, that seemed warm, diplomatic, a little provicinal but trustworthy.

Baela listened quietly as Lord Garland spoke, allowing him to say all that he needed to, to let him speak his mind, in all his wisdom. She understood what he was getting at, and the very gravity of what the underlying message was, but she knew she had to press the matter, if not for her sake, then that of her elder sister Rhaenyra. His rule was that of the main bloodline, decended from the main branch of Targaryen rulers, but, there was more to it than just blood or relations to the last King. She sighed, brushing her hair back behind her right ear. She needed Garland to understand where she was comming from, what she was speaking for, and if neccessary, what she would fight, and die for.

"Lord Garland... you and I may have heard, and seen different things, but tell me, what have you heard, what have you seen, and what do you truly know, of this boy king, of Aerys, son of Daenys the Mad..." She paused, not sure of how best to word what she wished to convey to Lord Garland. On one hand, she wanted to convey what she felt for the man himself, and on the other, she wished to speak freely about how she felt about Aerys. "I would like to hear your part of the story, so to speak, before I tell you what I know. I do not wish to have what you know, or perhaps have heard, be misconstrued from what I will tell you. You are the center of power right now, so to speak, being the Regent. You know far more than me, but, perhaps there are things that even you may not have been privy to, as the same goes for me." She smiled, playing gently with Garland's hand and wrist, allowing the folds of her dress to move about lightly across Lord Garland's arm.

"I've been sitting here, out of the loop. I know only that there's little else have. We had yourself and Rhaenyra, but people know Aerys is alive now, he walked through King's Landing, among the smallfolk with Drogon behind him, or so I was told by Willas." Garland said, replying immediately to Baela's question, nodding. Oh, she was playing well at this...but he had to speak the truth. He couldn't say a lie, he couldn't tell her that he was some great King in the making, but the honesty of it all, that he was a boy, that while he had his temper and his mannerisms, it could be cured, it could be dealt with. Willas and his guards had only told him so much, so he couldn't say much more.

"I know he is of a certain disposition, any son of the Mad Prince would be. It can be cured, whatever it is. Once I meet him proper, I shall sort this mess out, and perhaps then I can tell you. For now, all I know is, our service is what matters. Let us not take it further, what Aerys is and is not. He is a boy, with much to learn of the world, and we will teach him. After all, we all thought he was dead for the last few years, so perhaps that in itself is the unknown quantity. That is it, Baela, that is all I know. Anything else would be just assumptions." Garland added, as he took Baela's hand lightly and gently with his, looking into her eyes, pulling her close towards the bed. He had to shift things, and he knew Baela was drilling...but that was not putting him off. She had a right, after what had happened, no doubt she was confused, unsure of what to do, what to make of this. Distrust was going to happen, but somehow, through all of it, Lord Tyrell could guess that she would finally come through, or so at least he hoped.

"Ah, but let us move on for now. Come lie with me for a little while, I am sure you have time, before you have to go. I still have something I need to ask of you....and it's a comfortable bed, you know....." Garland simply said to her in a friendly, inviting manner, lying back down on the bed, hoping she would take the hint, to come closer to him. It felt strange, but somehow, he knew that at the very least, she could offer a companion, much like he did for Baela. In a better state, by now things would be far faster, but Garland knew that you could only do so much when you were a little pale and weak.

She sat silently, the gears moving in her head as Garland spoke. Oh, how she wanted to fully trust in him, to believe the words he spoke, but deep down, she felt different, felt the almost primordial, instinctual feeling that was screaming for her to run, to not trust Aerys. The boy King was cut from the very same cloth as his father, and worse, from her deepest fears, from the same mold that made Aerys the II, the Mad King. Baela looked back to Garland, leaning in to him, to speak in a hushed tone... only to be abruptly pulled closer to Garland. She fell foward onto the bed, smiling foolishly, before propping herself back up once more. She shook her head, blowing a kiss to Garland, before continuing.

"Just a moment there, Pale Rose, while it'd be delightful to share your bed, you and I are hardly betrothed, let alone married... and besides... I promised to tell you what I know." She sighed, moving back a bit, still lying prone beside Garland, but propped up upon her elbows, creating a provacative view for the recovering Rose. She chose her words carefully, knowing that what she was going to say could be tantemount to treason. "Aerys is young, I will give you that, that he is a boy who knows little of the world, of being a King, a Lord, a Ruler, or of even basic court customs... but what he is not, is someone that can be molded into a good man. He has a sickness within him that will only spread with time's progression." She paused, moving her hair aside as she moved closer to speak quietly, barely above a whisper in Lord Garland's closest ear.

"Aerys is a false smile hiding a heart of hate and anger... madness that boils close to the surface, only hidden away by what one could call a false mask, one that he lets the world see, but is not who he truly is. You have no doubt heard of the tales of Aerys II, of how he was once a good man, if you can call it that, but over time, he became more and more wicked, more evil, more vile. His decent into madness could not be checked, could not be managed. I feel the same about this Aerys, who comes from the wicked blood of Daenys." She stopped, rising up, to then turn and fully lay next to Garland.

"You were not in the Throne room when I met him, when I bent the knee, spoke to him, when Rhaenyra spoke to him. You did not see the madness within him... but I will tell you what I saw. He hides behind his masks, his false pretenses and words... something his father taught him no doubt. His own guards tread wearily about him, perhaps knowing what he really is, but I can not speak for them. What I can say, is that behind all his promise, his potential, is a barely contained reservoir of madness, whose damn already strains and cracks from the weight of all of it." Her voice carried the tenseness of her feelings, of the unbridled fear and uncertainty of it all. She looked deeply into Garland's eyes, and spoke softly, this time with a tone that she'd never spoke in before... one of fear, of being scared and alone... and that of one looking for a hand in the darkness, for help...

"My Pale Rose, what would you have me do? I do not trust Aerys, for the sake of my beloved sister, for my family, for myself... for all those in the world that will surely suffer if that boy is to remain a King." She trailed off, looking to Garland for direction.

Garland knew she was close, revealing, indeed, but there was the fire in her heart and eyes that burned brighter that overruled her presence, one that seemed worried. And for that moment, Garland felt inside like he had to listen, he had to take it in. This was new, this wasn't right. And these two Princesses, he had taken care of them, well, Willas had, but now it felt like it was his mantle to take on once more. It was fear, it was worry, panic, and Garland knew that indeed, she had to feel like this, in the aftermath of what had happened. Though some of it did feel like it came through....and perhaps she was right. It did not feel right at all, whatever the look in his eyes was, whatever it was. He had to see for himself first, then he would make whatever judgement he had to. Family first, he said to himself. The Throne was his service, and it kept his family alive. Though....well, in these circumstances, it almost hadn't.

"Baela....you sound worried, scared. Do not fear, I will work this out...I promise you, I need to see it for myself, and I shall do what is right for the Realm. For now...keep your feelings inside, and when the time comes, I will tell you exactly how you will act. Don't do anything...not yet. If you do, you will certainly get yourself, or your sister into deep trouble, and worse still, the Crakehalls will want to kill us all. Right now, we have bigger worries. You speak with fire, Princess...and that I cannot deny, and when I see it, I shall understand." Garland said, adjusting himself on the bed, wrapping his arms around her, mainly his right, as his left was still a little wounded.

"That was only between us both. Nobody else shall know. Not a soul. If it does, then I will know, Baela. Secrets and lies can become webs and terrors beyond your wildest dreams. My sister knows better of these things. For now...we can't do anything, or worse will happen." He said, looking sternly into her eyes, holding her close, as he felt her warm skin against his. It was true indeed...she was very warm blooded, like the fire in her eyes was on her skin. It was a small known fact that a Tyrell could stick his hand in a Rosebush or thorns and barely feel a thing, at least, as a result of the gardening and gardens that they spent their times of youth in, and it was a strange trait of the family. Like the Starks had their Direwolves, the Targaryen warmth, their resistance to heat, their hot blooded nature, that sat proud and stubborn, ran through their very veins.

"As for my question, Baela...and I know you're going to find it difficult, but I have thought it for many an hour, about taking it further. Hardly a suprise, I wouldn't think to either of us." Garland continued after a little break, looking deeply into her eyes, knowing again, the topic was changing back. He had to break it to her, and just say the words.

"An alliance between our two Houses is one that would be formidable, one in blood, even more so...and we both know we are interested in strengthening our names in marriage, to give you any protection I can....I cannot deny that I love you, so after we defeat the Crakehalls and I become well again, I wish to become betrothed to you, Baela Targaryen, Second of your Name, and the greatest fire in my heart." The words were heavy, and Garland even felt like there was weight in what he said, knowing it was deep, like it felt like an anchor hitting the sea floor, but in his heart, he felt right. This was what he had to do...it hurt thinking what it meant, but it was the right thing to do. His voice rarely broke, but towards the end, it almost sounded like it, like something had finally snapped in the young man's head, like he had felt some sort of courage that he had finally overcome, that was far better than some common Reachwoman's, it was a real embracing of a lover that felt like someone important, a Princess that shared his heart. Even as he felt wounded, injured, he felt strong enough to know that this was no foolish move, this was something that felt right in so many ways, to his heart, his head, to his....region, particularly with the way that Baela was so close, her heat, her frame laid out alongside his. The Rose and the Dragon, two sigils that did not seem to match, one laid waste to the other once...yet everything else about it felt like the right path.

Garland... the man was intoxicating, even as he spoke, his words swirled about Baela's head, she listened to those words, what he was saying, what they meant, what he meant, the man was speaking from his heart. Baela hung on to each and every word of his. She looked into Garland's eyes, trying to see if he was truly speaking the truth of it all, wanting to believe him, wanting to feel safe in being not only beside Garland at this moment, but also in the future, whatever that could bring. She smiled, listeing to the man speak, his voice and tone easy upon her ears, as Garland spoke she began to close her eyes, just for a few moments allowing the world around her to fall away.

Garland spoke sensefully, perhaps in that he truly wanted to believe what he was saying, in that there could be hope for Westeros with Aerys as its king, or perhaps it was out of loyalty, she could not say at this moment, but whatever it was, it was not exactly what she wished to hear. Yet, she still layed there, listening to his voice, his words, hanging onto each syllable and vowel. He was dreamy, that much could not be denied, and yet, even as he spoke, she knew with a deepening sadness in her heart, that she would not always be able at his side, to lay so comfortably next to this Rose, that fate, and her own heart, no matter how much she wanted it, could not be willed into existance.

It was his last comments that truly killed her, in a manner of speaking. He wanted to marry her, to combine their two houses into one, to allow her something that all women dream of, a loving husband, a home... all these things and more. Part of her yearned for that, to just say yes, and run off with Garland, the Lucky, the Handsome, her Pale Rose. She looked away from him, abruptly sitting up and turning away from Garland. She swung her legs out over the edge of the bed. She looked out at the window across from her, down onto the city below. She sighed, looking down to the floor, as she thought upon what she could say, what she could do. She didn't wish to hurt Garland, he was a good man, but at the end of the day, she had to look out for her sister, to take care of Rhaenyra, as she had taken care of herself. Perahps that was hope... but, such things would need the length of time to tell, and what she knew within her heart, was that she may not return to King's Landing, let alone Westeros, for some time to come.

Aerys could not be trusted, no matter what Garland said. The way he looked at her and Rhaenyra, like they were just pieces of meat, how he had spoken to them, no... it was not something that could not be forgotten nor forgiven. She wiped a stray tear from her left eye, not wishing for Garland to see that she was distraught about the events that were now unfolding. She pushed those feelings down, hiding them away for the time being. She would need them to keep her warm for the days to come... for what she and her sister, for what the Crownlanders needed to do. She turned back to Garland, smiling at him with a true and honest smile, one that spoke of her feelings deep within for the Pale Rose.

"Lord Garland... my Pale Rose, nothing would make me happier than to walk down that path with you, should that time ever come, should fate decide that we could be together. But... as you said, things are uncertain now, the world stands on the brink of chaos and destruction. I promise you... no, I pledge to you, that should the world slow down once more, should fate allow for our paths to cross once more, that we can become more than friends and seperate houses... but till that time comes, let us focus on the troubles at hand, the enemy we face in the capital. Today is but the first step of many towards what you and I both wish for." She smiled deeply at Garland, blushing as well, before leaning in to kiss him softly, letting her lips linger upon his for a long while, before pulling away, rising away from his bed, to stand before him. She fixed her dress, letting it fall gingerly about her, the fabric flowing like a summer rain about her.

"Lord Garland, this has been but a dream all too short... till next time, think of me, and me alone... I wouldn't want you to go off and have some fun with a washer woman or some handmaiden... that was the past... you are a different man now." She smiled, bowing before him.

Garland's face broke into a smile, a tear running down his eye, it was difficult to notice, as Garland kissed Baela's soft lips, yet he felt like perhaps something had given in his heart and soul, knowing it had been a difficult question indeed to ask. Of all the things he had to do, seducing women was easy...but such a decision felt like it was consigning his past away. Perhaps it was....he didn't entirely know, but it was the right thing. And her response was the right one...she was indeed, right in saying what she said. Like women of the Tyrell dynasty were thorns, suave, cunning and very, very sharp indeed, the women of House Targaryen seemed to have their own particular ways, of beauty, mystery and fighting that many Houses did not seem to match. Even the Baratheons didn't seem to match it, particularly because Garland knew a woman like Baela rode Jadefyre, at his sister's age. It felt strange, but particularly so, it was something that he reminded himself of. It was the right thing to do, as Lord Tyrell watched her fix her dress, before bowing.

"No more before you, my Princess. No more before you...thank you, Baela." Garland said, the smile on his face one of euphoria, just pure ecstasy, just knowing in his heart, he had done it. In these lands, marriages were taken for granted, arranged, just fixed...but this felt different, it felt like there was something behind all of this, and despite that difference, Garland knew that they would soon figure it out. Alas, she had to go, and Garland knew that there was many a thing to do.
"When you return...I shall be well, and I shall have a gift for you, my Princess. I swear it by the Seven...I will do whatever needs to be done for us." He added, as she bowed, sitting up in his bed once more, smiling as he brushed his hair aside, a beaming smile on his face, knowing that he looked into the young Targaryen's eyes...they still seemed to burn, to glow, and somehow, Garland could only guess that few would dare attempt what he did, lest they were mad...to ask a Targaryen's hand in marriage was a rare occurance, and no doubt, there were plenty of women Garland could have found, within the Reach, that much he knew. Yet his heart was set, and for once, he knew that the yield was one that seemed, by pure chance, to fit all else. It was a shame that he was like this...but you could not ask for the world when you were fighting a war.

Baela smiled her casual grin, one that she only showed her friends and family. "You take care of yourself, Pale Rose. Try not to get yourself killed... I don't think I can find enough roses to place on your damn grave." She smiled, bowing before him, and blowing him a kiss as she swirled about and away, "The only gift I need would be to have you when the time comes... keep digging your way out of that grave... can't have you smelling like soil too much." She winked, bowing once more in a mocking way, before heading out the door that she had come in. Lord Garland better stay alive, or there would be hell to pay... that was only she could think of as she headed back to her apartments, and her sister, to finish packing their belongings.

Garland smiled, looking across to Baela...why was it that everyone was saying that? He remembered Alerie telling him that....well, he had already come this far and lived, so perhaps he had to take it on board, stop while he could...the sacrafice had been made, perhaps. And it felt worthwhile, it felt justified, it felt like he had done the right thing. A Knight of the Reach, it's Lord in some chance of something, it felt like he was finally living to something that was more than bravery and the stories he felt like he was in. Death perhaps was worth fearing, Garland knowing it wasn't worth it if it meant never seeing Baela or feeling her that close again, her body by his side feeling like it was sitting next to a dragon's, and indeed, it was the easiest way to explain it at all.

"You aren't the first to say it, my Princess....but for you, I can try harder....to live." Garland gleefully said to her, a fleeting comment as she headed out, as he chuckled, knowing full well what Alerie said...well, perhaps he had learned his lesson now. And the grave he was in, whatever it was, he had to let go. He would need to walk soon, and while his body was getting better and he could begin to feel his toes and extremities far better, and it was just a case of eating well, drinking, and making sure his side was allowed to fully heal. If they made it through this, Garland only knew that then it would be worth all this pain, but for now, the situation needed his head first, and this could wait a little time.

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

Several Hours Later

The meeting between Baela and Garland in the morning, followed by Willas and Alerie coming back felt a little disjointed, Garland thought to himself, but still, such happened when the madness desended outside, and he had been awake ever since.

The sound of fighting in the streets of the city, the sound of sword against sword, shield cracking against jaw, a hero standing undefeated amongst a pile of his fallen foes.

Or at least, that was what Aerys had imagined a battle to be like, him and Harys had faught against a few of Lyman's Essosi on their way to Garland's quarters, and it was quick, brutal, and wholly gutwrenching. This wasn't was war was like in his dreams, but apparently this was the real world. He'd known death from arrow, but never death from his own blade, and it hurt much worse than any cut. The only good thing to come from it was the sword that he managed to retrieve from a mercenary hand. Apparently those bastards thought they could just take Blackfyre for themselves, how foolish of them.

The Red Keep was being looted, whatever fights there were were short and small, so Aerys and Royce quickly found their way to Lord Tyrell's quarters. What guards were there had run off to take part in the fight, so Garland's room was guarded by a singular man wearing not but a courtly cloak and a smile... why he was smiling... never really passed Aerys' mind.

King and guard stopped, holding their swords at their sides.
"Lord Bar Emmon? You're still here?" The man's heavily lined face rested from it's smile.
"Ser Bar Emmon, my good father still holds the title of lord." Aerys had known Bar Emmon for a time, ever since they met during Aegon's tutoring, he'd have to be around five and sixty now, but his father still lived? Aerys shook his head, scanning the area for whatever persons aimed to stab the king in the back.
"Ser Bar Emmon, Ser Jaime if I am allowed to call you by your name, how fares Lord Tyrell?" Jaime paused, looking off to his left.
"He's alright, though not for much longer if he doesn't leave, how did you fare?" Aerys opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by the whinny of a horse behind him, after looking over his shoulder, he noticed a much older man in heavy armor, the Targaryen dragon on his chest.
"We have not the time for pleasentries! Take the Lord Tyrell from his room immediately, or he burns with the rest of this cesspool when the Crakehalls get in." The Crakehalls were assaulting? Aerys grimaced, before allowing himself into Garland's room, rushing over to his bedside.

Garland adjusted himself up, hearing the boy's voice, not hearing it even prior, aware that it was the first time they would meet. But under these circumstances, it was never a good thing, no, never a good thing at all. Alerie was close, as she always was, and the fires and war that raged outside was now audible from this very keep itself.
"Aerys Targaryen, I cannot believe it is you. I'm sorry I couldn't come down for your crowning, I've been recovering from my wounds, and it turns out I won't walk for a little while." Garland simply said, as Alerie ran over, nodding to Bar Emmon, before she then shut the door. Garland did not know what he felt in regards to Aerys, but all he could say was that it was a good thing indeed that he had played his cards close, and let Aerys take the Seven Kingdoms, over Rhaenyra. Himself, in the small quarters of the Hand's Tower, he was still in pain, but able to move a little, able to at least rotate his legs and get some movement back, albeit he was still just too weak to hold his own weight on anything.
"They told me stories of what a beautiful child you looked like when you were younger, you look like a King indeed." He chuckled lightly, looking across at Aerys, and then over at Royce, nodding.

"Royce, I hear you're working with my uncle. That is good." The Tyrell Lord simply said, a little oblivious to the fact of what Aerys had said, aware that things were truly going to hell outside, that things were deteritorating. Lyman's Essosi may have been mostly cut down, but the fight was not calming down, and the Crakehall forces were making their inroads into the city, the Lion's Gate open and the others falling from attacking Westermen, flooding inside. It would be a protracted fight, but it would be one that was not in their favour, that much Garland could only guess. The news itself hardly suprised him, and he knew that in this moment, he had to tell Aerys what he had to tell him, to save them all. It felt horrid, it felt like something had to be done, in the heat of the moment. Garland was no fool, and he knew precisely what the boy Targaryen had brought, from the word that had been passed to him.

Royce crossed his arms, sighing. He placed a hand on his neck, which had been sore recently.
"I haven't been working with your uncle, not so much as he has been working with me, I've done nothing but be pushed around since I got here, Willas, though he apologized, Lyman, and now a few Essosi mercenaries, to their chagrin of course, but enough of that, we really should be leaving, House Valyrion have forced away any Crakehall galleys, so we should be safe at Driftmark." Aerys hushed the guard as he opened his mouth to speak again.
"I'm the king remember? I give the orders, thank you." Royce stood silently, nodding weakly before stepping back.

Aerys turned back, Blackfyre still in hand. He ran a hand through his surprisingly hairy face, before tensing suddenly.
"To hell with it, I'm not letting you travel, I'm going to hold this door until Lord Crakehall surrenders-"

Garland shook his head, as he looked across at Aerys and Royce, sitting up.
"No." Garland simply said, looking across at Aerys in particular, his voice holding with a certain vigour, a certain knowledge and a certain inevitability that he felt he had to say, he knew that it was truth.
"Look at us, we'll never make it out, not without losing everything we hold. You'll sacrifice everything you have to rule as a King on an island away from your Seven Kingdoms, and in turn, it'll take months before you reassert your rule. This "King" Tyget Crakehall could already have the Seven Kingdoms in his hand, by his coffers and by his men at that point. So we can't stop now, we have to hold this city, at all costs." Garland simply said, shaking his head once more.

"Aerys...they believe in a God that will cleanse them in the flames, and they'll murder us all too. They'll burn you, they'll burn us, they'll burn Rhaenyra and Baela, and they'll burn Royce, Willas and Footly. You need to ride Drogon, and at least thin their forces beyond those walls, reduce their size outside the walls, to some degree. Show your presence. If we don't do this, we won't hold our presence in this capital, and they'll attack without fear...we'll never get everyone out on Drogon's back neither Jadefyre's, so do something that makes you the Targaryen King you are. You'll never be a King of these Seven Kingdoms if you run, like you say." Garland paused for a second, before looking at Aerys once more.

"You'll be a King if you do something decisive, if you save your Seven Kingdoms from those who wish to set it on fire with the power of the Red God...it's the better good than the rape of this capital, and the loss of your power forever. I bow to your judgement, Aerys. It is up to you, but I am your Hand, your Regent, and I advise you, by the Seven, by your life, and by your power granted by the Mother, that you do this." He said, looking on at Aerys, knowing it was at least something he could try and do something of this, something that was frightening to say, but an act that might be enough to stop the worst of the attack from coming in.

Harys' eyes opened wide, and he walked up to interrupt. Aerys placed a finger in the center of his chest, pushing him back into his spot, which he took with bit lip. Turning back to Garland, Aerys looked down at the ground, silently thinking to himself. If he ran, yes he would have nothing, but if he did something drastic, he would be assassinated for being a madman, but mayhaps it was the only way, a dragon to break his fast on a burning army or something of the sort.

Aerys thought for a long while, a king in black steel, sitting silent for what seemed like hours in his own mind, what came to his mind was but a word, a singular word, one word upon which his fate rested upon.

"Regicide..." Regicide, the killing of a king, a crime commited by so many, a crime he knew he would have to deal with, one way or another. Attempted or successful.

"I will not burn this city, but a man will burn this day. Let it be known that your king flies for Casterly Rock, let it be known that Tyget Crakehall feasts upon the burning sup made from his house." Aerys grew madder and madder, a madman in his own head, but no matter what he thought, he knew that he only seemed madder on the outside.
"Let it be known that Tyget Crakehall and all of his retainers, all those he relied upon, he shall burn! Casterly Rock burns, but King's Landing stands until my return, the rebellion will be crushed by mine own hand at the source, then I shall return, Gerald Crakehall has his god and his flames, but who is the true master of flame? Let it be known, that I, Aerys Targaryen, the Third of that most regal name, I will bring peace, upon a throne of ashes and bones, upon a throne of Fire, and Blood!" Before anyone could respond, Aerys took his blade, and speared it into the ground, angrily screaming to some being only he could see. Ser Royce backed himself as far into a corner as he was allowed.

And the king laughed. Laughed not out of madness, but out of pleasure, pleasure brought about by his own mind.

Garland shook his head, looking out at the window before then looking back at Aerys. He exhaled, knowing it was not realistic.
"King's Landing will not hold, my King. Not for long enough." He said, looking to Royce in particular, looking over at him in the corner. Aerys may have seemed mad, but Garland could tell, he was a boy of three and ten, and indeed, with a father like his, it was expected. After all, he knew that if Aerys was to follow an order, it would be one that most likely would come down from him, and Garland knew what had to be said.

"King's Landing will not stand, because Gerald Crakehall, or whatever Crakehall is out there is going to rape, murder and burn every noble, peasant and trader he finds, for his God. We are outnumbered two to one, and as of now, while we have naval superiority, if we lose this city, we lose everything we fought for. Tyget's justice can come in time, Aerys. But for your survival here, you will have to do what a King would need to do. We have bled enough, Aerys. My men can hold the road to the Dragonpit, and you can do what you must. Then, we can deal with Tyget, and the whole Crakehall dynasty. Bring them to justice in front of the Seven, like with Daenys, and show them what a treasonous set of men recieve in punishment from the King." He said, his voice holding strong, despite his wound, as he clutched his side a little, the banadage coming a little loose as he adjusted it. The bandage had been adjusted prior, and part of the scar could be seen, though it was still being held together a little by the linen.

"I'm so happy to see that you're alive....we gave so much for this city already, I was stabbed myself, by the Seven. Thousands of my own men made sure that you could arrive in a city like this in safety. We cannot leave now. Do the right thing, Aerys. The boy inside is going to die, either by their fire on a wooden pyre....or by your own choice, to finally become the man who rules our Seven Kingdoms." Garland added, as Alerie nodded, staying close by Garland's side, looking on at Aerys.
"Garland, should I fetch Baela and Rhaenyra?" She asked, as Garland shook his head. She was brave, but even he knew that Alerie would never do it, not on her own.
"We can have Royce and the others do that. They need to follow. Three dragons could kill leagues of forces, Aegon the First was able to conquer our Seven Kingdoms like that. We only need it to defend our most beautiful capital city. Nothing more, nothing less."

Aerys snorted, laughing a small amount, he pulled his sword from the floor, spinning it in his hand.
"Whatever you're suggesting sounds bad, you want me to break something for you to fix? Are you suggesting I burn the city?... Well, then I guess all my travelling was for naught, hear this Garland, I will not do something mad, whether it costs my life or not, I won't simply destroy what my family worked so hard to protect, a king needs his throne Garland, just as you need your Highgarden." Harys walked back up, Aerys moved to shush him, but the knight simply batted the hand away.
"I've heard enough from both of you." He opened the door to Lord Tyrell's chambers, grabbing Aerys by the ear and pushing him out.

Slamming the door shut, Harys turned to Lord Tyrell, angrily placing his hands akimbo.
"Tell me, Gerald Crakehall's red god tells him to burn, yes?" He leant over, resting himself on the foot of Garland's bed.
"But what kind of man is Gerald Crakehall? Would he burn thousands of innocents to satisfy his god? The answer is no, I met Gerald a time ago, when he was a young lad, came to King's Landing with his uncle Kevan, he was a slim thing, kind and just, I doubt that he'd burn a city just for a laugh, for now, the best thing we can do is protect ourselves, wait for him to take the Red Keep, then we hope that we get just treatment, I doubt he'd be willing to kill a Lord Paramount without his brother's approval, or even with." He stood up, crossing his arms.
"You don't live as long as I have by taking stupid chances."

Garland didn't know what to say, respecting the Kingsguarder's voice, knowing it was one of experience, knowing full well he had to abide by it. But still, it seemed mad, mad to abandon all of it. The Red God would no doubt, take no prisoners, and for whatever reason Gerald was attacking, it seemed too sudden, too out of the blue, it seemed inappropriately timed, like a mad dash rather than an assault made after wearing the city out more. If he had wanted control, he would have done it a week ago, not a day after Aerys had taken the crown. Something did not add up about this situation, and even Garland could tell that while Royce was right, he had to try.
"And what for Aerys? They'll murder the child! You know what they'll do to him....if Gerald wants his brother on the Throne, he'll kill him!" Garland simply said, as he knew that he had to speak those words, knowing they came from his heart, that indeed, it wasn't just his soul worth saving...he had heard tales from Dorne, and enough was enough, when it came to these believers. If the rumors were to be believed, Garland didn't know he Gerald would do any different, and refused to almost believe it, in some sense.

"And that chance we take, Harys...what then? Oh, a man like him will have nothing to lose if he has captives and a brother with a weak claim, look at the political picture. You may know Gerald, but I know that if he wants to run a Kingdom, all he needs do is get rid of the old order and instate the new." Garland added, shaking his head.
"I don't want to do this, Harys. But I'm acting in the name of the Crown, not my homeland. If I was, I would have had us on the boats, to Driftmark, before the Redwynes shipped me back to Highgarden so I can rule a neutral, seperated Reach in peace, then give in after a bloody war against the people who know of Aerys's survival." The Reach Lord felt sick inside, he was shaking a little, though the words were coming out strong, he seemed like he was in control.

"If I were Gerald Crakehall, I would act on whatever advantage I had...and bringing the Red God to our capital, regardless of wheather it burns people or not, it doesn't matter, it is fear. Fear is the greatest weapon that any man can wield. He already has his fire. We have ours. It wouldn't take an awful lot. Burn the walls, you'll minimize the damage and cut off reinforcements." Garland simply said back to Royce, thinking it over.
"We are both important people for him right now, Royce. Aerys is right.....I know it is wrong, but it is for the survival of our very Kingdoms, to holds millenia of our fibers together. I know the Kingdoms don't need, or want any more bloodshed. So we can end this here, and by the time word reaches the rest of the Kingdoms and my vassal lords, the Crakehalls will disarm, and face justice for what they have done, they'll know our fear, and the costs will come to little compared to what we will have done. I would want anything but this. But otherwise, the results will be the same."

"Aye! Aye! You are completely right! But at what cost would it be? The westerlands are already showing signs of unrest with the new faith forced upon them, and they only burn one person at a time, we would kill thousands! Aerys would be known as the next Maegor the Cruel! I never wanted this, who did! But considering-" The door burst open, Aerys stomped in, followed by Ser Bar Emmon. Jaime crossed his arms, smirking slightly.
"My levies are here, they brought food to help us last, but I guess that ship has sailed, maybe we can flee on their boats... wait a second, isn't the royal fleet still in harbor?"
Aerys rubbed the back of his head, his face turning red.
"I uh... may have forgotten." Ser Royce also turned red, forgetting this.
"We were never blockaded, we could have left any time we wanted." Jaime grew more agitated by the second by this obvious blunder. Aerys frowned.
"Well, this is certainly more boring than my idea, but... I guess we just leave? Let the city fall? Hope for Gerald to not burn it?"

"I knew of it already, Sers. It's a big ask of me. Lord Owain Tumbleton, as well as several members of House Stanton, Lord Rowan, they'll be probably left to die if we leave, the order won't reach them in time if we want to buy enough time. We can try, but it will be difficult. I don't like doing that either...and I hate hoping for things. Hope is a terrible thing." Garland said, shaking his head. He had to give in. It was a bold order to give, but he couldn't win, not here. He knew that at least the point had been put across.
"There's 60,000 Reachmen that still could be called to war. So if we leave, we must be swift to do what is right, and finish this war before the throes of winter arrive. Let him have his seat for a a few weeks. If you're right, then they'll see what decision they made comes to what they deserve." Lord Tyrell merely added, looking over at Alerie, her concern on her face as she came close to Garland.
"Brother, I thought we're agreed, we can't let them take the seat of our King back, not by any means..."
"Alerie, for our sakes, and for the sake of the Kingdoms, we need to know when to give in. Not to die by insanity or some honor, but to live to fight another day, to bring them to what they do deserve. The Redwyne Fleet is half mobilized in Blackwater Bay already, they were assisting in the provision of supplies to the capital. They'll take us from Driftmark to home. Loras will have already called the banners if he has half a brain cell on what my wishes were, and once we're on sea, we can even get a raven home to tell them we're alive. Though...wait." Garland said to his sister, swallowing a lump in his throat. He had to think this through, as he shook his head once more, looking to Jamie, remembering he mentioned levies.
"How many men do you have, Ser Bar Emmon?"

Ser Bar Emmon shook his head, placing a hand on his forehead.
"Well, I have around four hundred men on those ships..." He sighed, before shooting up and chuckling.
"You thought that I was sad didn't you? Well, let me tell you, my father Lord Luceon has about a thousand floating up the bay, mostly provided by lord Joffrey Valyrion, and considering his fleet isn't far behind... if we hold out until nightfall, we should have around five thousand Blackwater soldiers ready for battle."
"Can we hold out until nightfall?" Aerys questioned.
"I mean I'm not sure, considering the amount of soldiers holding the Red Keep, we may be able to, but at a large cost." Harys answered in his commanding voice. Jaime turned to Lord Tyrell.
"And if we hold out longer, than we should have the might of Dragonstone behind us, another five thousand, perhaps we could use them as a distraction of a sort? Hold the port, allowing us to sail south and gather the levies of the northern Stormlands? Send the rest towards the Reach with you, Lord Tyrell?" Harys covered his mouth, moving into the corner of the room.
"Lady Baratheon is still in the city, if she dies we lose Lord Gris' support, we cannot simply leave with anyone still in the keep, we have to fight our way in there and find her." They all turned to the Lord Regent, waiting for his response.

Alerie looked on, she walked over.
"I might have something better than that, the messenger has still not been sent to the Yunkish navvies, to inform them of our changes in plans. 20,000 men, that we could call into the capital. Give them about four to five days, and we can have them here, rather than in the Stormlands. Add that to the forces of Dragonstone....and perhaps it is an alternative. It will be bloody warfare, but better than what we suggested." She said, looking to Garland, before looking back at Harys.
"The Stormlands themselves are embroiled in civil war, and the last thing they want is a Reachman taking their forces in the north. The men of Tarth should be already on their way, some 5,000 themselves, but I doubt we can find more, unless Ser Bar Emmon's forces are bolstered. That is all we have....and no doubt, when they find out that we didn't quell their rebellions, we'll be facing problems." Alerie added, as Garland nodded.
"That is a good thought, and I am willing to risk that. We have around thirteen-thousand men right here in the city, against thirty-five to forty thousand, but we can still hold our defenses well, to drag out the fight for as long as we can, holding the port and the major points of the city against the enemy. We were waiting for this....and all we can do is buy time." Garland added as he thought a little on another topic altogether, regarding two other important women in his life.
"Rhaenyra and Baela could lead the Dragonstone forces and at least remind those Crakehalls entering that we have dragons, burn a few, then leave and fetch the others...let that much happen, Aerys. If we have 10,000 men to add to our own 20,000 mercenaries and existing 13,000, we can beat them back. But it will be long, drawn out and bloody. Thousands are still going to die, civilian, soldier, noble, peasant. It would only take one slip of a breach, and the situation I described earlier happens." He added, his mind running quick, knowing that he didn't know the full details of the situation, but at the very least, he had to map something out, some sort of defensive.
"We can try and hold for as long as we can...." He said, coughing a little in the middle of his sentence, sitting up a little more, driven by his word, driven to at least think for once, to put his head to some half-decent thought now.

"But it is in the Seven's hands wheather we can make it to the end of the week, or if in the next hour, my head, my sister's head, your head, Aerys's head, and several dragon heads will be mounted on spears. The Dragon Pit cannot fall....by the Seven, Aerys, you know what would happen if they made it there. It was a stroke of luck dragons returned to this world, and 500 Reachmen are all that stand between three dragons and the enemy's capability to kill them in their home."

Bar Emmon frowned dutifully, his milky skin seeming to be transparent in the growing sunlight.
"I'll give most of my forces to you, I'll wait at the docks for my father, then I'll march for the dragonpit, I'll try to hold it for as long as possible, hopefully the Dragonstone forces come to relieve me quick, but your goal must be to recover Ladies Baratheon and Targaryen, I'm no tactical genius, but my father is in a league all his own, once he arrives we have a much greater chance, but for now, we need to protect the dragons, hopefully he arrives soon."
"I'll lead the Dragonpit detachment until we're relieved, Aerys needs to find the Ladies Targaryen and the other kingsguards, Jullon is still unconscious, so we need to get him to safety. Lord Tyrell will remain at the docks with Bar Emmon, once the Blackwater forces have landed he'll be taken to Driftmark." Royce spoke, before turning to Garland.
"That is alright? Right My Lord Regent?"

"If we can hold the Red Keep for long enough, Maegor's Holdfast may be a better place to wait for myself, Jullon and Lady Baratheon. Get Alerie out to Driftmark, with her Handmaiden, do that for me at least, Ser Bar Emmon. We might be outnumbered, but we can stall them. I know Lord Owain isn't the brightest commander, but he has a simple command, so he'll follow it. Otherwise, I'll stay and advise. I need to be here." Garland simply added, as he rotated himself around, resting his feet on the stone floor, not being able to put a heavy amount of weight onto them, but able to at least rest his feet, and keep some vague level of movement. He was not going to walk, not yet, but he was not as when he woke up, fighting the Stranger's call to death.

"Royce, let Willas command my force. I know he's Kingsguard, but he's the most competent commander in the city that we have right now. He can at least keep the line, while you sort out the logistics. If the King stays in this city, then he will prove to his people that he is truly indeed brave, willing to hold his Throne in the face of these usurpers." The Lord Tyrell simply said, Garland wiping his brow, looking to Alerie. She took the water from the table by the side of his bed and passed to him, allowing him to get a drink down his throat, before he looked over at Bar Emmon.
"That is truly good to hear. In these times, whatever means we can win this fight. It will be difficult, and there will be sacrafices, but I can promise you, we fought hard enough to get here. We rout the Crakehalls to where they came from, we'll be able to get the rest of the Reach to invade the Westerlands, and we'll have our King's power unquestioned."

Aerys shook his head, they really expected him to just wait? He wasn't just going to leave his guards and dragon to die without him.
"I was trained by Royce and my uncle, I'm not a worthless pawn, I will go to the dragonpit, a brave king doesn't simply hide in his castle, and I won't let Drogon die alone if it comes to that." He swung his sword in a small arc, showing at least a little posture, though not even close to Royce's level. Royce grimaced, clapping a hand over the young king's shoulder.
"I won't allow it, you remain in the holdfast until the enemy is routed." Aerys pushed the hand off, growling.
"I will not remain here, I will join you, and I will kill as many of them as neccessary to protect my family!" Royce held his hand back a second, before retaining his composure and sighing.
"Fine, but you will remain behind Willas and I, and once Lord Bar Emmon arrives, you will ride with him in the back of his forces."

Garland nodded, looking over at Aerys.
"I agree with Harys. The men will fight harder if they see your presence, but you still have much to learn about swords and warfare, and we will keep you in the rear." He said, stretching his arm a little, wincing as he looked at his bandage once more.
"If I bloody could, I would be out there. Seven fucking Hells." His voice was a little provincial, indeed it was, as he put his legs back up, Alerie putting the canteen back onto the table, as she sat at the end of the bed.
"Then we're agreed? We hold the city?"
"The dragons only as a last resort. I still suggest we use Rhaenyra and Baela to cut off the siegers outside, to frighten them, before they leave for Dragonstone."

"Hang on, I still haven't said my piece." The large soldier wearing the Targaryen colors entered the room, holding a two-hander over his left shoulder.
"I say that we still have opportunities we haven't explored, the Red Keep hides several hidden passageways, that is how Daenys Targaryen escaped the Black Cells, we may use those as a burrow for our wounded." His voice was gravelly, and his open hand moved with every word he said. Royce looked at the man suspiciously.
"And who are you?" The large man turned his helmeted head towards the old knight, looking down upon him.
"A member of Dragon's Rest's personal guard, well, city guard... okay... woods patrol." The man sighed before the last statement, as if he were disappointed.

Garland and Alerie looked on, shocked.
"Did you just say Daenys escaped?" Alerie asked, the look of shock on both their faces justified, both aware that he had been locked in that cell with a large number of guards by his side....and he had gotten out? Why hadn't this come to them more recently?

The large man nodded, his right arm akimbo.
"I witnessed it with my own eyes, he fell into the Blackwater and I haven't seen him since, but enough of that, do you agree to my plan?"

Garland shook his head, shocked. The man wore full plate, he didn't even remove his helm...it was risky, but Garland didn't want to complicate things. It was already mad enough as it was, too much was going on, and too much had to be solved.
"Seven Hells, knowledge of these things never gets through in time here....I agree with that notion. Just so long as they aren't aware of our presence." Garland added, shaking his head.
"And here I was, going to try him. It is how it is." The Reachman added, as Alerie looked out the window, the distant smoke and fire rising a little, at the farthest gates, as she turned back to the man. If he wanted to kill them all, he would have done it already, and he seemed like he knew something, not in a way that seemed entirely nefarious, but honest. This wasn't Daenys Targaryen, that much was true, he seemed like a barreling figure, perhaps a head above Garland's or Willas's height.

A crow flew into the room through the window, landing on the man's right wrist, it's eyes were oddly... expressive, in a way nobody in the room could explain, and Aerys couldn't shake the feeling of some other presence in the room.
"Good, then I'll retrieve Ser Jullon, the rest of you focus on the Dragonpit or whatever it is that you are planning." Harys was baffled.
"You're going alone?" The man moved to exit the room, but turned back to nod, and then he left, without another word.

Ser Bar Emmon shook his head, shrugging in confusion and bewilderment, before turning back towards the group.
"So... Lady Alerie, come with me, I'll take you to the docks. I guess the rest of you have to start soon, or else we will have no time left." He bowed, before leaving as well, beckoning for the Lady Tyrell to follow.

"You stay strong, Garland." Alerie said, reaching over and kissing her brother on the cheek, as he kissed her back, smiling.
"Now it's up to you to not die on me. Get back to Highgarden. Just do what you must, I'll make sure we hold the peace." He simply said back, as she ran her hand through his hair, and then over his scar a little, looking into his eyes once more. Raising her dress, she walked over to Bar Emmon's side, looking back in at Garland. The confusion was clear in here, and even Garland didn't entirely know what was going on, but he had to continue on with it.
"I wish I could follow you out to the Dragonpit, but this is sadly the body I broke. I'll need to walk again when I recover fully, whatever pain it might be. I can run things from Maegor's Holdfast, and a good number of men." Garland simply said to the two, as he put his feet back down on the stone, putting his hands up. He was going to need to be carried, or at least, held a little by the other two men in the room, if he was going to go anywhere.

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

Walking up the steps, Lyman was wounded heavily, his shirt cut open, by the front of the throne. He mumbled, coughing blood as Willas took the Poleaxe in both hands, and looked down.
"No words, Lyman. This is how your line ends." And with that, Willas let the axe handle sink to the floor as he then raised the Poleaxe once more, and he rammed the pike straight into his throat, bludgeoning his fair face, with the axe's side as it went in, snatching the life out of him faster than could be thought. So it seemed here then, that the last living Lannister was killed as a result of his outright stupidity. He was not going to shit gold, Ser Willas thought to himself. He looked at Dawn, thrown down by the chair, the big chair built of swords that a King would call his seat. Taking it, he inspected it. It was Dawn indeed...the sword of Dayne, and Lyman had it? Willas was too confused, sick and horrified to know, but he took the sword, knowing that it was probably safer in his hands right now than just left behind here...it was a precious sword, and the next time he saw Edlrick, he would give it back, on a Reachman's honor.

Reachman's honor didn't feel alive here however, as he looked across, Willas not in visible shock on his face, or horror, just....a certain blankness, a certain lack of direction, in the immediate aftermath of the chaos that unfolded. Dead Dothraki, with gold, swords and other Reachmen in hand, it felt like insanity. Walking down the steps, his footsteps from his steel boots were in blood as he stepped over a Dothraki's body, next to another Reachman's, most of the men thinned out, Willas himself plastered. Many of the men were...it had been unspeakable, it had turned ugly the very moment Aerys had left. There was no Wildfire, and the men were smart enough to know it...it was a complete bluff, and it was one that Willas was lucky to take. The Essosi and Dothraki fought like hell, and with the men that entered this room, a relatively expected number were now dead. Willas had taken a couple of hits, but his breastplate had glanced whatever curved swords they had, as he kept himself at a distance from the skilled fighters and picked them off a little further away. He felt dazed, a little overwhelmed...he had lost count of what he had done. Flickers went through his mind. It had been brutal, and the whole hall had been fighting, it had been vicious, loud, and horrid. Every corridor inside, from the Treasury to here, had men being killed, or in the process of it. His Poleaxe was completely covered, stained in blood, from it's last victim, the Lannister's red pouring off the end of the pole like the last of a drop of a pale wine.
"Continue sweeping the Red Keep, if you find a Dothraki, kill them, no quarter! My guard, you're with me. We head out." Willas said, his voice not trembling, but weathered, as he looked at his gauntlets. There was an awful lot of blood there, and the sandstone beneath his feet that formed the floor had blood on every single crack and line, it was a small pool of blood, in fact. Most of them were dead, but at the cost of a few dozen men. It was never a good thing, as he stepped over a couple more bodies, looking around, just wondering what the hell to make of all of this. It was a slow walk, it was one that wanted to make him sick, but he had to hold. He could still see straight, and knew that any cut or bruise was minor, but it was the stench, the sheer sight of it, that made it what it was. All around the Hall, it seemed there were bodies, blood, and the Iron Throne overlooked it all grandly.

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

Baela and Rhaenyra had finished packing up all their personal belongings when the bells had begun to toll. They panged and ranged with one message, the city was being attacked. Both sisters would stop, looking at one another with disbelief. Now, of all times, the Crakehall forces had finally decided to act, to press whatever advantage they had, and try to sack the capital. Rhaenyra was first to act, rushing to the foyer where a handful of her guards milled about, they too having heard the bells tolling. At the forefront of them were two men, Ser Trevan and Ser Footly. She skidded to a halt before her loyal knight, before speaking to him at length able what needed to be done.

"Ser Trevan... this is bad. We need to get to the Dragon Pit now... before things get too chaotic for us to take action. Ser Footly, I need you to go and recall what forces are mustering at the docks, and have them follow you to the Dragon Pit and reinforce what men still remain there. The dragons of House Targaryen must not die." She took a breath, before turning back to Ser Trevan. "Forget the crates and belongings, I can live without them, as can Baela. How many men do we have here at the keep? How many men can we ride with to the Dragon Pit?"

Ser Trevan was caught off guard by the sudden level of command and seriousness in Princess Rhaenyra's voice. She was not the normal calm, cool, and perhaps tender woman she normally was. Snapping back to reality, he spoke quickly. "My Lady, we have perhaps two, no, two hundred and twenty men here in the keep. Perhaps half of them are ready to ride out in force... I could get all of them ready within ten minutes." He looked at the princess, seeing the grave concern in her voice and the tension in her body. But, before he could speak, she strode forth and out the door of her apartments.

"We will ride with whoever is ready, have the rest grab what they can, and head to the docks, we must do all we can to provide a safe passage out of the city. Dragons or not, these Crakehall men will stop it nothing till either we are prisoners, dead, or they all lie dead. Baela, you ready to ride?" Rhaenyra looked at her younger sister, smiling at her, offering out her right hand... "Let's show the world why dragons are to be feared."

The two sisters and their guards rushed down the stairways and passages to the Red Keep's stables, running to the quickest means of getting from the Red Keep to the Street of Sisters, and from there, to the Dragon Pit high upon Rahenys's Hill. Some of the Crownlander forces were already assembling, corraling the horses into some sort of sensible formation. Rhaenyra came to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, looking at across the courtyard as Tyrell men were rushing to the keep, fighting amongst what looked like sellswords that had come in during the previous days. High above a window shattered, and within moments, a body plummeted down into the courtyard, splattering onto the hard cobble of the Red Keep.

Rhaenyra turned away to throw up her breakfast, the sight of that mangled body was un-nerving, the screaming as the person fell, before they died upon impact. After another moment of upchucking, she turned back, looking at the chaos as it unfolded before her. The body of the Tyrell Guard was shortly joined by two more, that of a sellsword, and that of a handmaiden. It was a gruesome sight, one that caused not only Rhaenyra to throw up. Things were definitely worse now, as whoever these sellswords belonged to had either betrayed their master, or their master betrayed the King.

Baela moved to the front of the party, grabbing her sister, and turning her towards the stables. Whatever was happening in the keep, little could be done to stop it. They had a different goal, a different path that they would need to follow. Innocents would die, there was nothing they could do to stop it, but if they did not get to the Dragon Pit, the entire city could be lost. Baela took the lead now, drawing her sword to cut a man down as he chased after a scully maid. His back split open to the Valaryian steel blade, expelling his life out, before his body crumpled to the floor, twitching in its death throws.

They had to fight their way across the courtyard, as a few sellswords tried to block their way to the stables, which these vile traitors intended to use as their own means of escape. Still, little could be done to prevent losses, as the eighty men were dwindled to sixty three. Baela recieved a little cut to her right arm, but ensured that the man who dealt such a blow recieved his just deserts tenfold, lopping his head off, before cutting down another man. She gritted her teeth as they pressed forward.

Ser Trevan and Lord Rykker rallied the remainder of their men about the two princesses, gathering within the stables, and begining to mount up with the horses that were ready to go. They could not wait any longer. As every moment spent here meant another moment closer the Crakehall forces were to cutting off the thoroghfare to the Dragon Pit. The Crownlanders were gathering themselves, strapping shields and armor in their last pre-charging forth measures, dreading the worst, and hoping for the best. Ser Trevan swallowed hard, adjusting his helmet, while looking out at the carnage that was engulfing the city.

The doors to the Great Hall opened once more, to a different sight, as the Reachmen left, the sight inside covered by their number, though it was significantly less than the one that had entered, sweeping out. It had not been good, and Willas was leaving for good reason, for a reason that involved Rhaenyra and Baela Targaryen. He had protected them for the last two weeks, so finding them and making sure they had their heads on. It did not take long at all to find them, the Crownlanders a good indication of wherever they were, the the Tyrell concluded.

They swept through to the Stables, moving through, as Willas could only wipe the blood from his forehead, looking like he had literally swam in the stuff. Words didn't form at first, as he looked up at the Crownlanders, walking through, a significant knock against his left arm leaving him a little weak, but just weathered. He could fight on, he told himself. He was a little dazed...as he looked over at the two, alongside Ser Trevan and Lord Rykker, exhaling, Willas looking very clearly like he had waded through a bloodbath. Oh, he didn't want to begin.

"Lyman Lannister is dead, or whatever the hell he was. Almost all of his men are dead too, but they took a good number of ours. The Red Keep is almost secure...but those dragons of yours need to either fly now or...we know the consequences." Willas simply said to the two, looking a little worse for wear, though of course, he didn't the time to exlpain what had entirely happened in there. All that could be said was, he had more than enough blood to make it look like he had walked out of a Butcher's and dealt with far, far too many animals, blood particularly staining his right hand, the mail and plate almost completely covered in a red stain. His men followed close, as Willas spat, wiping his bloodied gauntlet, the Kingsguarder looking like he had gone through one hell of a fight.

Ser Trevan wheeled his horse around, taking notice of Ser Willas... "Ser Willas, are you alright? What the hell happened in there, where did these sellswords come from?" He raised his shield up to better situate it upon his arm, before turning around once more to look at the battered looking knight.

Willas wiped his brow once more, looking back at the Great Hall in the distance, then back at Trevan, shaking his head.
"Fucking Lannisters....I don't know, but if there is any more of them, they're not smart, so they'll run or die." Willas said bitterly, as he adjusted the poleaxe in his hands, the pike and the axe on the end of the pole coated in red, not one part of it clean, though it seemed that it wasn't gored and covered in guts...most of that had spilled off.
"I'm fine...oh what in Seven Hells is going on down there? Are the Crakehalls attacking?" Willas asked Trevan, or any Knight, Reachmen moving past, cleaning up the bodies as best they could while another group headed out towards the city, where the distant noises and smoke trails could be seen.

The Crownlanders were almost done gearing up, the last of the combat ready men mounting up, when Princess Rhaenyra rode up beside Ser Trevan. She smiled at Sir Willas, bowing her head to him, before looking off into the distance. "The Crakehalls besige the city as we speak, and not in a passive manner anymore. They are assualting the walls and gates. I mean to take flight upon my dragon, and show the world the power of the Targaryens... You should get your nephew, and make for the docks... you have little time to waste if you wish for him to survive the chaos." She spoke in a tone that brokered a sense of urgency and warning, as though eluding to the possibility of things going far worse than they already were.

Baela moved her horse forward, to whisper something quietly into Rhaenyra's ear, before she too looked at Willas, and smiled. From her saddlebag, she pulled out a white rose, perhaps taken from the castle gardens, and tossed it towards Ser Willas. "Catch." She called out playfully. "I need your nephew to get that, he is my Pale Rose... and I would like it if he lived to see another day." She motioned with her right hand for the Crownlanders to rally up, signalling their impending departure. It was Rhaenyra that spoke now.

Willas nodded, catching the rose with his bloody gauntlet, looking across to the two Targaryens in their scaled and mail armour, as he caught the end of the pole in his hand, placing the handle into the ground. The rose was truly a beautiful one, and yet Willas did not understand the context of it, of what it entirely was.
"I trust in you to do the right thing...but be careful, my Princesses. Keep them at bay, then do what you can to get soldiers to join us from Claw Isle and Dragonstone, if you leave. I'll make sure Garland's safe, but I need to lead the defense of this city if we are to have a chance...the more time we can get holding the Red Keep for everyone that is left, the better. Alerie has mentioned men to me that may be able to reinforce our position, so if we can hold the line for a little longer...then perhaps the tide will turn. And no doubt, you know what you're doing." Garland said, as he heard Rhaenyra speak, the Crownlanders assembling near her, among the other Reachmen that were hiving around the area. His voice was a tactical one, as he knew that Rhaenyra had words to say.

"Ser Willas... whatever happens today, we do this for our Kingdom... never forget that. The sacrifices we must make for the greater good, they are worth it, no matter what people will say when this battle is over and done with. May the sun rise for you many more years to come, and may it breathe life unto you, your kin, and the fields and gardens of Highgarden. Till we meet again..." Rhaenyra bowed her head deeply, before donning her helmet, and beckoning her mount into the center of the mustering formation.

"Until we meet again, Princess Rhaenyra. You are wise to act...when needs must, you know ." Willas quickly said to her, as she placed her helm over her white locks, and rode her steed into formation, as Willas sighed. Footly was with them, and while the orders seemed clear to keep them safe, no amount of talking would change that fact, that Visaxes and Jadefyre had to leave, before the worst could happen. They had to move quickly, and Willas knew that the Crownlanders would keep their Princesses secured, and their dragons too. Perhaps it would turn the tide...though just how far, he did not know. For now, he had to check on Garland, and then head down to the city, and help in whatever way he could.

The Crownlanders rallied about their two princesses, unfurling their dragon banners, and steeling themselves for the chaos the awaited them in the city below. Rhaenyra mouthed a silent prayer, while Baela moved to her sister's side, placing an armored hand on her shoulder. "Ready?" She said, smiling to her sister, doing what she could to help prepare the two of them for whatever they may face. It was going to be a long hard ride, but if they were quick enough, if luck favored them, the two would make it to the Dragon Pit, and from there, to the skies above. Rhaenyra nodded, closing her helmet, and beckoned her horse forward, as the host of Crownlanders, who numbered roughly one hundred and twelve, sallied forth, out of the Red Keep, pouring across its massive drawbridge, and out onto the main thoroughfare the led out of Aegon's High Hill, to the city below. It was a race against time, and only fate could fortell what was to happen next.

(Collabs with @bluetommy2 and @Abefroeman)

The Crownlanders made their way down the main street that led down from Aegon's High Hill, their mounts thundering down upon the cobblestones of King's Landing. Far to the West, smoke was rising, no doubt signs of battle being joined at the walls, gates, and towers that defended the people of the city. The noises of war rang out loud, of men screaming and yelling, horse neighing, and of the crashing of projectiles from enemy siege equipment. All the while the city descended into chaos, Rhaenyra and Baela rode for their objective, riding for the Dragon Pit.

Rhaenyra looked off into the distance, as she galloped forward on her mount. The wind blew in her face, forcing its way into her visored helm, creating a rushing sound that seamed to drown out all other noises of the city about her. She looked back infront of her, riding hard for the crossroads of the Street of Sisters. She knew that they had to get there before any enemy forces could congest the busy intersection, let alone block it completely. There were other ways she thought, but not were as fast, nor as direct as the Street of Sisters. Rhaenyra turned to look back at the Red Keep, looking at the smoke rising from within it from the fighting between the Sellswords and the Tyrell guards. Lyman Lannister was his name, and he had caused this blood letting from the inside, who was to say more could not happen?

Baela kicked her spurs harder into her mount's sides, spurring the horse onwards with ever greater speed. She was eager to take to the skies, to ride atop Jadefyre and let the worlds worries fall away, like water being flicked from your hand after washing them. She smiled, knowing that what her and her sister were going to do would no doubt be a surprise for "King" Aerys, the little mad wretch. How Garland could so blindly trust in him, in being able to guide Aerys along the right path, was unfathomable. She shook her head, clearing these thoughts in order to focus on the true task at hand, reaching the Dragon Pit. She crouched her spear, getting a better hold upon it as she drew close to King's Square. The massive square loomed ahead, and much to her dreaded fears, it was being engulfed in battle along its Western edges, Tyrell and Goldcloak forces fighting against assualting Crakehall men.

She just needed to ride harder, to catch that corner and begin riding uphill to the Dragon Pit. Rhaenyra looked from the center of the formation, noticing that they may just be able to get through unscathed. She watched as friendly forces struggled to hold back a rushing tide of fresh enemy soldiers, who's numbers only seemed ever more endless. The battle did not seem to be going in the favor of Lord Garland and "King" Aerys. The Crownlanders were but a small part of the greater force the held King's Landing. Even as she thought to herself, the remainder of the Crownlanders were hopefully rallying at the city docks, boarding the ships destined for their future target. It was a vain hope to hope that all the men that came with her would be able to escape, but then again, anyone can dream.

The lead men called out, pointing to a group of heavily armed and armored Crakehall forces, pushing their way across the battle lines, seemingly unstoppable. Whoever those men were, they we heading for what seemed like the same spot, the Street of Sisters. Rhaenyra and Baela moved their mounts over, pushing the outer edge of the formation. The two sisters were to be protected at all costs, no matter what. The rode harder, pushing their mounts to the limit as they aimed to beat the Crakehall men to the Street of Sisters that led to the Dragon Pit, and the Targaryen Dragons.

Perhaps it was luck, or fate, but a group of Goldcloaks and Tyrell men rushing out of a side street, between the Crownlanders, and the Crakehalls. Baela knew that they would be no real match for the very heavy infantry of the Crakehalls, but their sacrifice would buy them the time to reach the Dragon Pit, and freedom from there. Ser Trevan saw this too, and motioned for the calvary formation to rush past the local guards, abandoning them to their fates. They had a greater mission to attain, regardless of the moral dilema it may create. The Princesses needed to take to the air, to ride high atop their dragons. He did not look back, knowing it would be a bloody, sorid afair, and focused on the path ahead.

Kevan was in his plate, he and his houseguard were rushing through the streets of Kings Landing, a very specific ending location in mind. If he could reach the Dragon pit, he had a chance to trap or even kill those blasted Dragons, stopping the Targaryen sisters from possibly turning the battle in the favour of the defenders. With the fighting on the walls, in the Red Keep and across the streets he hoped most of the forced that would have been guarding the pit would be elsewhere and his 100 men would be enough. If he did this, Tyget would do far more than name him to the Small council, maybe even give him Crakehall castle... but it all hinged on getting there first, and being able to secure it... and as he and his men were on foot that possibility seemed to be shrinking in his mind.

They were on the last leg of their sprint, nearly at the Dragon Pit... Kevan was no longer certain how his plan was going to hold up...

As they neared the the Dragon Pit at the end of the street of Sisters, and were met with a force of Reachlanders... wonderful. The Heavily armored Crakehall Houseguard met with Reachlanders head on, the clash of steel ringing through the air. Kevan was near the center, flanked by his guard Captain as they clashed with the lighter armored soldiers of the Reach lands. Bringing his blade under the arm of onne of the Reachlanders, the tip of his blade sticking out of the poor bastards head. As the man fell he saw them, over the commotion were the sisters and their own retinue, "Fuck! Men! The Center! Cut through these Reach bastards! Move!", at his order the House guard all hit the center of the Reachlanders, following Kevan as they cut through the lighter armored men, forcing more than a few away as they rushed through. Crashing past the Reachlanders Kevan and at least 30 of his men got through, now sprinting as fast as they could to attempt to catch up to the riders... Kevan's mind raced as he thought of new angles to this... what the hell was he doing?



Baela and Rhaenyra knew that they still had the entire length of the Street of Sisters to ride, all of it uphill, but it could be ill afforded to let up even now, their horses fatigued and strained from the mad rush they had done thus far from the Red Keep. It was Ser Trevan and Lord Rykker who made the gut call to ease up on their gallop, in order to save the horses, not only for their closer goal, but for the further one after the sisters were safe. The two men eased back the mounts, choosing to keep the formation at a canter, allowing the horse to catch their breath, and for the riders to be ready as well for what was next.

The Crakehall men had brushed aside the Reachmen and Goldcloaks, just as Lord Rykker and Ser Trevan presumed. They had perhaps ten minutes at most before the heavy infantry were at the Dragon Pit grounds. They had to get the sisters inside, to get the dragons into the large cobblestone square, and then into the air. They finally arrived into the square that the Dragon Pit occupied. The fighting had drawn away a part of the guard stationed there, but many more men remained milling about. It would do no good if they remained here, especially after the actions that Baela and Rhaenyra had planned, for better or worse.

Both sisters skidded to a halt before the massive gates of the Dragon Pit. Both sisters were breathing heavily, let alone how tired their horses were. Rhaenyra could hear how restless her dragon was, able to hear Visaxes straining against her chains, the hard breathing of a beast yearning for freedom. It had been far too long since the two had been together, been able to fly as one in the skies above. These thoughts were pushed aside as the Tyrell Dragon Pit commander came running forward, speaking to the sisters and their retinue. "What news, what is going on down in the city proper? Is it another riot?" The Knight asked, moving his visor upwards. He looked concerned, and why not, the city was being overrun at the moment.

Baela spoke first, guiding her men to rally up about the gates of the Dragon Pit. She spoke in a commanding tone to this unknown Knight. She hoped that he would listen to her, that this Reachman and his forces would accept what she had practiced on her way here. "The Red Keep is in danger. Sellswords have broken ranks, and are fighting to take it for the Crakehalls. Ser Willas has called for you to make with all due haste to the Keep, and secure it, at all costs." She motioned her own men to start taking formation about the area, to allay any fears or doubts the Knight had. She continued, "You have no time to waste, every moment you spend here is another moment that your Lord is in peril. We will defend the Dragon Pit, and ensure that we take to the skies."

The Knight looked at listened, nodding his head. What other reason would the Crownlanders have ridden here than to call upon his forces to help defend the Keep. Lord Garland and Ser Willas were there, and they needed his help. The Princess was right, in that she could guard the Dragon Pit, especially taking into consideration that she and her elder sister would be amount their own dragons. He nodded and bowed his head, rallying his forces about him, before taking off down a side street, the square rapidly emptying save for the Crownlanders present. Baela breathed a sigh of relief, as she watched the Tyrell forces double time for the Red Keep. It worked, and at the very least, she had bought those men more time to live, if not escape via the docks.

Ser Trevan was busy opening the gates to the Dragon Pit, raising the massive metal porticullis that barred the exit of the dragons that waited within. Baela and Rhaenyra were busy moving gear from their horse to the entrance, readying themselves to fly for the skies above. It was then that at the Street of Sisters end, which led into the square, that the Crakehall forces came running into view. They were speckled in blood, their armor gleaming in the rising sunlight of the day. Rhaenyra pointed at them first, shouting out to rally her own retinue about the gates. "Enemy forces... defensive positions... defend the gates... buy us time to mount up!"

Kevan saw not only his opportuniy closing, but quite possibly his life... he had to think quickly. He came to a halt before reaching the line, shouting to his men, "HALT! DROP SWORDS!", though clearly confused the House guard did as their Lord bade them, sheathing their blades or dropping them, Kevan doing the same, raising his hands, "Wait! Rhaenyra! Wait! You don't need to do this! I know... I know Aerys is not a King you would see ascend! the progeny of the mad! Please, listen to me! Give me time to convince you of... of a new oppourtuniy!", Kevan was, at his heart, a coward... he did not wish to die at the hands of dragons tonight... or ever for that matter.

Both Rhaenyra and Baela stopped, turning to look at this man who spoke to them. Who was he, what did he really want? Their own forces looked at them for guidance, not sure of what to make of this. The porticullis was raised, their dragons just a few hundred feet within. They could easily turn and run, run for their dragons, mount up, and breathe flame out the Dragon Pit's gates, and fly away. But then again, this could have been fate calling them. Baela was first to react, holding her right hand up to give the command to hold. "At ease... " She spoke aloud, in a tone that brokered no room for contest. Even as the Crownlanders exchanged confused looks, they backed up, lowering their weapons to a low ready stance, carefully watching these Crakehall men. After all, it could be a trap.

"You will speak to me, Baela of House Targaryen. Be quick with what you have to say..." Baela yelled out from behind her forces. She looked at the Crakehall forces, and to the one who seemed to be leading him. She was curious as to what he had to say. It couldn't hurt, and it would buy time for more people to escape via the docks. She awaited the man's response.

"I am Kevan Crakehall, Master of Arms on the small Council and cousin of King Tyget. If you listen to what I have to say, I feel we can all... benefit from this situation. Listen to me, the Westerlands army will take this city, the Reachmen can't hold it... not without your Dragons. If you, instead, help the Westerlands army enter the city, many lives will be saved, and when Tyget arrives not only will both of you be pardoned of any crimes, he will reward you! You are, after all his great nieces! Help us now and when he takes this city, you two, your men and anyone else you so choose will be spared, pardoned and... rewarded! He is a man of his word, and he never forgets those who have helped him!", Kevan had been in Kings Landing for many years... he just hoped what he had said was going to save his life and hopefully help take this city, "just, name those who you wish unharmed and once you have helped us I swear to you Tyget will repay you!"

Baela looked at her sister, clearly caught offguard by this offer. What was Kevan Crakehall getting at, especially now, of all times, to offer an alliance of sorts. She turned back to look at Kevan Crakehall, trying to process all that he had said. She looked back to her sister, putting her arms up in a shrugging motion. Baela wanted to believe what Ser Kevan was saying, but it very well could be a trap. She felt her sister's hand lightly touch upon her shoulder, the two armored sisters sharing a moment together, before Rhaenyra moved forward, her shield still held at the ready, but her sword sheathed.

"I am Princess Rhaenyra, Ser Kevan. You ask alot of me... so tell me, how can I trust you, when I know so very little about you, let alone your liege lord. Your cousin, our Great-Uncle, claims the throne through more distant relations than my own, than my sister as well." She paused, motioning Ser Trevan and Lord Buckwell to her side. Together, they walked further out towards the Crakehall men. "Come forward if you speak truthfully, let us march forth with our own champions, and speak as equals then. You wish for me to use my dragons to help you, then so be it, convince me... prove to me helping you is the better path to walk, as opposed to following that spoiled brat Aerys... son of the Mad Prince Daenys." She raised her visor, to show her beautiful, picturesque face, and to allow her to breathe easier. The damn armor was stiffling.

Kevan gulped quietly at the thought of being anywere near a Dragon.... though seeing Rhaenyra certainly alleviated that fear quite a bit. He exhaled slowly, moving his hands to his own helmet as he stepped forward, Ser Parren his Guard Captain stepping with him. He quickly cleared his throat after removing his helmet, his dirty blonde hair was longer than he regularly kept it, and he had it pulled into a small ponytail at the back of his head as not to get caught in the armor. His own ordinarily clean and well kempt face had not gotten through the fight so clean, specks and streaks of blood that had slipped through his helmet could be seen, but otherwise he appeared unharmed, his features more smooth than most of the rest of his family, "Of course, Princess Rhaenyra, I did not think you were some... easily convinced fool no, what would you have me do? To prove that our way, helping the Westerlands is the correct course of action?", he hoped it did not involve the Dragons... he did not want to be roasted tonight.

"I do not know what you could do to prove that your cause is more worthy. Words, actions, gifts, anything and everything, and nothing. You chose to speak to me, to hold your forces at bay, when you could have charged forth and brought nothing but bloodshed and death. Ser Kevan, blood of the Crakehall family, blood of my blood, you have to look within yourself to find the right answer." Rhaenyra spoke firmly, having placed her shield upon her back. She was now perhaps fifteen feet from Ser Kevan. He was handsome, even when dishevled. She shook her head, focusing back to the task at hand. "I could turn on those who wish to see Aerys ascend the throne, I could burn them in the bathing fires of our dragons, or I could just as easily burn you... why should I fight with you. Better yet, why should I fight at all? What is to stop me and my forces from leaving the field of battle all together? Tell me Ser Kevan... what would you do? What will you do?" She sighed, and then smiled at the Crakehall man, "What do you say?"

Kevan thought... what could he offer her? She had gold... Seven Hells she had a dragon... what did he have... then it hit him. "Why... I offer you the Westerlands! And Casterly Rock.", this was it, his last chance to perhaps not be burned to death by a beautiful Targaryen woman... he mused that they seemed to have a habit of doing that, "If the Westermen take Kings Landing, Tyget will ascend to the throne. If this comes to pass Tywin joins him here as his heir, and as will his brother Gerald... with this, Casterly Rock will fall to Tyget's second in line.", Kevan exhaled slowly, dropping to his knee and bowing his head, "Me. Side with us, and you will be made wardeness of the Westerlands... if you help us in taking the city, and of course, marrying the the future Warden of the West.", this was the moment... she was either about to burn him to death or accept his offer... somehow both terrified him though in completely different ways and for utterly different reasons.

Rhaenyra took a step back, completely caught off guard by this offer. Ser Kevan, or rather, Lord Kevan, should fate come to pass on the side of the Crakehalls, would become Warden of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock, and more. She had visited the Westerlands before, seens its beauty and the endless expanses of wealth. The sun always set upon the West it was said... but these were uncertainties, mere promises offered by men to hopefully garner the love and support of women. Gifts, promises, and more, this was something Rhaenyra was accustomed to. But, truth be told, such a gift, such a prize, was a worthy one indeed. Rhaenyra pondered the words that Ser Kevan said, looking at him with a curious, if not inquisitive stare.

Baela walked forth, to stand beside her own sister, looking at her with a sisters care and compassion. Ser Kevan offered much, he spoke of such things that only a few could ever offer up. She could tell that her sister was unsure, that she was unsure of what to make of what Ser Kevan had said. Lord Tyget was farther from the throne than both her and Rhanyra were, his claim shaky at best. The Westermen teamed outside the walls, their force flooding through the breaches. She could try and fight, to allow Aerys to take the throne, for his corrupted blood to continue onwards. She and Rhaenyra could do as they were commanded by the son of a Mad Prince, to follow the orders of Aerys II reborn, Aerys III. Baela looked back to her sister, placing her hand upon her shoulder. In a low tone, spoke ever so softly, "Do what you think is best, what your heart tells you." She smiled, before returning to the ranks of the Crownlanders.

Rhaenyra nodded, listening to her sister. She then looked to Ser Trevan, with his own striking features, then to Lord Buckwell, and from him, to the rest of the Crownlanders gathered there. She knew that Aerys must not be allowed to ascend the throne to take it for himself, for if he did, a new rain of terror like that of Aerys II would begin again, no doubt eclipsing his forbears, if not even that of the War of the Five Kings. Her gaze wandered back to Ser Kevan, her eyes meeting his own. Perhaps it was foolish bravery, or perdition, but whatever it was, she walked forward to stand within arms length of Ser Kevan. She offered her hand out for him to take, allowing him to rise to his feet should he take the offer.

It was here that she spoke her mind, for better or for worse. "I will take no part in the war of your cousin, my Great Uncle. But I will not hinder either. And thus... I offer a third option, perhaps a gift to both you, to Lord Crakehall, and to Aerys as well. I mean to leave Westeros, to sail far from here... and let those who wish to take that cursed Iron Throne for themselves. You will live to see another day. But, I will leave you with but a small concession. The gates of the city, the ones you've not taken, along with the walls... I mean to burn them... to burn the men that hold them, and forever show I am no friend of Aerys. Take this opportunity to rush the city... for you will not see me, or my forces, for a long time to come."

Kevan felt quite a bit of tension leave his body as Rhaenyra spoke, so he wouldn't be burned to death tonight... certainly a start. He took her hand as offered, and brought himself to his feet, looking into Rhaenyra's violet eyes, "Well Princess Rheanyra that... is more than alright. Though... leave Westeros? I... cannot say I see the point in this but... if that is the path you choose to walk then so be it. If that is where you and your sister go... regardless I will be certain that Tyget knows your role in tonights events.", Kevan was certainly happy to be alive, if slightly disheartened his proposal seemed to have been rejected... it had been a hell of a long shot though.

Rhaenyra pulled Ser Kevan close to her, to where they were but inches apart... she looked into his eyes, her violet gaze transfixed with his own. She wondered what he thought, what more there was to Ser Kevan Crakehall. "Westeros is my home, to the end... Ser Kevan, never forget that. You are an honorable man, in a city and land of thieves and liars." She smiled, leaning in to lay a light gentle kiss upon Kevan's right cheek. "I follow the path of my forbear before me, Daemon Targaryen. He chose to leave Westeros for the Stepstones, and I will do the same. I will be a Queen in my own right, even if that means I must carve out my own kingdom. Tell your cousin, my Great-Uncle, when you see him, that Westeros is but a short distance for a dragon to fly. And send him our love, that of his nieces." She smiled once more, before speaking a lower, whipsered tone. "Should you yearn for more than being a Lord, come find me... come to the Stepstones, and find me." She kissed Ser Kevan once more, this time on his left cheek.

"I must ride now, and my men must make for the docks. Keep well away from the walls and gates... dragon fire cleanses all." Rhaenyra backed up, bowing her head, before turning to walk away, and towards the Dragon Pit. She beckoned her champions to follow her, along with Baela falling in step alongside her as well. Their mission was clear... and they would do whatever it took to complete that mission.

Kevan was a bit surprised at being pulled so close to Rhaenyra to say the least, not that he was complaining. He enjoyed her kisses certainly, chaste as they were, and accepted her praise of him as honourable. Her whispered offer sent a shiver down Kevan's spine, and he could not say he was not disapointed at her leaving. Regardless, as she marched away he bowed low, calling after her, "Very well Princess Rhaenyra, I will give King Tyget your regards. And... I will consider your offer. Good luck!", with that Kevan turned to his men and ordered them back, meeting back up with those who had been in combat with the Reachlanders and fighting their way back... the show was about to begin.

Kevan needed to get as close to the main Crakehall forces as possible, they had already taken several gates, so he made his way to the nearest. The streets were in chaos, sellswords and Reachmen tangled with Crakehall men and eachother, blood ran freely through the gutters and bodies were piling up. Kevan and his houseguard cut down more than a few of both Reachlanders and Sellswords as they went, Kevan finished slicing through some poor Essosi bastard at the neck, his precious lifeblood spilling out across his armor and the cobblestones. He couldn't help but look up at the Red Keep briefly, no smoke yet... perhaps those inside had handled whatever force had caused all the inner turmoil and were now learning about the attack on the walls. Kevan looked to the tall walls, he could see a few of the siege towers as they reached them... and it hit him... this was about to be the first time Kings Landing was succesfully sieged in history... and his family was going to be the ones who did it. He swelled with pride at this thought, and glanced about the skys, trying to see if the sisters had yet begun they're attack.



Rhaenyra and Baela stood face to face, looking at one another as they readied themselves for their flight. The two double checked everything, making sure to have everything they would need not only for the chaos they were going to unleash, but the long mad flight they'd have to make to get as far away from King's Landing and Westeros as possible. Baela twirled her sword twirled her sword, checking the majesty of it all, before sheathing it properly. The Targaryen family blades were works of art, and to have one of them, well, that was a great boon to them. Rhaenyra's blade was no less magnificent, having been reworked and reforged to look like a Targaryen blade, through and through, but perhaps not as storied as the elder two.

Their dragons were free from their pens, snorting and stretching in unbridled excitement. These two dragons were far younger than the great black dread who sulked in the farthest pen of the Dragon Pit, Drogon glared at them, his searing red orange eyes watching their every moment. Rhaenyra could not help but feel unsettled by the sight of such a massive beast, even if it was the dragon that helped spawn her very own. Should Aerys get amount this creature, it would not be good, not in the least. Perhaps their only saving grace would be their smaller size afforded them a slight edge in sppe in speed and manuverability, but that was only if they were to face such a demon in the skies of battle. She shook her head, as she looked back to her sister, Baela.

"Are you sure about this? Its... its not too late to go back." Rhaenyra asked softly, just wanting to be sure that the path she and her sister, along with all the Northern Crownlanders were about to embark upon was the right one. Baela set her food pack down, turning to look at Rhaenyra, smiling her ever confident smile. "Baela, please, just tell me one more time, what we we are going to do, that this path that I walk is the right one." Rhaenyra's tone was concerned, as though she were having cold feet now, or rather, second guessing herself. She moved away from Visaxes to stand by Jadefyre and Baela.

"Rhaenyra... sister, let not your doubts and fears cloud your heart. You are doing what is needed to be done in order to prevent a mad man from taking control of Westeros, or, at the very least, making it harder for that prick to take control. He is bad news, almost as bad as Tygett. But we have to look out for ourselves, for our own kin and subjects. Why else would we have used all our wealth and power to ensure that as many people as we could spare onto ships, and sailing for the Stepstones?" Baela sighed, adjusting her armor to where it fit more comfortably. She turned to look at Jadefyre, lightly touching the dragon's side. "Rhae, look into your heart, and you will know what we do is right, that no matter what happens, we did the more honorable and noble action, even if no one can see it right now. Let Aerys have his stupid throne, let us see if he can even keep it, let alone run a Kingdom. I love you sister, and together, we can overcome anything. Now, lets ride." Baela leapt up, grabbing onto the sadle of Jadefyre, and pulling herself up.

"Lets not keep these bastards waiting? I think it is high time we showed the world what happens when you defy the will of the Dragon, for even a female dragon is just as deadly as the male, if not more so." She smiled, letting out a soft peel of girlish laughter, before fixing her visor shut. Baela shooed Rhaenyra away, towards her own dragon, as she directed Jadefyre to start walking out of the Dragon Pit.

Rhaenyra looked at Baela, feeling more confident and assured in her resolve to lay waste to the walls and gates of King's Landing. Baela was the battle born leader, while Rhaenyra was more of a statesman, but right now, all that was needed were dragon riders, two women who were willing to risk it all for the greater good, or so they though in their minds. She watched Jadefyre and Baela move out of the Dragon Pit, and out into the sun and cobblestones of the square. The dragon and its rider glistened in the sunlight, the emerald and jades of the dragon, and the black and red of its rider. The sight was as if it were something from a storied tale of times long past. Sighing, Rhaenyra mouthed one last prayer, looking back at Drogon, before rushing to mount Visaxes. She soon made her way out into the courtyard that dominated the area around the Dragon Pit, feeling warmer already in the sunlight of the new day.

Ser Trevan watched both Princesses guide their dragon out of the dimness of the Dragon Pit and into the square. Both beasts were magnificent, glowing brightly in the sunlight, the sun's warming rays reflecting and refracting in an array of colors. The young knight watched as he liege ladies bantered back and forth, watching them speak to one another, how they were so... so perfect and amazing. They were like goddesses decended from the heavens, sent by the Seven to rectify all that had been wrong in the world. He had seen Aerys III for himself, and like the princesses, was not impressed, nor did he trust the little sod. It was in this quiet self though that Rhaenyra spoke out to him, beckoning him close.

"Ser Trevan... you will have the honor of sealing the porticullis of the Dragon Pit. I want you to jam it shut... then you are to make for the docks... you will have ten minutes tops, before we take to the skies, and cleanse this infection that plagues the city. Lord Buckwell, Rykker, take everyone but Ser Trevan and nine others, ride hard, ride fast, and make for the docks. Take command of the fleet, and head for the pirate harbor of Bloodstone. We will make our home their, and wrest it from the filthy blighted bastards who currently control it. Like Daemon Targaryen before us, we will not suffer to live under the rule of a bastard who does not recongize us nor our worth to the Realm. Long live the Targaryen rule!" She exclaimed, turning to lead her dragon out of the way. They would have little to no time, but if no one held them up, they could escape and be long gone before anyone bothered to look for them.

Ser Trevan picked out his nine men, all of them knowing that they very well may not escape the city, should they be caught in their dash from the Dragon Pit to the Docks, clear on the other side of the city. The remainder of the Crownlanders rushed off to secure the docks, under the command of Lord Rykker, and Lord Buckwell his second. They perhaps had it easy, but at least in Ser Trevan's amethyst eyes, he would be doing a great honor to the Targaryen Princessess. As he watched his fellow soldiers depart, Rhaenyra and Baela did their last checks, getting their dragons ready for flight. The two creatures seemed giddy, as if they could not wait to finally be free of the ground, and on their way to the heavens above.

He turned his gaze back to the porticullis that could partially seal the Dragon Pit. Aside from a postern door, this massive gate was the only way in or out of the ancestral home of Targaryen dragons. With no time to waste, Ser Trevan rushed inside with his hand picked team. They set to the work at hand, rushing to get the porticullis sealed as best they could, and hamper it from being opened, at least long enough to buy them time to escape. The ten men let the massive metal and wooden porticullis come crashing down, cutting a few ropes that served to make raising the massive thing easier, and then hacking away at the wooden spindles that held the chains of the raising mechanisms. The jammed their spears into the gaps between the chains, smashing crates and barrels to create debris to slow the unjamming process.

Ser Trevan looked out the porticullis, watching in awe as both sisters took flight, their massive dragons, who were both dwarfed by the black dread that sulked in the farthest pen, leaping from the ground to take flight, the wings flapping and kicking up dust and hay, sending it everywhere. He turned away, motioning to his men that they were done, they could do no more to hamper the raising process of the porticullis. They all rushed out the postern door, slamming it shut, and jamming its lock with a sword. Ser Trevan followed the men, running to their waiting horses, and mounting up. The wooden doors still stood open, but little would be gained in closing them, and so, he wheeled his horse around, grabbing a Tyrell banner that had been left behind, and charging at the head of his ten man squad away and down a side street, making all due haste for the harbor.



Rhaenyra and Baela now circled above the dragon pit, warming their dragons up for the trials to come. They watched as Ser Trevan rushed out of the Dragon Pit, watched as he waved up at them, and then rode off with the remaining Crownlanders in this section of the city. Anyone who was not at the harbor by the time the ships shoved off, was either wounded, dying, or dead, and they could not be helped. Rhaenyra closed her eyes, taking a deep breath of the fresh air from high above the city, free of all its stenches and odors. The wind rushed around her, tugging at her body, flowing through the cracks and crevices of her armor, into her visor and into her hair. She smiled, finally feeling free for the first time in a long while.

Baela looked across the way at her sister and her dragon. The two were easing into their flight, their manuvers lazy and without risk. She laughed, watching her sister just enjoy being in the air, being free of the ground and the world below her. Baela's gaze turned to the world around her, to the Red Keep, to the walls of King's Landing, and to the city below. It was a massive sprawling urban city, that dominated much of the land that the eye could see. The Crakehalls had many of their siege engines either at the walls, or almost upon them. Vicious fighting was taking place at the walls and gates of King's Landing. To the Red Keep, the smoke was dying down, no doubt a sign that the sellswords had been all but defeated. To the city center, Crakehall forces duked it out with Goldcloaks and Tyrell forces, while much of the Western Edge of the City was aflame.

Baela could see sporadic fighting towards the South, perhaps outriders or scouts who were harrassing the defenses by the harbor and River Gate. She wheeled her dragon over, allowing her to circle about the Dragon Pit once more. It was now or never she thought, as she looked over at her sister.

Rhaenyra finally returned to herself, letting the ease and calm go, to be replaced by the weight of her duty and mission sink in. The walls and gates would burn, and burn, and burn. She looked over to Baela, waving at her, and then pointing to the Northern edge of the city, and in particular, the Dragon Gate. Then she pointed at Baela, and then to the Southern edge of the city, to the King's Gate. They had gone over their plan during the night before, and once more in the Dragon Pit. They nodded to one another, gesturing good luck to one another, and then veered off, flying towards their seperate targets.

Rhaenyra would start in the North, burning everything from the Dragon Gate to the Gate of the Gods. Baela in the South, burning from the King's Gate to the Gate of the Gods. They'd burn the gates, the watch towers, the very walls themselves, leaving nothing unscathed from the cleansing flames of their dragons. Each dragon and its rider cast a shadow on the city below them, as the flew to their starting points, taking their time to get there, and then to circle for the time it took to recite a prayer for the Seven, and perhaps for themselves, while they each steeled themselves for what was to come.

Ser Trevan and his men was perhaps a mile from the harbor, looking high into the sky to see both dragons racing in seperate directions. He cursed, knowing it would all begin soon, needing to make better time, needing to get to the safety of the ships, and the open ocean now, rather than later. He dumped his shield and spare spear, tossing his helm aside, knowing every pound dropped would make it easier for his mount to run. The others did the same, dumping spare gear, anything that would not be needed. Hell, he even tossed his saddlebags, riding as light as they all could. But still, would it be fast enough?

As he looked to the skies once more, he heard the roars of the dragons, and new it had begun, hell was being unleashed unto the world around him, the fires and flames of demons, of nightmares, of dragons, were being expelled into the world, let loose onto those foolish enough to be caught in the gouts of flame. The very air changed, the smell, the taste, the feel of it, from a normal, albeit smoky, summer day, to that of a hellishly hot summer, one of oppressive heat and smoke, and the smell of burning everything. Wood, stone, metal, and worse, flesh... it filled the air in an acrid miasma, a smoke the blotted out the sun, causing Ser Trevan to puke his breakfast up as he rode... drawing ever closer to the harbor, and freedom.

Lord Rykker looked on from the deck of his ship, watching as the dragons began to lay waste to the walls of King's Landing, ingniting the very stones that made them on fire, turning the red walls into glowing red walls, the stones themselves seeming to move. He looked away, knowing full well that many a man and woman would be engulfed in those flames, that people, both good and bad, would die today, but... no, the cost was worth it, this had to be done. You had to cull the herd from time to time, in order to prevent diesease from spreading, and that diesease was Aerys, the fatal spawn of madness. He turned to the deck crew, giving the order for them to shove off, weigh anchor. Ser Trevan was not here... but he could not wait any longer, less he jeporadize so much more.

The few remaining warhsips of the Crownlander fleet began to weigh their anchors, pulling from the docks and muddy shoreline, readying their sails to make all due haste to get the hell out of King's Landing. Many of the ships had already sailed, making way for the Blackwater bay, and the freedom of the Narrow Sea. Only Lord Crabb's ship remained, tethered to the docks taking on the last few soldiers and refugees that it could hold. Lord Crabb stood by the wheel, looking out at the city as it burned, watching the towers, both those of the defenders, and those of the besiegers, burning, watching the flames lick up and down the walls, across the houes, watching the reds and oranges create billowing clouds of black smoke. There was nothing he could do, he knew this, but he surely hope that the dragons killed as many Crakehall bastards as they could.

Ser Trevan finally galloped into the harbor, passing through the River Gate. He tossed the Tyrell banner aside, letting it fall into the mud of the river side. He saw that one ship remained, one out of the many that had been there this morning. He galloped faster, pushing his horse as hard as he could go, making for the gangplank. He saw Lord Crabb, standing with his household guards, watching the work of the Princesses. He too had seen that work, felt it too, but none of that mattered now, when his salvation was so close, so very close at hand. He rode on, waving his right hand at Lord Crabb, to signal him to wait a bit longer... just enough for him and the other six to make it aboard. Sadly, three men had been cut down in combat, but their sacrifices allowed the rest to escape.

Rhaenyra wheeled about for another pass. She could feel the heat of Visaxes, the flames rushing from his mouth. She looked down, looking at the rising smoke and flames of the carnage she was creating. She shook hear head, trying to not think of all those that had been burned alive, and all those who would die from the flames later. She looked ahead, seeing that her sister had nearly reached the Gate of The Gods, and that the walls to the West and South were burning fiercely. She refocused at what she was doing, guiding Visaxes to finish his pass of the wall section between the Old Gate and the Gate of the Gods. The wooden siege tower nearest to Rhaenyra belched smoke and flames, before exploding from the imense heat. She then pulled up, having Visaxes fly high once more, out of the range of any enemy scorpions that could harm her.

Baela watched her sister work, smiling within her helm as she circled around to make her first pass on the Gate of Gods. It was shut tight, but that'd do little to stop dragon flames. Jadefyre let loose a terrifying roar, before letting loose a massive stream of flames that engulfed the entire front of the gate, and its towers. She did not linger long, peeling away to gain altitude and distance before passing at the gate again. It was the last target, and would allow for every gate to be entered and exited freely, save the Iron Gate and the River Gate, which had not been touched. She looked down, to see Rhaenyra and Visaxes attacking the gate now, spitting flame at the stone, metal, and wood that protected the city. It was a sight to see, from this high up, to watch a dragon wreak its destruction.

Rhaenyra pushed the reigns forward, causing Visaxes to roar and spout more flames. He enjoyed this, she could tell. He had been cooped up too long, been used for show, rather than tell, so to speak. Still, she had to be careful, less a lucky archer or crossbowman scored a hit on her. She pulled away, leaving the flaming torrent of the Gate of Gods to allow Baela to make another pass. She pushed Visaxes, the dragon roar in anger, as he flew higher. No doubt he wished to feast upon the burning flesh... but there was no time for that. She patted Visaxes on his neck, calling out to the dragon, "There will be time for that later, be patient for now... let us finish cleansing the city Visaxes."

By now, Baela had finished her pass... and all that was left was for both of them to complete a simultaneous pass of the Gate of Gods, to leave it alight for many hours to come. Together, they dove, spouting their flames from under, the gouts of dragonfire setting the Gate of Gods awash in flames, engulfing the towers, the gatehouse, and the gate itself with cleansing, burning anyone within, and around it. The sisters, one atop a red dragon, the other atop a green, nodded to one another, and made for the sea, making for their ships that were sailing away from Westeros, and to the unknown. They flew over King's Landing, looking down at the smoking walls and towers, looking at the broken gates, and then to eachother. They could not turn back now, and it was fate's turn to decide what was going to happen now.

Rhaenyra and Baela Targaryen flew up and over the Red Keep, and out to the Blackwater Bay, making their way East, and then South, to meet up with the bulk of their fleet, watching over the few stragglers, who had just finished leaving the harbor, and were setting sail. Rhaenyra hoped Ser Trevan had made it to safety, but only time would tell who would make it to the Stepstones, and who would have to pay the heavy cost of their actions back in Westeros. She hoped that their messages to the Northern Crownlands had been heeded, and that when everyone started looking for them, they would find empty castles, holdfasts, and lands. The Northern Crownlands had chosen its path, and for better or worse, sought to bring life anew to Daemon Targaryen's old fallen kingdom, the Kingdom of the Stepstones.

((Collab with @agentmanatee))

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. 'So much for that.'

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!

---

"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.

Maegor's Holdfast was a good place, more than many, to call a secure holdout. It was difficult to enter, difficult to exit. It was guarded well, and since the Red Keep had been cleansed, it seemed like like the place was calming down, the fight entering the afternoon, and the noise of fire outside. Garland had not seen it, but the reports were thick and thin. The walls were aflame, two gates were left open, and the Crakehalls were divided. Part of them were inside, part of them were out. The Reachman force had been taken of almost a third of it's force...and half the Crakehalls were dead, or running. The odds looked better, and better. Though...Garland still did not like it at all. The report of Rhaenyra and Baela heading South-West was a worrysome one...towards the Stormlands, or what? The Stepstones?

Garland had been left with only his Tyrell guard and a few other nobles in the city that had chosen to stay, and it seemed that the order to get the others back to the holdfast was coming through. Yet on the reclined chair, Garland feeling only a little better after having some food, he knew there was much to think of. Maybe Baela was right.....the more he thought of it, the more it felt a little real. She was perhaps wrong about it all, that maybe he was just a boy, a boy that could be fixed. Yet...the memory of those purple eyes staring into him were different than Baela's. They seemed truly a little devoid of logical thought, they seemed far too weathered, far too young, and this in itself was a cause of madness, Garland thought. He had never been protected, looked after, cared for.

Hers seemed like a warrior's, a great woman, a woman that felt like she truly sat as a real Targaryen with a true fire that knew when to be bold, when to really make a move. And Aerys's....it did not sit with that greatness. He was a boy, and he was a boy that was making poor decision after poor decision, not acting in his own interest, not acting in his allies interest, and certainly relying on luck. In his own head, Garland could guess the relative calm inside the Holdfast was good, and it had given him time to think. Time to ponder, what the hell to do.

The Reach served the Targaryens loyally, unfaithfully, and Garland always knew it was the answer, to give it their all for the true King, the son of Daenys Targaryen, who did deserve the crown. Yet Baela's case was strong..what if he was another Aerys the Mad, another boy that did not know his mannerisms, and from his stares and actions, he seemed to not act at all his age. He seemed strange, aloof, and most of all, a King that did not have the strength to do what he had to. Bravery could only get you so far. Wisdom took wounds like these to learn, Garland thought to himself. Aerys did not unify his Kingdoms, as much as Garland as Hand did not...perhaps Dorne would listen, but if the Crakehalls spouted the word of the Red God, they would not be the most trustworthy ally to have, not after the conflicts in the Torrentine Range. As for the Riverlands and The Vale, it was completely uncertain.

It was at that moment that one of Garland's guards entered, Mern putting the visor of his helm up.
"Lord Garland. " He bowed, as Garland nodded.
"Ser Willas is heading out with the Kingsguard, but before he left, he gave me this rose to give to you." The guard left it on the table, as Garland sat up further in the chair. He could walk soon...he still felt weak in his legs, and even being carried here by Footly and Bar Emmon was a difficulty, he had to restore it somehow. Taking the Rose, he looked over it. Yet a note sat inside it's petals, as he plucked it out.

Reading it to his head, he didn't even know. This was not good news...yet it was. Somehow it confirmed things in his head, yet it didn't. Where she was going, what she was doing, what she intended, what she felt....maybe this was something. He had to think. Garland knew that whatever he did, it would last like blood on sand, it would not fade, it would stay, and that the right thing for family had to be done. He sighed to himself, as he shook his head. Only their own path was clear, and Garland could guess that he had to make some very questionable decisions now.

The thorns had to emerge, and now, they had to play their objective home. Ideas were futile without power, and no doubt, even if the Crakehalls burnt, the city would not hold long to the common folk. He had been nervous about it for a while, but he had an idea now for where he had to go and where his people would go, one that would at the very least, create an air of confusion. A regular fight would be long and hard, but as for Gerald Crakehall and his merry band, they would have been cut down, and no doubt, the city was in anarchy. It was no place to stay, and while Garland had mooted playing Aerys's Hand a little longer, it was no longer worthwhile in the complete lack of a political environment that existed...his power was completed for his return, and Willas could handle Aerys's tuition and current position as he could. Garland had to leave, as much as he hated the idea, and he had to regroup with the rest of the Reach, to give Aerys his power, while sorting a few other things out too.

The city could be left to eat itself alive, and no doubt, would be left ravaged. The flames still burnt on the walls, and nobody was coming in, nobody was leaving, and if they did, they were going through two very tight gates indeed...and whatever was left was stuck in rout, with no visible reinforcements to know of. A Reachman force couldn't chase that and completely destroy it in the valley of the Blackwater Rush...but Garland knew that there were others that could, very well do that...though he hadn't even told Alerie as of yet what it would yield. Aerys had to leave too, for Dragonstone, and the rest of the Reachmen inside, well, he had choices to make with them. Aerys being safe elsewhere seemed a priority, while the city was going to destroy itself, and it would at least protect Drogon far better than the pit would right now. Some of it had occured to Garland as being the only way out, either of staying neutral with Baela, or fighting a hard war that would yield nothing but a potentially mad King, and people viewing Garland with contempt. It felt like the third way, it felt like a way to do something that at least kept the family powerful...while giving them the assets they needed. Much of it, he did not want to think too clearly on, but all he could see, was that he needed to

"Everyone, let's get out of here. Sreas, get Boberto up. We're vastly outnumbered here by maniacs with axes. At the big castle over there we may have a chance," Alyssa shouted, pointing towards the large Red Keep, looming over Flea Bottom. Sreas pulled Boberto onto his feet, still grinning that creepy sinister grin of his even in all the chaos. The twenty of them slowly stumbled, tripped, and swore their way up the road towards it.

As the last Stormguard ran through the huge gates, two others heaved upon it until it was securely closed. Alyssa released the pent-up breath she had been holding for the last sprint up the hill. Then she looked around at the scene around her. They were in a cavernous courtyard, leading to a large door, possibly leading to a throne room. Despite this, the hall seems rather unnervingly silent and devoid of people.

"This way. Come on, we're not completely safe here," muttered Alyssa, gesturing in a direction she hoped would lead further into the castle. The Stormguards began winding their way through the many halls of the Red Keep, and with some intuition and a few very annoying "I told you so"s from Boberto the ended up in the Lower Bailey, gazing upon the bridge leading to Maegor's Holdfast.

Alyssa barged through the door. "Anyone here can stitch a wound?" she asked with urgency in her voice.

The guards drew swords, but recognized Alyssa quickly, as Garland looked over, chuckling.
"These men can, they've done it for me!" Garland gave a hearty laugh, as he looked at the Stormlander, nodding confidently, as a couple of the Tyrell guards attended to the man, Boberto being taken over towards a bed, a Maester that was also taking shelter in the Holdfast walking over.

"Great, this way," Alyssa said, rushing back out of the room. She waved Sreas over, and he dragged the strangely quiet Boberto into Maegor's Holdfast.

"I think he's passed out from the blood loss," Sreas commented, smiling ear to ear.

Alyssa turned her head to face Garland. "What's going on? Why are there pigmen running around, killing anything they see? Where's Rhaenyra Targaryen?"

Garland looked up, coughing a little, as he shook his head.
"You saw it, I didn't. Those dragons of the Targaryens set fire to the walls and gates, all apart from the northern gates. It's going to burn for days, and thousands upon thousands of men are now dead." Garland coldly said, shaking his head.

"They left, Alyssa. Rhaenyra and Baela. They are going somewhere, that is not Westeros. Gave us a chance to do what we can to solve our Kingdoms, and they seem to want something else." Garland simply said to her, sipping some water down, as he motioned for her to sit down.

"You're a hell of a fighter, I hear Lady Baratheon. When this all dies down, we should spar....but as for now, I would tell you that those Boars are running. The people will not be happy, and there will be unrest, serious unrest. It will become every man for himself soon, and I know you and I are not safe here in this city. Aerys neither. We have not won any battle, we have merely pissed the smallfolk off, torched a few thousand men, and broken the rest. They'll run, and we'll be hit by fucking peasants. Best we do something...different." Garland added, clearing his throat once more.

"We need to keep you safe, Seven Hells, look at me. You can't follow my fate. So I suggest we do something that wins us a war. Play our hand in leaving, fighting from the south against the Westerlands, on a strong base...your Kingdom's rebellion crushed, and in return, your forces free to fight. And perhaps with you a seat on my council. Hmm..Master of Soldiers....I would think a Lady such as yourself would greatly befit that title, regardless of what any man may say." Garland added, chuckling, half serious in his suggestion. The long brown-haired Tyrell did seem to still hold his provincial, charming nature, even in a shitty situation like this, it would appear, though his thoughts were clearly on the matter at hand.

Alyssa couldn't help but chuckle a little. "You Tyrells never stop talking, do you? Very well. Do you know any ways out of this keep? Luftum, get the men ready." There was no answer. "Luftum? Where is Luftum?"

"Careful, my Lady. We can't be too fast. It's not that which I worry for, we can find our way out easily enough. I will meet Aerys before leaving, and once I have established what is going on, I'll have Willas deal with the city itself again. Aerys would be a fool to not take my advice, and go. I thought it would be wise to stay...well, we stand nothing here, and we have done all we have needed to. Now we have a war to win." Garland added, shaking his head as he clutched his rose, the rose from Baela. He didn't even show the message, keeping it close, and with the writing small, it couldn't be seen..
"And no, we don't stop.....if you don't mind me, I'm Hand of the King, and paranoid that you'll die, my sister will die, my men will die, or I'll die. And as it is, we've all come close enough for now. So I have to apologize for that, Lady Baratheon. I guess we have much to talk of, and very, very little time." He added, as he sipped some water down.
"Tell me, you're acutely aware of just how many people want Gris deposed, correct? I would put it in the realms of tens of thousands...poorly armed, poorly prepared, but angry, angry peasants. Think on what we have here, and tell me, you know I have my end of the deal to keep."

"He's my brother. I don't care if the whole world wants his head," Alyssa responded, curtly. "We have a deal. The Tarths for the Rebellion."

Garland nodded in his position, knowing she was right.
"And you'll have that, Alyssa. The men of Tarth are soon going to fall under Willas's command, and he'll know where to send them, to utterly break every Crakehall. If they rout, they cannot fight. They sweep up the mess. As for the Stormlands, we will help you deal with it, both with a set of mercenaries that are currently in the Narrow Sea, and the men of the Reach. Lord Belgrave Tarly is one of our finest commanders, and he'd enjoy putting the western vassals of the Stormlands back into your hands...I'd be able to give the order within days, and he could do more damage to that rebellion than any equivelent I know in sheer manpower. The decision is, how far you will go, Alyssa." Garland quipped to her, as he asked her inteligently.
"Kill the whole Kingdom of the Stormlands, and you won't have grain, men, or power left. And that leads us to the Kingdom of Dorne wanting to spread it's faith, farther and further. You must destroy this revolt quickly, and it is mutual for all of us that you do. Reachmen will not be taken well in your Kingdom...not unless they stop a greater evil than a revolt itself. Give them some of their demands, I mean, what is it they want, Alyssa? They want a Lord that cares, food, wine, and stabillity. The Reach needs no change because of that. If they want representation...then give them as little power as you can get away with. Then return to our wars, and you'll not need worry about how many want your, or Gris's head. It'll hurt, but tell me, what other future do you see? One where we send in the whole armies of The Reach, and we are in a constant war? Against almost two-thirds of your Kingdom?"

"You're right. What we need is for the kingdom to put their faith in the nobles once again. However, there is a problem. The Stormlands has remained arguably neutral for the last 80 years. We haven't had any fighting between us and any other kingdom, thanks to my grandfather and father. I wouldn't suppose you have a conveniently evil entity for us to defeat?" Alyssa answered.

"A convenient evil entity...well, that would be the Crakehalls, wouldn't it?. This alliance is far more than just soldiers, Alyssa. Do not think we aren't willing to give you something bigger." Garland said, knowing exactly his thoughts on this. It was true- the 60,000 men in The Reach were mobilizing likely, and heading for Highgarden, to then attack either King's Landing or the Westerlands. By then, Garland could be home, and at least able to mount a steed and join his soldiers in the field. The idea itself was one that seemed to play well in Garland's head...it worked well to keep them in their place, and no doubt, with a change in a political sphere, would come the Stormlands looking at the Reach in some protection, grain and yield. Whilst of course, stopping any of the anarchy spreading, and the Stormlander men joining the war, on the side of the Reach. It was a logical move to make, and not a stupid one. It was calculated, and cunningly planned, one that would drive House Tyrell with an ally, giving them more time to breathe, more time to wield some poltical clout, and an additional frontier that would protect the capital.

"You need power, and once you deliever a blow from two sides against the revolt, you can call the shots. Cull their power, and give them a little to stop it entirely in it's tracks, restoring the nobles to you. If Gris doesn't do it, then you must. Then, you can do what you wish, and if Gris wishes to be his tinkering self, then he can be, while his Kingdom is run for him, and you continue our alliance to help us uphold Aerys Targaryen. War will put their minds at ease. Do what you must, Alyssa."

"I understand. You have shared necessary wisdom with me, and I appreciate it," Alyssa said, trying to finish the conversation. "Now how do you propose we get out of this deathtrap and back to our respective kingdoms?"

"Well...there's no more Crakehalls blocking the route to the port. I would imagine...it wouldn't be too difficult. Well then, you best get a different ship, and sail for Tarth, as it's safe. I'll sail out soon...but we don't need to discuss specifics. I'll make my way there." The Reach Lord said, as he brushed hair from his pretty face once more, nodding.
"The Redwyne Fleet is half-deployed there, so I can't imagine it'll be a problem. It was good to talk to you, and glad to see of your safety, Lady Baratheon." Garland said, as he sat up in his chair a little more, knowing that they were done with buisness now, and that Alyssa had at least had a chance to hear what he thought.

Alyssa turned to face her guards. "Everyone to the port. If Luftum doesn't show up, we're leaving him behind." She bowed quickly to Garland, and left him in Maegor's Holdfast.

Alyssa was gone quickly, brashly, in and out, like a real Stormlander. She had heart, and Garland respected that, she had more balls than his brother ever did, that much the Reachman knew. They just dealt with problems tactfully, and didn't act slowly, jumping to conclusions, dealing with it as it came in a manner that perhaps House Tyrell did. It was admirable, even Garland knew that it was straight to the point, yet it was a complicated situation from Storm's End outward, and that it would still be a long process. Still, there was much he could do in the coming time, and his mind was now set on dealing with the problems of the Realm, bit by bit, and doing his task. Leaving was a difficult choice, but it would yield a set of Kingdoms for Aerys to rule, and the faithful Tyrells by his side, just like they had been for the Gardeners in the time of the Reach Kings. Everyone always forgot that history, they only thought of House Tyrell as upstart...but they always, always forgot that history. Crakehall, Targaryen, Baratheon, Stark, even the old Lannister, they forgot the story, they forgot the way that a rise to power occured. And Garland knew it would never repeat, not until the sun set in the west and the seas dried again. But the Game of Thrones had changed, and the King on the seat was not a man that Garland ever wished to be...that sharp pointy seat belonged to someone else, and the power around it to the people that gave that King his practical right to rule.

(working in unity with @kingkonrad)

Tyget had been stuck in back for more than a few days now, waiting both for a return of letters, and the arrival of the North. He had become fed up with the latter, and now he and the 5 lords who had accompanied him to Pyke sat in Pyke's counxil room arguing over who the new lords of Pyke should be. The Lords present were Edrick Payne, Jaime Lefford, Tytos Dogget, Berrick Brax, and Martyn Clegane. "Obviously, the only good choice is House Humble.", Lord Clegane rumbled off, the elderly lord Brax scoffed at the middle aged Lord, "You cannot seriously believe any Islander house should be placed back at the head of Pyke. A Westerlands house should be placed here, keep these Ironborn under control.", Clegane clearly disagreed, "If you think for an instant that these pillagers will not immediately rebel then you're a fool! House Humble is an Islander house, but the other Islansders do not respect them. I doubt they will be as likely to rebel against them, since they are Ironborn, but they'll never be able to garner the support they would need to declare independence again. We solve all our problems with it!", before Brax xould retort Tyget raised his hand, and looked to his assembled Lords before sighing, "You're both wrong. The Ironborn are not like us. You must remember that, they respect only one thing. Strength. We put House Humble in Pyke they'll be gone in a month. The same goes for a Westerlands House. We cannot put anyone here who could be so easily overcome. Maester Elrin.", Pyke's maester turned to his current lord, eyebrow raised, "Yes Your Grace?", Tyget poured himself a third glass of wine as he spoke, "Tell me, with the Kraken Fleet gone and the Iron Fleet nowhere to be seen what house has the Largest Fleet and most gold?", Maester Elrin thought for a moment before responding, "That would be... House Harlaw Your Grace.", Tyget nodded and took a drink from his glass before continuing. "They will be the ones who decide what happens after we have gone. They have the most strength, so the Islanders will follow them. W-", Tyget was cut off by Jaime Lefford, "Then this is simple! We give Pyke to Lord Harlaw, name him Lord of the Iron Islands! He gets Pyke and we have an ally in the Iron Islands!", Tyget nearly asked Lorch to impale the stupid bastard for interrupting him and glared at the young Lord, "As I was about to say, it is not that simple. The Ironborn ARE NOT like us. We cannot simply through gold and titles and land at them and expect them to bend the knee. They only respect strength, and gold does not mean strength here. They have a saying around here as I know you are aware of, 'Paying the Iron Price', do you know what it means? It means that an Ironborn would rather kill a lord for his jewels than take them as a gift. House Harlaw represents the single biggest threat to us right now, as even now I believe they have more ships than we do. And if we must bring them to war we will not have a ship filled with Wildfire this time. We must be careful, if we put Harlaw in Pyke we must be careful about how we do so. We must somehow convince them that taking th gold price is their best option.", it was then that a paige entered, coming from the Rookery, one letter in his hand with the seal of Lord Banefort. Tyget raised an eyebrow, but opened the letter as the lords returned to arguing. As he read, his heart sank... and was then filled with rage. He started shaking... the parchment in his hands was shredded and tossed away... wine... he needed wine. Shakily he grasped the glass, but as he shook, the glass was shattered in his hand, the shards flying across the table and a few impaling his hand. The Lords had gone silent now, they were watching their lord as he was engulfed in a silent rage. He turned to the Maester, Maester... Elrin... bring me... pen and parchment. The rest of you... prepare to leave Pyke. We set sail tomorrow at dawn... now get out.", none of the lords questioned him, they simply stood... all but clegane that is, who dared to ask, "King Tyget, what is in the lett-", he was interrupted by Tyget shouting, "GERALD DISOBEYED MY DIRECT ORDER TO PULL BACK PEACEFULLY!! HE ATTACKEd KINGS LANDING, AND WAS DRIVEN BACK! EVERYONE, OUT!", the outburst finished the lords filed out, Maester Elrin returned, bandagin Tyget's hand as well as bringing his pen and parchment. With that, Tyget wrote his letter to Lord Harlaw.



That done, Tyget gestured to Maester Elrin to bring him another glass of wine, and told him to send the letter by rave to Lord Harlaw... perhaps something would go right, and he would not need to be on this island any longer.

______________________________________________________________________________________



What had he done? It had all gone wrong... they were panicking! The Westerland forces were in full retreat! Just SEEING the dragons of Rhaenyra and Baela torch the wall and Gates was breaking them! It was meant to secure the city for them not drive them away! This was terrible, and he needed to be gone when the smoke cleared, if he wasn't the Tyrells would hang him for treason... but if he followed the Westerlands forces they might find out he had caused this! It was a bad situation either way.

He and his men ran, they needed to at least get out of the city and they could decide where to go afterwards. As they ran through Kevan caught something in the corner of his eye, a flaming blade and a Whitecloak... Gerald! He was fighting a Kingsguard, and looked like he was about to run out of steam. Kevan hesitated a moment, before calling his men to halt, "Men! With me NOW! My cousin is in need of help!", though they had lost around 30 men, Kevan's houseguard was still large, and the one Kingsguard was about to be overwhelmed as Kevan and his men charged towards the combat between Gerald and the Whitecloak.

"Keva- OH, FUCK YOU!" Gerald attempted to yell for his cousin, only to get another shield to the helm, something that made him more and more infuriated. He once again lept back to look over the situation. The whitecloakless whitecloak stood between him and his cousin, who had a large personal guard with him.

So he had to get there, and considering how far he had already been driven back, that may have been a little easier said than done, but he had a little bit left in his chest that felt the warmth of fury surrounded by pain from his wound and his multiple bruises. His eyes shot up from behind his helm, and he launched himself forth, bashing against the knight's shield and parrying a soft swing from his right. Gerald took one last deep breath, before screaming half out of pain and half out of exertion. His body took to the air, again and again, his feet barely holding on the ground, trails of flame following his every cut. He was wide open to any attack, but he continued, and the knight made no effort to stop him. He stopped for a second, kicking the knight back long enough to give Kevan a subtle nod, before continuing his assault, driving the knight further and further into his cousin's grasp.

Kevan gulped at the thought of fighting a Kingsguard, even if he was tired from fighting, so he did what any man would do, "Men! Kill the Whitecloak! Any man who does gets 100 Gold Dragons!", at that the Houseguard surged forward, and Kevan was glad he was not gooing to be the focus of a Kingsguard. As he and the 68 or so men surged towards the Knight, Kevan would attempt to come up beside Gerald, "Cousin! Where is Tyget? Did he order this attack?"

Gerald had fallen back to where the guards had come from, his side felt like it had been lit with dragonfire. He pulled the dented boar from atop his head, looking at his cousin and grimacing as he gripped at his wound. "Tyget ordered me to stand down, I guess I should have listened." He pulled himself to his feet from the kneel he had fallen into, still gripping his wound with his left hand. "So, dragons, was that you? Because... shit." He interrupted his own question to look back at the kingsguard with wide eyes.

The white shielded knight had stood before the charge, and was now pushing his way through the guards, despite heavy wounding on his person. He turned towards the young king as he ran his blade through a boar's throat. Half a growl, half a yell, his words were surprisingly calm considering the circumstances. "Fly to the Holdfast! Now!" Before Gerald could turn, he felt the sting of dirt and wind from the dragon's wings as it flew for the holdfast, but he didn't look up, instead, his body twitched beyond his control, and his stomach opened up, allowing a squid to squelch within, and butterflies travelled up to leave through his mouth.

The knight's armor had been turned red by his own blood, yet he had managed to get through the household guard, like all he had left was instinct to kill Gerald and Kevan, a force like the wind. Gerald gripped at his sword again, motioning for Kevan to do the same.

Kevan's face turned white as the Kingsguard cut through enough of his House guard to reach him and Gerald, and he drew his blade in preparation, but hoping his guard could stop him or at least end the coming fight quickly. He raised his shield to block whatever the Kingsguard intended to hit him with.

The kingsguard shot forth with speed that Gerald couldn't react to, his entire face flew open, his eyes, his mouth and his brows, he swore he could hear his ears opening. The knight speared forth with his blade, catching Kevan's right cheek and going up. It flew loose, blood going to the sky, and Kevan's scream following it. While the guard was distracted, Gerald lunged forth, and his sword went across the white knight's neck, and the helmed head rolled.

He turned to attend to his cousin, and it was a horrible sight. His right eye had been cleaved in two like a side of beef, there was a slash running down from there, stopping about an inch from Kevan's mouth.

Kevan held his hands to his face, writhimg in agony, and obviously screaming, "AHH!! MY EYE! M--mMY EYE!!! I CAN"T.... CAN-CAN'T SEE!! WHAT HAPPENED TO IT??!! BY THE SEVEN AHHHH!!", one of his houseguard started trying to pull the shouting Kevan up to his feet, though it was difficult. As Kevan was lifted to standing his screaming abaited somewhat, more moaning loudly now, "Gerald... h-how bad.... how bad is it?", he moved his hands away, his eye cut clean in half, his hazel eye de-coloured now and blood leaving the ruined orb.

Gerald cringed at the brutal wound, twice as bad as his own when he had fallen in that battle, but this time, he at least hoped that no one would die, even if they could be brought back. Thinking quickly, Gerald twisted his wrist, swinging his sword and snuffing it. He pulled the black cloak from behind him, slashing off a corner and a large bit more. He turned the cloak until it was concentrated enough to act as a bandage, and tied it aroung Kevan's head, he held it out for a second, turning to the guards. "White flower, big green leaves! Now!" The guards quickly scrambled through the closest ditch, pulling out a Small white flower. Gerald grabbed it. In his youth he had hoped to be a maester, good thing too. He crushed it in his hand, and put what remained of it's petals into the makeshift bandage. "I'm going to push this in, don't close your eye, it will hurt, but you have to remain strong, okay cousin?" He held the petals a few inches away from the eye, preparing for what came next.

Kevan stood stock still, his hands curled into fists, "Alright, alright I won't close it just get it over with!", he hoped whatever scar he was going to have was not too bad, after all he was about to have to leave Kings Landing and being a horribly scarred man was not going to help, "And Gerald Yes! I convinced the sisters to burn the gates down! I wasn't expecting... what happened, I swear to you they were trying to help! They despise Aerys Targaryen like us.", with that he braced himself for the pain to come.

Gerald knew it, what other reason would Kevan have to be in the Dragonpit, but hate Aerys? Gerald didn't even know the lad, sure he was a usurper and a Blackfyre, that much he was sure of, but... wait, he should be giving medicinal aid, not thinking about something so foolish. Gerald shook his head, bit his lip, and drove the makeshift bandage in. It would enter the bloodstream, causing some... less than savory effects on the brain, but it would also act as a painkiller until they got some anti-infection. He felt the squelching of the ruined eyeball, and the black fluid leaking from within. He grimaced, tightening the knot with his off hand and then pulling away. Here comes the fun.

As Gerald pushed the flower into Kevan's eye, Kevan screamed, it was extremely painful for a few moments... and then it very quickly wasn't. Suddenly the pain was gone, faing quickly... along with the world around him. It all faded into color suddenllly, the streets the blood, his men, Gerald all of it was fading into the colors... and then he was elswhere, a field? No, no regular field, the colors swam, and ebbed and flowed, he could not focus on anything and the world swam. It was... peaceful, happy... calm... and then he saw it. In the distance, white hair long, flowing, skin alabaster and smooth. Kevan stumbled forward through the colors, slowly making progress towards the figure... he knew it, surely he did? Why else would he be so focused on it? Why was he running to it? Stumbling, he surely looked foolish... and the figure turned, uts features still swimming but with one constant... Violet dots, glowing for eyes. Eventually, he came before it.

He looked up, and the features began to focus, its face swimming into place to form the reason for his insistence on approach. It was Rhaenyra, her face now order amongst the chaos around her, the colors coming to order on her face. She bent down to him, taking his head in her hands, she kissed his cheeks again, though now her lips burned like fire, branding her kiss on his cheeks. It felt good, a stupid smile speading over his face as he stood, laughing with her. They walked and they ran, and they sang and so much... and again he felt peace and calm and happiness... and it all melted away.

Gerald frowned as the effects of the flower set in, Kevan began drooling, and his eye was unfocused and tremoring in it's socket, he was drooling now, saliva dripping to the ground from his lip. Gerald moved himself under Kevan, and began hauling him despite his own injuries, whistling for his horse which didn't come. Damnit. He turned towards the guards, and they had already sent forth one of their horses for him to place Kevan upon.

Gerald pushed his cousin onto the rump of the horse, taking the saddle and moving it to a slow walk, he couldn't risk letting Kevan fall. Gerald sighed, motioning for the guards to follow. He rode for the Iron Gate which he had entered through, and the gate he planned to leave through.

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

They stopped to camp, the howling of the wolves was too much for Gerald to bear, he was half tempted to scream back, but for now they needed a fire, and Gerald needed to bandage his wound.

He tied his horse to a tree, brushing the side of it's head before throwing the now sleeping Kevan over his shoulder and planting him against a log. The rest of the guard lit a fire in front of the injured Master-at-Arms, and then sat, eating rations of meat and what fruits they had left.

Gerald walked over to Kevan, taking a seat beside him, lifting his arm and allowing a guardsman to begin bandaging his wound.

Kevan awoke with a start exclaiming, "Rhaenyra!", the one word escaped his lips as he looked around, no idea where he was. It was dark, night, his eye felt horrible and only his left could see. The field was gone, the colors were gone... Rhaenyra was gone. He looked around, seeing his men and Gerald, his mouth working wordlessly for a moment before he spoke, "where... what... I don't...", he seemed more than a little confused and out of his regular reality.

"Rhaenyra?" Gerald questioned with one raised eyebrow. The guardsman had done surprisingly well at bandaging the wound, but they had to find a maester soon, Gerald wasn't betting on luck saving him this time. "The Targaryen wench? Were you dreaming of her?" Gerald asked coyly, his confusion turned to smugness, and his lower lip engulfed the upper in a smirk that made himself mad. "I mean, I wouldn't, but hey, I'm married, so you can have her." He chuckled, the crackling of the fire ringing in his mind.

Kevan rubbed his left eye, scowling at Gerald's jokes, "You don't... Seven Hells what happened? You don't get it Gerald... I... how do you think I convinced her to burn the gates to the ground? I thought it was going to turn the siege into a trivial matter, didn't think the men would break just by seeing them... so I... may have... offered Rhaenyra... to be my wife, and Wardeness of the west.", he saw no reason to lie to Gerald, what was done was done, and he was an amiable man... if what Tyget had told Kevan was true, "And don't call her a wench."

Gerald growled for a moment, looking away and sniffing up a heavy breath. He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but the words were caught in his throat as he realized what these words meant.

"What you speak of is treason, cousin, Wardeness of the West? Tyget is the Warden of the West, and his wife the Wardeness, you don't mean what I think you mean, do you cousin?" He again raised an eyebrow, his face more boarlike than it had ever been.

Kevan did realise for a moment what Gerald meant, but then he looked disgustedly at Gerald, "Kinslaying? Do I look like a damn Lannister to you?", he realized the mistake of asking that question the moment he asked it, "Don't answer that. Do... what do you think will happen when Tyget takes the throne? Tywin is his heir, and you're the second in line after Tywin. Therefore, as you and Tywin are his heirs to the crown, I am the heir to Casterly Rock... did... did you not know that Gerald?"

Gerald massaged his temples, beginning to speak with his hands before he did his mouth.
"Okay... Why would we simply allow the closest claimant to the throne continue to live in the realm when it is an obvious threat to Tyget's rule? And you really thought that the army wouldn't run when a FUCKING DRAGON was set upon them?! Are you half mad Kevin? You dare insult common sense with these... these idiocies! The others take my arse! And the others take you! We're done talking!" Gerald angrily stood, taking his sword and heading for the woods to hunt.

Kevan's anger rose as Gerald spoke, what right did a man who until a scant few months ago was a fucking crow? "If she marries me, she won't be able to push for the throne anymore you fucking fool! I was tying the family further to the Targaryens and by ruling the Westerlands she would have stopped seeking the Throne! The Dragon was set upon the walls and gates not the damn men! Perhaps if you had prepared the fucking men better we wouldn't even be having this damned conversation right now you fire-worshipping zealot!", he was on his feet now, his guards didn't move, not their place to step between kin unless it got dangerous, "I lost my FUCKING EYE trying to save you, and you repay me with insults?! You may have the name of Crakehall, but you're still acting like a fucking crow!", he shouted at Gerald as he began to walk into the woods.

Gerald turned around, his face beet red, his hands clenched into fists and shaking around his sheathed blade. "It's not her I'm worried about! You hear me!? I've seen it in my flames! That woman will corrupt you, and my brother will die! I'll be sent back to the wall, and then The Rock burns! I know what that means! There is no room for failure in my prophecies! They are correct no matter what they show, and what they show is death for our kin unless we change our course, aye you lost things, eyes, coin, I lost my life once! And I saw it then, the flame within my family, that flame I had awakened, how dare you call what you don't understand zealous foolishness! I hadn't understood her purpose in my flames then, but I know now, and I know now why she continues to appear, with Lord Tyrell and the wretched boy king. Kevan, you know not of loss until you've felt the stranger's touch, the feeling of the great other, the great stallion's cock or WHATEVER it is that comes after death, and you shall listen to me until we sit the Iron Throne, and as long as I live, you shall NEVER sit in the Rock!"

Every word added to his rage, his eye filled with blood, his fists held so tightly his knuckles were white. "You think I'd betray my fucking family??!! For... For what? No woman could EVER force me to betray my family! I Knew Tyget longer than YOU Gerald! While you were at the wall I was born, and I grew up with Tyget as the head of the family! I KNOW HIM! What do you know? Of your own brother? Of your family? You ABANDONED the family! YOU RAN AWAY to fight and join some band of brigands, and you ended at the wall to be friends with a FUCKING LANNISTER!!! Your fire is so damn correct is it? Did it tell you you'd win tonight? To disobey Tyget? Did it tell Stannis he was going to be on the throne all those centuries ago??!! She HATES AERYS! WHY ELSE DO YOU THINK SHE WOULD EVEN GIVE ME A CHANCE??!! And how DARE you deny me what is mine by RIGHTS of LAW!!?? How will you do that Gerald?", he approached his cousin, now one of his guards had stood, and all of them were watching the two Crakehalls intently, "HOW? YOU WON'T BE THE KING! Tyget will be! And then Tywin, and then his son, and his son, and his son but NEVER you! SO HOW COUSIN??!! WHAT DO THE FLAMES TELL YOU??", he was in a spitting rage.

Gerald sniffed, and then he chuckled, and then he laughed. His eyes were pointed squarely at the campfire. "What did she tell you? What did you say, Kevan? Because I know you better than you think. I am Kevan Crakehall, Master of Arms on the small Council and cousin of King Tyget. If you listen to what I have to say, I feel we can all... benefit from this situation., remember that? Kevan? Remember your words? I do, and I remember hers as well, that is what the flames tell me, that is how I know I'm right, Kevan." He shrugged. "But maybe it was just a lucky movement in the fire." He laughed. "Maybe you've not hidden anything. HAH, how likely that is."

Kevan recoiled, his mouth agape at what Gerald had just said... his words, the words he had said to Rhaenyra when they first met mere hours ago. He scowled at Gerald, "What... how do you... you saw us? Talking in your fucking fire... you... fucking... ", he backed up, breathig heavily as he collected himself before talking again, "a fine parlor trick eavesdropping Gerald... what makes you so damn sure she can manipulate me? What makes you think I would EVER betray my family? For any reason? How fucking weak willed do you rhink I am?", he again approached Gerald, the same distance as before now, "Besides, how will you stop me from taking the Rock? It is MINE, by blood and by-" Gerald interrupted. "I've been having dreams of the flames as well, dreams I cannot explain, but I see more in them." He lied, still looking into the campfire. "'I demand to know what the fuck has happened, who in the gods damned Seven kingdoms gives Wilas Tyrell, a traitor to his vows as Kingsguard, regency of Kings Landing! And FURTHERMORE who gave the right to a SLAUGHTER of a sixth of the Goldcloaks! I demand to know why the hell a traitor has been allowed to murder the commander and claim the Goldcloaks for himself!' I was eavesdropping that one from the wall apparently." Any trace of anger on his face had been replaced with a wide grin, and he seemed exceptioally pleased with himself.

Again Kevan stopped speaking as Gerald interrupted him, now perfectly reciting his words to Willas when he arrived in Kings Landing. His grin only made Kevan angrier, "So, you can tell me what I said in the past? That your fucking trick Gerald? Your fire tells you that??!! Fine, you've given me no reason why I would BETRAY my family!"

"As I've shown, Willas, my flames don't lie, no matter what words you speak, and no matter what you think is your future." Gerald's eyes widened a bit, and the flames told him Kevan's next words. 'To hell with your flames!' He would say, and Gerald waited for those words.

Kevan didn't care what Gerald said, he couldn't tell him his future, "To HELL with-" "Your flames? Or were you going to say something else?" Gerald placed a fist to his chest, smiling still.

Kevan's mouth hung open, as he glared at Gerald, "You... you... you can tell what I am going to say? So what? You intend to take from me what is mine and decide my life for me?"

"You can have Casterly Rock," Gerald said without the smile plastered upon his face. "But you will not have Rhaenyra."

Now Kevan smiled, a cruel smile, "Tell me Gerald, how will you stop that? I'll marry whomever I wish. I will certainly not let you kill her because... you had VISIONS in your flames! I'll have Casterly rock AND Rhaenyra Targaryen! Your not my father, and your not my King so how would you stop me?", his sneer was wide.

Gerald stepped back and placed a hand upon his sword, not drawing it, just resting. "I'd kill you." His face remained blank, not even a scowl, his eyebrows were too high, yet not anything else, just a complete lack of emotion. "I'd kill you and suffer the consequences, I'm sure Tyget would believe his brother over the word of whatever person you got to speak for your cold body." The wind picked up, and a soft breeze blew by both men, sending what remained of Gerald's cloak into the air.

Kevan went cold as Gerald threatened to kill him... he was bluffing, kinslaying was one of the worst crimes in existence... he wouldn't, would he? Kevan took a step back, "You... you'd... you fucking wouldn't, your bluffing! Kinslaying? You wouldn't fucking DARE! And if you did, Tyget would hang you, and... and...", he put his hand on his own sword, not sure where this was going now.

Gerald snorted, though his face remained the same, he drew his blade, putting a hand out towards the guardsmen, signifying that they'd better not move. Now was the time to do something scary. Gerald walked over to the campfire, drawing his sword across his arm, allowing a drop of blood to land upon the open flame. The flame grew huge, filling empty air like water. "See your future, Kevan, see your 'loyalty'!" The flames twisted into a vision of Kevan, but slightly aged, wearing lordly attire. It twisted more, into that of Tyget, old and gaunt, wearing a crown of flame upon his head. Then it showed Rhaenyra Targaryen. Finally, the flames grew, showing Tyget tied to a pole, and Kevan throwing a torch. The flames dissipated, back to their normal size, and Gerald held his arm above the flame, giving a frown to Kevan. "Loyal, are you? My vision looked exactly like that, but before your face was covered by a veil of flame, and now I know, and now you know, do not test me, boy." He spat out that last word with all the authority he had left in his fading and tired voice.

Kevan watched the visions, his eyes growing wide as he watched... he looked like a Lord... and Tyget a King. He saw Rhaenyra and then... he burned Tyget... why would he do that? for what reason? No... no this wasn't right, gerald was wrong... Kevan let go of his sword and turned to Gerald, his face white from the experience, "... No. No, it's not right. Why would I burn Tyget? Rhaenyra didn't... she didn't even SPEAK to me... your... it's wrong Gerald! I will never betray my family, regardless of what you say!", his hand was off his sword now, he felt he was safe from any damage.

"How sure are you of that? How sure that I am wrong? How sure that you are a loyal and true man? My flames do not lie, but you seem to be an expert at lying, judging how you continue to lie to yourself." Gerald sheathed his sword and sat upon the log, resting his head upon his knuckles.

Kevan balled his hands into fists, he turned to look at Kings Landing, its walls aflame, its gates gone and turned to ash, and he looked back at Gerald, "Well... it does not matter. I can't go home to Kings Landing, and I can't go back to the Westerlands. How many Lords lost their sons? How many are going to blame the damn dragons? And it was me who loosed them on the city... Gerald I'm leaving, I have... somewhere to go. You can return to the Westerlands and meet Tyget's wrath yourself for disobeying him... I have my own path... he'll know within days, one of the lords is going to send him a letter Gerald, and tell him you told them to charge.", he looked to his guards, "Alright, its a two day march to the holdfast of Harrington. We need to start marching.", He moved to get his things.

Gerald stood clasping his hands. "I hope that eye gets infected, cunt." He glared, before climbing upon his steed and galloping west.

Cidran Harlaw sat at his desk, reclined back in the big heavy leather chair behind it. The heavy sea desk made from the remains of a huge ancient longboat. It might have been an Iron Ship built sometime back in Balon Greyjoy’s time as far as he knew. But this desk provided a great deal of interesting things. A place for him to work, and store vital documents, but it also had a huge space under it where he should be resting his legs, but at the moment his legs are spread and he’s reclining back as his lovely wife bobs her head in his lap. The work he has to do to run his little island hold is spread across the desk, but it’s all outside his mind at his wifes very skillful tongue work. As the two sit enjoying themselves a knock comes at the door, Cidran calling for who ever it is to come in. His very son Peytr entering. Young Petyr Harlaw looks at what’s happening and sighs, “Well, I’d be shocked if I didn’t know how much you two enjoy your merry making. Walking in on my own parents lovemaking, anyone else would be aghast.” Cidran didn’t answer just grunted, and pulled his wife gently off his shaft, “Later my dear.” Tillia licked her lips and got up smoothing her leathers, as before she came in, she had been out in the courtyard training with some of her ladies. She’d come in smelling of sweat and salt air. Which might have got Cidran going a little as well. She went over to a basin to wash up while Cidran stuffed himself away and waved to his son, “Well come on then my boy, what brings you?” Petyr stepped up and proffered a leter, “I was in the rookery waiting for a letter from my cousin Allesia in Glimmering, when this came in. It’s got the Crakehall seal.” He held it out to his father. And Cidran grabbed it, looking at the seal on it, then cracked it open, standing up and heading over to the window, getting light to read it by.

Both Tillia and Petyr watched as Cidran’s face went from flushed with afterglow pleasure, to pale with shock, then red with rage. He balled up the letter and hurled it across the room, then roared. His infamously loud voice echoing through the halls. Somewhere way down below an older maid looked to a younger one and said, “Best not to head up there until he’s worked it out of his system.” Up in his office Cidran beat a fist against the strong wood table beside the window, “He’s scum! That Greenlander piss pot! If only I could wrap my hands around his neck and twist! Drowned God take him and throttle him! He thinks he can win me that way? More the fool scum he is!” He grabs the big heavy table he was smashing his fist against and upends it, sending paper, ink wells, quills and a fine gold cup clattering and fluttering to the floor. Across the room Tillia picked the note up, and unballed it to read it. Petyr in the meantime watched his father rage, taking note, wondering if this rage would be hereditary. Because it’s mighty impressive indeed. After abit Tillia says, “He’s leaving, setting sail for the mainland, and he’s trying to give you Pyke?” Petyr turned to look at his mother, “But isn’t this a good thing? We’ll take Pyke Castle, and take the Seastone chair. We’ll be Great House of the Iron Islands. Powerful and lordly.” Cidran by this time had calmed down grabbing a bottle of grog from under his desk, and going to pour it in a goblet but stopped and instead drank right from the bottle. He took a few breathes afterward, “Not like this. If we take to the waters after Crakehall has taken to sea, it will look like we’re bending the knee. Taking the scrapes and leavings of those landbound lords like we’re taking the piss and shite. What do you think the other Houses will say? I’ll tell you, they’ll say we took the Greenlanders Price, their gold price, that all of them are ruled by. And they’ll institute the Iron Price on us like dogs. Dispute our rule, fight against our decrees. We’ll be ousted out of Pyke within three months, and back here on Harlaw with a blockade off our waters in four.” He growled and plopped down in the chair behind his desk nursing the bottle in his hand.

The lord of Harlaw looked over his desk at his son and wife. Tillia was the next to speak, “Then what do we do? If you say it, we could send word by Raven to Blacktyde, I’m pretty certain my brothers and uncle would set sail immediately, they’d be a little behind us as we also set sail. We could take to the water, and take out Crakehall there. Where he’s most vulnerable. The Iron Fleet was not at Pyke, not all of them anyway. We have our twenty ships at anchor over in Glimmering don’t we? We could send them forth, with as many longboats as we can muster. Blacktyde would follow. I know my brother Gio would love to send a firebomb or ten onto the deck of a greendlander Dromond.” Cidran shakes his head, “No, but I like the idea of sending out our Iron Ships.” He looks at his son, “Find my crew, and take the Black Vision, and the Ironborn’s Pride, tail Crakehall, all the way to that spur of land south of the islands. Tell the captains this isn’t a battle. You only have two ships, not the full one hundred of the Iron Fleet, let them see you, but do not engage them my son. And come back safe. Take water, food and all the ammunition you might need. If they turn and try to engage, run, you’ll be faster then them any day of the year and then some. I bet you Crakehall will be more worried about returning safely when he’s so vulnerable out there then he will be trying to strike back at us.” He rubbed his face, “In the meantime, I have a letter to write.”



After he finished writing he roared out for one of his stewards. The man rushing in. Cidran pointed at him, “Get all our ships in the water, and make sure the Black Vision and the Ironborn’s Pride are well stocked. My son is taking them out to trail Crakehall. Send word by courier to my brothers to make ready as well. Get their ships out into open water. And send a Raven to Blacktyde, letting them know what is unfolding. I will not be caught with my pants down.” He looked up at his son and wife, “We’ll not take that Gold Price that Crakehall thinks is so tempting. No, once we know that Crakehall is gone, we’re going to start raiding a little. Up and down the coast, north and south, The Riverlands, The Westerlands and all the way if we can to the north coast of the Reach. We’ll need to prepare. Gold, steel, thralls and other prizes.” His wife and son looked at him, stunned. It was Petyr who asked it though, “Father? Why? Why got o such great lengths?” Cidran grinned grabbing the bottle of grog from the table, “Because, I’m going to do something that hasn’t been done, since the time of Asha and Theon Greyjoy. I’m going to call a Kingsmoot, everyone will be raiding and gathering prizes.” Tillia let out a titter, “Oh very smart my husband, very smart indeed. News will get out I’m sure. And the Greenlanders will wonder who will be sitting the Seastone throne after the Kingsmoot. Will he be friend to the Mainland, or foe. Goodness me.”
Cidran grinned, “Yes, but for now, go my son. Ready the Black Vision and find Captain Salthroat, he captains the Ironborn’s Pride, he’s the son of my old mentor Rosi Saltthroat. He’ll follow your word. He knows you well. Sail well my son, and come back safe. I want to toast to Crakehall leaving the Islands with you at the hightable.” Peytr smiled and swept out of the room. Tillia Harlaw smiled, gave her husband a kiss, then went off to write a letter to her brothers and uncle on Blacktyde island to keep them abreast of the situation. Other notes were written by Ten Towers scribes, to alert the Brother Harlaw in the castles of Tower of Glimmer, Harlaw Hall, Harridan Hall and Grey Garden. Oh woe to the man who thought the family of Harlaw was so easily bought.

The city's defence following the torching of the walls seemed to have worked, with the Crakehalls that were inside being cut off from those outside, and with only two gates on which to exit...it didn't seem like the remaining forces within the city would last long, and the others were not indeed happy with what was going on, the sight of dragons enough to put fear back into the hearts of the soldiers, as Willas half-expected. That said, Willas knew the reality of the city in the aftermath of the walls taking fire, and that thousands of people were now dead, Reachman, Crownlander and Westerman. The people were already angry enough, but this would only make things far, far worse. The order to retreat the majority of the Retinues of the Reach deeper within the city had not been an easy choice to make, but it would at least let the city rot itself away, and the rioting minimize the damage against the Reach's forces that had pulled back. It would soon be street-by-street fighting, and it would be a need to quell this, though more soldiers were needed, soldiers that could come from an array of sources, be it the men of Tarth, or the Yunkish mercenaries.

Willas himself had cleaned up the blood on his armour, and had been detached from the rest of the Kingsguard, commanding Owain's forces in the field, and through the tight alleys, playing their tactical advantage. They had no ability to press the Westerman rout however, that would come down to the soldiers from Tarth that Willas had heard so much about- a Raven suggesting that they were now half a day's sailing away, and could sail straight up the Blackwater Rush, to intercept the retreating Westermen heading down the Goldroad, not north however. No doubt they would find it easy to cut those forces up going that way, but any coherent force that remained, such as Kevan's or Gerald's commanded forces would no doubt want to at least give themselves more land to run across, rather than a short-route back home. They had no idea of the mercenaries that were coming, and even at the same time, it felt that there was no real victory here today. The fleets closing in on King's Landing...it seemed that playing the bluff that they had no eyes on the sea had worked, Willas guessed, yet it was only a counterbalance, not a total victory. Though of course, he had still no idea of what had happened by the Dragonpit, and that all he knew, was that Drogon was now in flight, his distant scream audible from afar. The Tyrell had to visit Garland, he said to himself, in the aftermath of all of this, to establish what the hell was even going on. To find him at Maegor's Holdfast was the aim, and he knew full well that it was not all good news to present to him.

Coming in, Willas looked around, down at Garland again, a few of their guards mingling around as they kept an eye outside the holdfast.
"Uncle, it's good to see you again, I'd imagine you're here to tell me bad news if you're not busy commanding. Last I heard, the Crakehalls are divided, and some are routing." Garland simply said, shaking his head as Willas took a seat.
"Aye, but the city is in turmoil. It is hardly a moment of itself. Nobody won this fight. We're running out of time."

"I've thought it over. What in Seven Hells we're doing. I am of no use to anyone here. Advice, maybe. But politically, this city does not need me. I think we try something different."
"And what is that, Garland? We've set fire to the walls, killed thousands...we've given all we can, now what?" Willas said, as Garland looked at the Rose, and the note embedded within the central petals.
"I leave for Highgarden, but I'm going via Rhaenyra and Baela. They headed for the Stepstones, to get away from this mess. As for what they know, they did all they could to help...but we've got to solve these problems of ours. It will not change if I stay. By the time I return, I'll have recovered, and had her hand with mine." Garland said, as Willas shook his head, taking it off-beat at first.
"You mean, you're giving this up? What about me, Garland...this city will fall apart if we all go!" He said, as Garland looked back, clearing his throat.
"Not all of us, you are needed here after all! I want you to continue commanding, and you'll keep the Reachman contingent with you. Don't think this is a total withdrawal. But look around. I think I can pass my Handship to someone else. In fact...what was that handmaiden's brother, that Stanton? Hmm....considering I wouldn't think Lord Owain would do a good job...perhaps a man such as him might be what this capital needs in these times of strife." Garland said, his voice confident, growing a little towards his role, though it seemed like it only was cracking through in these moments.
"Theo Stanton? He's a good lad, but not a commander or a politician, he's a minor Lord's son!"
"Then he is Hand in my Stead, if he wants it. Someone who will do as I say, and will not go crazy with his power, lest he have his head taken by you. If he doesn't accept, give it to Jullon Tully as a stead...if he can't be a Kingsguard, then he can command, and hold authority in my absence. He'll bend the knee when I come back...actually, I don't think he has a knee to bend. Well, he'll have somewhere to sit and do something productive rather than lying in bed all day, like myself."
"I see, it's ambitious, that is, if you can keep that in check. You're sure?"
"Confident. You did a good job to help me. But you're right. No point trying to be a hero and hold this city together when the last thing it needs is a nice haired Lord like myself. It just needs someone to be active enough to rule the city, and deal with whatever comes attached." Garland chuckled, as he did stroke his long lock aside that hung over his face.
"A minor Reachman, as a Hand of the King. Well, it won't command respect, but if the Kingdoms are too paranoid of their own wellbeing, I suppose it won't go amiss until the end of these wars." Willas said, making his astute comment as the noise of what could unmistakably be the Targaryen's beast of a sigil made it's call outside.

Willas heard the shriek of Drogon, and it was close. In fact, it was in the courtyard, and already, he was standing. This wasn't good. Royce and Footly were there to get Aerys out of their on Drogon's back, out of the Dragonpit...yet it didn't sound good at all.
"Shit...I don't like that, Drogon isn't happy..." He stood, Willas looking across to Garland, as he heard the noise getting louder and louder. Running out, Garland watched on at his Uncle, a litle unsure of what the hell all of this meant.

--------

It was there that Willas Tyrell found Aerys on the door of the Grand Keep, and already, he was moving fast. The boy looked like the life was leaving him...he had a head wound, and another wound in his side, a sharp one. He was a boy, it would be a miracle if he survived this...then again, so had Garland, so had Jullon, after all that they had gone through. Looking down at him, he cursed, knowing he had already passed out, or worse still, passed away. A couple of the Tyrell guards followed Willas, but in that moment, he knew he had failed, or at least, he hadn't been there to stop what had happened. Looking down at Aerys, he cursed, looking at the young boy, in his black armour, dying right here. It wasn't the first time that Willas had to do this, he said to himself, as he reached over and picked him up, knowing it wasn't the blood loss that would kill him. He had to get him inside, to a Maester, no matter what. The boy may have had some traits that did not seem normal, but this was his King, and Willas and his guard knew exactly what that meant for them. If they had thoughts about what was going on after what Garland had said, it didn't matter, not for now.
"Men, find a Maester, now! We haven't got long!"

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

Aerys's body now sat on a bed in the Holdfast, and even Garland had to say he felt better than the King right now, what with the fact that he could at least rest a little weight on his feet, though he wasn't going anywhere easily. Maesters were clustered around the King, and even the Kingsguard who had saved two lives knew that they had a far better abillity to judge what the hell had happened. His wounds had stopped, and it seemed that there was still life in the boy, albeit, he was incapable, and not moving at all, in a deep sleep, somehow removed from the reality that was around him. Garland knew it was not good, and the evening had closed in on the city outside, with the majority of the forces pulling back The city was in turmoil, and it was filled with unrest, apart from certain sectors that had been relatively peaceful yet swarmed with Reachmen.

"Well, now what?" Willas said to Garland, the Reach Lord fixated on the sight of Aerys . He didn't know what to say to Willas. Right now, they could kill Aerys, they could send the guard in, and murder their King, right here, right now. It would barely take a minute, that they could have the Boy-King gone and Garland as the only person that could rule in the absence of Rhaenyra and Baela, with a throne to himself, and not a single figment of power that could oppose that. Of course, the people would be angry, but it would take mere deception to tell the people that the King was just comotose still, and that Garland Tyrell was the King's Regent, and in all but name, King of the Seven Kingdoms. It would be so easy to do that, so simple, so effective, so...stupid. It was a way of placing the Seven Kingdoms into total anarchy, and that eventually, a facade like that could crack. It would be so easy to suspect the Tyrells of orchestrating it, that no matter what they said. Even if Aerys was said to be alive, it had served no wonders when he did not walk the streets, so it would be no different now. It would be a difficulty, and in the long run, keeping their options open, not acting on impulse, would work.

"Well, it's the same. Except well, we have no King that is concious. He'll learn of it either when we win the war, or by the time we make our decision. Poor Aerys...you did all you could, that you have to know." Garland replied, as Willas shook his head.
"Footly and Royce are dead, as far as I've heard the men say. Seven fucking Hells, Garland, now what?"
"You're the only man who protects the King, and the new Commander of the Kingsguard. So I'd get people in. You know the drill." Garland replied, as Willas himself stood, looking across.
"I'll do what I can. Not sure who, but the finest Knights of the Realm made a good choice to stay well away from King's Landing, it seems. I've called up Theo to the Keep, so he should be coming soon. As for the Knights, I'll work something out." Willas said, as the younger of the two Reachmen nodded, as he sat up in his chair, looking at Aerys. He sighed, knowing that whatever the hell was going to happen in the capital, it had to go onto someone's shoulders, and soon enough, they would have to bear a hell of a lot of unrest to keep things in order. It seemed that Willas had a lot on his mind already, and talking to Garland, he only knew that they had to work something out here, something that would eventually yield the city back to some sanity.

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

Theo walked into the Holdfast with his helmet in hand all of his armour and face covered in soot from the fires that were still raging through the city. He was slightly coughing trying to take in as much of the clean air as he could, that was in the massive hall. He then noticed Garland and Willas talking to each other, close to a teen on a bed surrounded by maestors. Theo didn't notice the face but he figured that it could only be the new King. A tired sigh left Theos lips as he thought about this battle being for nothing if he died. "Ser." A quiet voice cherped up behind him. Theo looked around to see his squire with a bowl of water and a flannel floating on top. "I thought you might want to clean your face before you met Lord Tyrell." Theo let out a little laugh towards his young squire.

"Well Benn you do love to keep up my appearance don't you." He grabbed the rag out of the bowl and wiped his face quickly. "Thank you Benn." Theo smiled as he contined to clean his face and fill his hands with water and poured it on his head pushing all of his dirty blonde hair back. His two swords sat at his hip one of his hands went to lean on one of them, "Two more things Benn, will you just be able to go and get me some water that I can drink the battle as made me rather thirsty. The next give my swords a quick clean why I talk to Lord Tyrell and Ser Willas." Theo unbuckled the swords and handed them off. "I'll see you later." Theo smiled and then turned away and walked over to the two Tyrells. "I'm sorry to interupt your conversation my Lord but I was told you were asking for me?"

Garland and Willas both looked at Theo, watching on as he entered the room, cleaning the dust off his face and pushed his blonde hair back. It was still very Reachman like, and no doubt, Garland could tell that he had fought hard on the front. He was a good soldier, and while he was young, the Lord Tyrell could remember he was just as young when he was offered the spot. Youth did not carry wisdom with it, but then again, these were not conventional times, and the men of wisdom were dying very, very quick, it seemed.
"Ah, Theo Stanton. We did indeed ask for you." Garland said, as he sat up in his chair, Willas walking over to inspect Aerys again, still comotose as he had been hours ago, as Garland looked at the blonde-haired Stanton, his sapphire-coloured armour shining in the torch-lit Holdfast, the brushed armour truly a work of art. It seemed that Robert had the right ideas in mind, Garland said to himself mentally.

"I heard you did a good job out there, it seems the odds favour us today. The Crakehalls are broken in morale, and we've managed to win this fight?" Garland asked, as he shook his head, before Theo had the chance to reply.
"Well, I would imagine that's the response I'd know you would want to give, but the reality is that there is a greater war out there to win, and a city in peril. I hear there was dragonfire...but that traitorous scumbag, Gerald Crakehall, was already able to burn the High Septon. Alas. I think you're going to be very interested in what I have to offer. Before we continue on, some Arbor?" Garland asked, as he leaned in the chair, trying not to put pressure on his side, as he looked at Theo, knowing he was indeed, tired and out of the fire that had happened out there. No doubt the Dragonfire would have left him visually scarred, and it had been a hard fight out there.

Theo took a few moments to take in everything that Garland had just said. He was instantly intrigued at this offer that Garland had mentioned. "Yes..." Theo realized he'd taken quite a while to answer Garlands question. "Yes I'd love some of wine, thank you my Lord."

Garland nodded, as he sat up, Willas walking back over as Garland gave a simple nod. With that, they filled up two goblets, as Garland grabbed his, sipping it down a little provincially at first.
"Well....I think your service to the Reach is one we can both agree, works well. You're probably one of the more capable commanders and individuals that we have on our side, in this capital here. I remember being your age, when I was told I could be the Hand of the King to Aegon, Tenth of his Name." Garland said, as he cleared his throat, drinking a little more wine down as he put it back on the table next to him.

"I'm going back to Highgarden to finish this war, and I want you to be the Hand of the King, in my stead. To run this capital, and to be the Reach's Hand over these Seven Kingdoms until I return." The way that he said it was clear, crisp and daunting almost, straight after a little wine, his thoat did not mince a word, as he looked at the 19-year old, his squire behind quietly cleaning his swords.

"You're a lot like me, so I see that in you. Second son, never expecting to ever have even a plot of your own land, let alone the Heirdom of a Lordship.......so I suppose it'll come to a shock to you why I give you this offer, so much power for a little while. I would say you have time to think, but honestly, time is short. You don't entirely know how this game will work, but you know exactly who you are...and it's exactly why you're perfect to do this while I'm gone. To keep the peace, to keep things running while I go. For a little while...be among the most powerful men in this Realm." Garland added, as he didn't even sip his wine to that, a little quiet turning back to conversations in the Holdfast, as the Tyrell waited for Theo's response. It was perhaps an overstatement, but it did have truth to it, the Hand in Garland's stead would still hold some power, albeit a provisional, temporary one, more administrative than policy-making.

Garland's words had taken the breath out of Theo. He grabbed the goblet off the table and stared into the wine for a few seconds. He took a sip and the sip turned into a mouthful, Theo didn't realize how thirsty he actually was. "My Lord... I don't know what to say... Are you sure I'm the right person to rule King's Landing?"

"The others are dying, or unable. You're worthy." Garland simply said, as Willas nodded.
"If you aren't willing, then it goes to some other Noble that doesn't support anyone's interests, and that would leave your House far out of influence if the Reach's declined with it." Willas made his comment, as Garland nodded in response, the Young Rose looking back at Theo.

"The city out there is about to destroy itself, not unless someone does something actively, and I can't right now, not when I have recovery and a whole Kingdom to mobilize, going the long way home. It needs fresh blood, a stern commander and fighter, not a wounded Lord. Willas is protecting the King, and he'll also take your head if you decide to even wield the power in a way that betrays where you come from. But you'll do fine, lad." Garland added, a confident remark, one that he knew would at least be right in making. The decision-making behind it all was to him, one that could go wrong, but if it did, it wouldn't be his head on a pike this time round. Theo was capable of this, Garland was certain, he wasn't an idiot and he wasn't willing to play with fire to get his duty done, he may have been inexperienced, but all the experience in the world wouldn't tell you how to quell an angry mob...that only came from strength, confidence and co-ordination, and right now, Garland couldn't actively plan that out. It was the most important job in the realm, going to one of the most inexperienced. Total madness....well, to that madness there was some reason, and Garland knew that perhaps it would genuinely work out for Theo, hopefully at least.

"Remember, it's temporary. When I return, you will be rewarded appropriately. I would believe that the lines on the map need to be redrawn after this war ends as a little way of reminding Tyget he's not richer than the Seven, and Yellowmoor is on the frontier of the Reach with the Westerlands, correct? I would assume you'd like a few more fiefs, and if you serve the Reach faithfully, you'll get far, far more than you could want in power. Do you want what is best for our Realm, to quell those masses, or do you wish for some foreigner to let it all implode into fire and ash?" Garland's voice was sometimes provincial, but it seemed like he was political, and it held a weight, his voice reasoning, though the cynicism that came from growing up faster than usual and having to resign to the fact he wasn't walking and fighting as he once could for the moment being something that perhaps still pulled him down.
"Our King is injured, and we're going to help him. You're capable of that."

It was all happening so quick, Theo listened in silence trying to take in everything that Garland and Willas talked about. He was taken back the casual remark from Garland talking about getting beheaded. The last of the wine in Theo's goblet was finished in one massive gulp. "I am yours to command my Lord. I'm very honoured that you believe I am up for the task." He let out a smile to himself, not knowing that the Lord of the Reach and a member of the Kingsguard held him in such a high regard that they believed he might be able to manage the city. "And yes some of my Land does border the Westerland's, I wouldn't say no to expanding the borders." A little chuckle left his mouth, "I don't think anyone would say no to owning a gold mine!" Theo went silent for a second, the smile left his face. He'd almost forgotten about the battle. "I Just hope I can do right by the people." Clear memories of the battle flashed in his mind. The screams already haunted him. Theo knew he would never forget the screams as people on both sides of the war were being burned alive by dragonfire.

Garland nodded, knowing that while Theo was a lowly Knight, his work in this fight had yielded results, and whilst it was a minor part, it was greater than the proprtion given by Tumbleton, or any of the other Reachmen in the capital. It was enough to justify it, and compared to other Lords, it would work as a nice arrangement. Perhaps he would be unstable, but it would be enough to keep a Reachman in the position for the time being.
"You will, you're a man of the Reach, a man of the Seven, and a Knight, after all. You do wrong, and we all know Willas will do what he has to, after all!" Garland chuckled, as Willas gave a slightly less stern chuckle, everyone aware that it would of course, never come to that, not unless Theo did do something stupid.

Sitting up, he pulled the brass emblem from his side, above his bandage, and placed it onto the table, as he looked over at Theo.
"Well then. Looks like your work begins quickly. No time to waste, you best get to work on ruling this fair city....and when all of these Seven Kingdoms begin writing, tell them they now serve Aerys, Third of his Name, and the Hand of the King, Ser Theo Stanton, in the stead of Lord Garland Tyrell. Quell the riots, rebuild, restore the peace, use whatever coffers you have to use to get that done, and get the organization restored. Once that's done, the war will wage for a couple more months, and then we'll see Tyget's justice delievered, and hopefully, Aerys will be back." Garland added, as he sighed, shaking his head.

"You'll have to make some difficult choices. But remember, you're here for the good of the Reach, and your family's honour. You'll be the greatest Stanton to have lived so far if you keep your head off a spike. I'll bet you'll make it." Garland added, as Willas helped him up, another one of Garland's guards walking over to take his weight, Garland standing but his weight mostly off his feet, his body still weak...almost able to walk with a limp now, but he stil felt a strong ache in his chest.

"We'll have our things packed and be gone within the hour. So I would suggest you begin looking over the documents in the Hand's Tower, and restoring the peace, street by street, row by row, and making something of this. Get to work quickly, get some rest when you need it, but keep your strength for a little longer. The Dornishmen will help you, they support Aerys, and the Riverlands and Vale should soon be on side. The North will never be an ally, and as for any Stormlander, we're allied to them now. The Tarthmen will sweep up the rest of the retreating Crakehalls, so for now, I'm letting Willas command the city's remaining forces, and you an use them as best as you can." Garland stood, as one of his guards helped him, the two looking to Theo, as the Tyrell knew that it would now be on Theo's shoulders, if he was taking this forward. The green, gold and white tunic that Garland wore was clean, freshly washed it seemed and not like Theo's sapphire-blue armour, covered in a fine layer of soot, ash and blood, one that was now being worn by a man who Garland had to just put his trust into.

"So, I'm guessing going for a nice warm bath wouldn't be the smartest of ideas right now." Theo let out a small chuckle trying to make himself not look as nervous as he was actually feeling. "I'm going to get men to sweep the city, round up any surviving Crakehall men. Try and see if we can put out those fires, as soon as possible. I don't want my temporary reign as hand known for everyone dying from the fires and the smoke." Theo watched as Garland placed a small piece of brass on the table that represented so much in Westeros. He watched Garland struggling to get up, "Do you need any help getting to the docks?"

Garland shook his head, as he looked to his guard, before back at Theo.
"I'll be alright, thanks. Path should be clear for us, we've kept it explicitly open. Willas can handle the affairs of the soldiers and protect you, so you make sure you get the work that the Hand does to keep this bloody place from falling apart." Garland said, resting his feet on the floor a little, smiling at Theo.

"Theo Stanton, you are now the Hand of the King in my absence. You are the single most powerful man of your dynasty, you are sharing a title that Jon Arryn, Ned Stark, Tywin Lannister, Jamie Tyrell, and I have all had in common. We've kept our heads so far, so I'll trust that you'll follow the Reach's example." Garland said, leaving the Hand's brass with Theo on the table, as the rest of the Young Rose's men began gathering supplies, as he looked back once more, just before they left. Willas kept an eye inside, as Garland looked back. Garland had even made provisions about that gift for Baela, and while it was a two-fold gift, he had something a little more immediate in mind, in his supplies.
"You seem like a good lad....I'll tell you what Alerie told me. Try not to die."

As Garland headed towards the door, Theo shouted to him just before he left. All laughter had left his voice and the pain was clear in it. "Kill the dragons my Lord."

Garland had just heard it, and did not respond, as they headed out of the Holdfast, the Reach Lord knowing he would travel down with the next convoy to the Harbour, to board a ship for home....via the Stepstones and a couple of other locations, that was. The fate of the Kingdoms was now in some Lord's son's hands, and while Garland knew that Theo was unexpected, so was he. It was time to return the favour, and as silly as it would seem, he knew it was a plan that would ultimately work out for everyone involved, even Theo too. Well, apart from the Crakehalls, Garland thought to himself, as he was brought to the carriage. It would be a long wait, but they would soon leave, and be headed on an unmarked ship to join with the Redwyne Fleet, before heading south on the Narrow Sea, weeks from home, and weeks away from it all. "Kill the Dragons?" Garland didn't get it....well, perhaps he was scarred, he thought more and more about it, but at the same time, he didn't take it seriously. Not right now, at least.

Inside, Willas turned to Theo, the two Reachmen left to watch Garland leave, as Willas looked over at Benn, and the swords he was almost finished cleaning, before looking back at Theo.
"You're at least going to use the one of the fucking things soon with the way it looks... should be interesting to see a Hand fight a bit more often than usual. The city's got a few fires to put out, and they aren't just all flames." Willas's remark was not an empty one, knowing that if it came to it, Theo would be down in the city, and not just ruling from afar, if it did come to it...and Willas could only guess that a necessity would force that back into the young, blonde-haired Stanton to do a little more than Garland did in his tower.

(collab with @josephb )

Gris tilted his head back and groaned. This wasn't the first time he was tired with his work. The near constant bloodshot veins in his eyes are testament to that. Usually, he goes to talk to Alyssa. When she talks, he mentally refutes her every claim, no matter how small, while giving the appearance of listening. There was something oddly relaxing about being right where others are wrong. He should probably go do that now. Then he remembers that he had sent her to King's Landing. Suddenly, he felt so alone. So isolated. He stood up, ready to just . . . stop for awhile.

Gris stood up and opened the door, only to bump into one of the servants. A familiar chill went up his spine.

"Oh! I'm so sorry sir!" She tried to bow her head, looking anywhere but his face and his clouded eye.

"Just . . . get out." Gris could barely form a sentence, paralyzed as he is. The woman hastily left, thoroughly afraid. Alyssa had spoken to each of them before she left. "Be like ghosts," she had said. "If my brother sees you, then you haven't done your job correctly." She hoped she wouldn't be punished for this.

Gris hurried back to his chambers, constantly looking over his shoulder at any other places where someone could spring out. He had to go look for Alyssa. Her presence comforted him during these times, and when she was around, he was even able to speak to other- oh, right. King's Landing.

He rushed into his chambers and shut the door. He also closed the windows, and then he locked everything. A few hours of lying on the bed groaning later, there was a knock. Gris decided to hold still without making a noise, and hope the offending knocker would just leave. The one outside knocked again, and again, and to Gris' relief finally gave up. Then, he heard the sound of sliding, and receding footsteps. There, now in front of his door on the inside, was a sheet of parchment. He picked it up and began to read.

My lord Baratheon:

Siege. Angry peasants. Throne room. Immediately, please.

Signed,
Kutner, Master-at-Arms

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... Where the hell? 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.
"Prince 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.

The wall had been on the horizon for a week or two now, slowly getting bigger and bigger. Jamie had never truly believed the stories of the size of the wall, but day after day the wall continued to get bigger and still they didn't seem like they was making any progress. It was about mid day and the actual buildings of Castle Black had finally come into view, Jamie never thought he would have been so happy to see it. All he wanted to do was get close to a fire and never leave it alone. There hadn't been blue skies since they'd passed Winterfell and one day a blizzard had hit them, Jamie had never experienced anything like it. One particular skinny man, had frozen to death sat in one of the cages, Anders made a quick pyre for him and after lighting the fire, moved on straight away. That was the basically the only thing of note that had happened since the bust up between Jamie and one of the guards.

The first thing Jamie had noticed about the actual castle was that it didn't have any wooden walls protecting itself from attacks coming from anywhere expect from the north. They did have one gate though with two guards posted either side of it to let the rest of the black brothers know of anyone approaching. Anders was still at the front of the group, as they reached the door, Anders simply shouted up to them, "New recruits from the Reach. Open the bloody gates now." There was a muffled discussion quickly before the gates opened. He spat out a load of phlegm before he continued to head inside on top of his horse. The gates opened up into a massive courtyard with loads of people going about there business. "Bring the wagons inside and get everyone out." He shouted back to group as he moved his horse towards the stables. "Lad." Anders shouted down to someone who looked around the age of fourteen who was wondering around. "Go and tell the Lord Commander that the new recruits are 'ere and be quick about it!" He bluntly shouted to the boy, who ran off straight away clearly not wanting to have a conversation with him.

"Get out the wagons now!" The weasley guard who had his nose broken by Jamie, had shouted clearly not happy to be here. His nose had finally healed and the bruises around his eyes had finally disappeared. Jamie was the last person to get out of his wagon and stared at the guard as he got out. The guard kept his head down and had a look on his face that he'd tasted something vile. Everyone was huddled up in a group, with Jamie joining them waiting for there first orders.

A crow in a feathered cloak stood before the recruits, one foot raised upon a barrel, presumably full of foods or water. He clapped his gloved hands together with a muffled thump, nose turned up like he had smelt something foul. "Oi! Recruits! Line up in front of me, shortest to tallest!" He moved his foot from the barrel and walked towards the party, crossing his arms and waiting for them to follow his orders. He had a hooked nose, bald head and round face, missing one of his ears from frostbite. "Don't gawk at my ear either, or I'll tear yours off with my teeth." He chuckled, placing a hand upon his sheathed blade.

The Lord Commander himself was ambling over by the training rangers, the white wolf of Longclaw's pommel standing out amongst his mostly black apparel. The eunuch gripped the valryian steel blade, drawing it from it's hilt and throwing it to the ground, grabbing a practice sword from the rack, and walking towards the others to join them in practice. He tapped the First Ranger on the back, twirling the dull blade in his hand. Once the man had looked at him, Forrester held the sword up to eye level, stepping back and planting it in the snow. The ranger pulled his sword loose as well. The two slowly approached each other, circling ever closer, eventually it was the Lord Commander that took the first swing, a one handed overhand chop, but as it began to fall towards the man, he was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger. Frustratedly, he bowed, placing the blade back where it belonged, and looked over the recruits with a frown, waiting for the Master-at-Arms to deal with them.

The Master-at-Arms himself gathered the recruits quickly, with a raised voice and a firm hand to the shoulder. Shoving them into position, he looked every one of them up and down, teeth clenching his upper lip. "Rapists up front, murderers behind, anyone else can stand in the middle, I want to know what I'm dealing with." He sighed, seeing that quite a few had begun taking steps forwards. "Looks like I'm dealing with some future Lord Commanders here, raise your hands if you still have balls." Around three of the rapists kept their hands down, slinking silently into themselves like a turtle without a shell. The Master-at-Arms groaned, before walking down the line of future Watchmen. Upon reaching one of the recruits, who had a surcoat of House Osgrey and a jewel encrusted sword, he took a large sniff, and spat upon his boots. The man looked at him in shock, before screeching and planting a finger upon the man's chest. "Don't you dare spit on me! I am the third son of Lord Osgrey, and I will not take this nonsense!" The Master-at-Arms looked at the man in confusion before beginning to laugh with a whistling inhale. His face then crunched in as he laid a punch into the man's abdomen. "Take your fancy shit and go clean the stables with it, don't return until your sword is stained brown with shit." He turned away from the kneeling lordling with a smile, coming upon Jaime, looking him up and down, before again spitting upon his boot, and looking into his eyes, as if he were daring him to respond.

Jamie stared down looking at the bit of spit that covered his shoes for a few seconds, debating what to do. He then looked across to the Osgrey lad who was still hunched over holding his stomach struggling to breath. Jamie looked back towards to the crow who was sorting everybody out. A demented smile covered the black brothers face waiting for Jamie to respond to the spit. Words were about to leave Jamie's lips that would have insulted him and caused some sort of attack. He thought better of it though, remaining silent and wiping the spit on the back of his pants, all the while doing an overly fake smile at the bald man.

The Master-at-Arms smirked, clapping a hand over Jaime's shoulder. "Well, looks like I've found my favourite, now go take off those bawdy things, get on your cloak, and rejoin us post-haste." He chuckled before moving on. The recruit who had been punched earlier glared angrily at Jaime, and he couldn't help but feel like that was the man's intent.

The smile stayed on Jamie's face but it had clearly soured at the thought that he couldn't keep his own clothes. He didn't acknowledge the crow, but knew better not to confront him. As soon as he turned around and walked off breaking the eye contact an annoyed look covered his face as he stepped over the other Lords son and went off to get changed.

As Jamie walked off, Anders appeared behind the Master-At-Arms and slapped him on the back laughing. "Whipping them into shape already?" He said in his usual raspy voice looking down at one of the Lords sons. The lad held out an hand to help get picked up from the floor and Anders shouted at him, "Get up by yourself you woman!"

The Master-at-Arms looked at Anders with a smirk, coughing once or twice as some smoke from a nearby fire drifted their way. "Alright you lot, everyone who I sent off will join us shortly, lordlings or soldiers with me, rest of you lot just follow them." He motioned for these people to join with him, as he did so, he drew his blade, walking over to the barrel and rolling it at them. One of the recruits looked down at it, leading to the Master-at-Arms throwing him to the ground and placing the blade at his throat. "Dead, wildling spear to the throat. Don't look at the object, look where it came from." He sheathed his sword, pointing the man to the recruits who had no formal training. He walked up and down the line, before drawing his sword and running at one of them. This one was smarter, and he managed to get his sword out, placing it at an awkward position that defended his face only, the Master-at-Arms pointed the sword into his gut. "Dead. You're better though, you'll lead the training for now, but work on your guards." He sheathed his blade again, walking over to the third trained fighter, drawing his blade again and jabbing it forth, this one managed to knock the blade away, getting only a nick on his shoulder. The Master-at-Arms looked unimpressed. "Dead." The recruit looked dumbfounded. "What? I stopped the blow!" "No, you stopped it from going through your eye, but wildlings have the habit of dunking their spears in their shit, you'd die on ranging of infection, but you're the best one we have so far, I don't have the time to test the other lot, so take them and do a little sparring, I'll come around and give it a look over, just don't kill anyone, we'll need live arrow sponges." He pointed towards the training grounds, making way for the recruits to go.

Anders had stood back for a while watching the Master-At-Arms named Davett testing out some of the new recruits. He was one of the first friends that Anders had made when he was sent to Castle Black, they both had started out at the same time and had no idea what to expect. After Davett had sent the recruits away, Anders went over to him and started to so speak, "So Brother, what's happened since I've been away?"

Davett scowled in the cold. He tilted his head and pointed to the hole that resided where his ear used to be.
"That happened, damn cold up here." He returned his head to it's position, cracking his knuckles together.
"Lord Lannister kicked the bucket as well, daft bastard thought that going off on his own was a good idea." He spat into the snow, creating a hole around a finger in depth that was quickly filled by the continuing snowfall.
"How about these recruits?" He cracked his neck.
"What merits do you have in this bunch of rapists and murderers?"

A dark chuckle escaped Anders' lips as he listened to Davett talking about the loss of his ear. The smile left his face when he found out about the Lord Commander. "Unlucky bastard." That was all that he could say about the deceased Lord. "Well, the only reason we got all of them was because of Jamie Stanton. The fool paid somebody to kill his Father but he was caught before anything could happen. Not a clue what he's like though, he's hardly said a word since we left the Reach. The guards who came up with him said he's damn good with a blade though." Anders stopped talking for a moment and scanned around to look at the new recruits. "Then you have the fat one." He pointed across the yard to where all the recruits were sparring. A middle aged man with a bald head and a bright red face was breathing heavily, with a sword in hand. "That's Addam Appleton, he planned the assassination with Jamie. You can tell by the frightened look on his face that he's a coward, he's smart though and can easily manipulate people. Keep an eye out for him." Anders covered his mouth and coughed up a load of phlegm. "Another is the Osgrey lad, he's the same as any other southern Knight, stuck up his own arse." A smile covered his face thinking about the Osgrey lad. It's going to take him a long time to get used to the wall, Anders thought. "No one else really stands out, you have all the usual lot. You've got your thieves, poachers, rapers, the lot. Lord Stanton was generous enough to give us a bit of equipment though. Might be best to get the new Lord Commander to send a letter thanking him."

"Aye, I see, hopefully he sends some soldiers soon, about ten of them can actually hold a blade, and..." He looked over his shoulder to see a recruit attacking another with a crossbow, and winning.
"The others are less than exceptional, if Lord Stenn was still here he'd smack them, harder than he would me. Well, at least the one with the crossbow can fight, don't know why he isn't shooting it though. The good ones fight like Lords, man-to-man, worthless in a brawl, gonna need at least another year of training, beat down everything they know, replace it with something new. Speaking of lords, which one of 'em is Jaime?"

"I remember when I was first here, I was worth nothing, I just used to swat at people with a sword. We'll make men out of them soon enough." Anders took a few seconds to speak, he smiled thinking back to when he first came to Castle Black. Anders continued on to talk about Jamie.

"Well he's your favourite!" Anders let out a chuckle, over emphasising what he said in a very sarcastic tone. "There he is, he's walking back over to the rest of 'um." Jamie was slowly walking across the courtyard adjusting all of his clothes, that he was forced to put on. You could tell by the look on his face that he wasn't best pleased about his new set of clothes. "Want me to get him over? You can have a little chat with him." A dark smile covered his face. "Or do you want him to test his skills?"

As Anders spoke his second sentence, Davett began to chuckle, by the end of his statement, he had begun to laugh, a loud and overstated thing that seemed near a scream at the beginning. It was unsettlingly loud, to the point where the recruits' movement slowed, and they turned slowly and looked at him. The more veteran brothers continued in their actions. Davett's laugh deteriorated into a cough as his head tilted down from it's bent back position.
"Ahem, aye, aye. Bring the lad over, I'd like to speak to him."

Anders just smiled as he watched Davett laughing. He just nodded to him and let out a massive whistle looking at Jamie. "Stanton!" Anders shouted, making it sound like a growl, most of the people turned around to see what the commotion was about. "Get your arse over here lad!" Everyone was looking towards the two veterans now and Anders was looking back at them. "What the fuck are you lot looking at? Get back to work!" Straight away everyone went back to their jobs. "Run Stanton." He didn't shout it as loud this time.

From the look of it to Jamie, everyone was basically too scared to go against the two men. His slow walk turned into a quick jog over to them both, he really didn't want to get on the wrong side of both of these men and make this living that he was already in worse. It didn't take him that long to get over to the two men. "Is everything okay?" He looked at Anders straight in the eyes.

All that Anders said back was, "Well we just want a little chat with you, that's all." A slight grin could be seen coming from his lips.

Davett looked Jaime up and down, his arm resting on the edge of his firm leather crotch-guard. His other arm pulled his sword, flipping it in his hand, then pushing it back in.
"You tried to kill your father did you? Couldn't just wait for him to die could you?" He chuckled.
"You're still my favourite, but you'd better not pull this shit on anyone up here, we're brothers, we fail, everyone dies, contain yourself, I'm being very nice here, but do not fuck with us, you will be executed, no question." He rubbed his brow, then turned to the others.
"You'd have to be trained right? I've heard you can handle a sword, that's good, but you need to be taught how to brawl, go join the others, I'm going to speak to the Lord Commander."

Jamie could feel a bit of rage building up in him as he listened to the Master-At-Arms speak about his Father. But he managed to keep his feelings buried down, Jamie looked down not managing to look at him in his eyes. All he could do was nod in acceptance. He walked off through the snow without saying anything leaving Anders and the other black brother behind. Jamie spat as he walked off, a sour look covered his face.

The rest of the new recruits were deep in training as Jamie got to them, the rage still inside him. Addam Appleton was stood there leaning on a sword that was stuck into the ground, he spotted Jamie and smiled, the two men hadn't spoken to each other since they'd been caught. Jamie despised the man who had destroyed his life, he would slaughter him if he got the chance. "You're up." Someone shouted to Jamie, whilst passing him a sword. Jamie snapped out of his thoughts and grabbed the weapon, he swirled the blunted iron blade slowly through the air, feeling the balance of it. A skinny man who didn't look older than twenty stood in front of him. Jamie got into a defensive stance that he'd been taught since he learned to fight. The opponent clearly had no clue how to hold a sword. A few seconds later the boy just ran at Jamie with his sword flying through the air and tried to bring it down on Jamie's head, he lazily stepped to the side of the blade and hit the mans blade away with his own, going with the momentum he swirled the blade above his head grabbing it with both hands and brought it down on the back of the recruits knee with an immense amount of speed. The fight was already over as the young man was on his knees screaming in pain, but Jamie was seeing red now, he kept the motion and smashed the blade into his arm. A loud shriek left the boys mouth as he flew to the ground grabbing his arm. Jamie was breathing heavily as he dropped the blade to the side of the now injured recruit. He knew that he'd made a massive mistake.

(A collab with @bluetommy2)

Tyget sat on his throne in Casterly rock, still in his armour from Pyke, and his face still twisted in the worst kind of scowl. On his sides were his two Kingsguard, Lorch and Falwell, at attention as the King held a note in his hand, he had alrady read the letter and currently it dangled from his right hand whilst his left impatiently tapped the arm of his throne. His scowl was fixed on his meister, "So... My brother, Gerald Crakehall, is indeed dead? Yes Maester?", the maester remained bowed as he spoke, "Yes your Grace, if this message is to be believed he was killed in Kings Landing after-", Tyget tossed the parchment to the floor as he interrupted the Maester, "Yes, yes... go Maester, send a return letter thanking the lord for his... honesty. Go.", with that the Maester turned and left. Once he was out of the room, Tyget stood, and looked at his assembled lords. Some from Pyke, others from Kings Landing, some still unaccounted for. "Tell me my lords, how? How did all this happen? My lands plundered by Yunkish, Kings Landing a smoldering wreck, and the current most pwerful Lord of the Iron Islands out for my head? Who knows?"

Lord Banefort raised a hand, stepping in front of the other gathered lords with a few gentle shoves, kneeling before Tyget. "Your grace, I was with the men when the dragons were set loose, last I saw of Gerald, he was facing down Royce and... the other one, the big tall quiet one, I sent my scouts to search for him, but all we found was men dead from wounds, none of them matched his grace the prince. The only other thing I had heard was that his horse was found tied to a tree in the lands of Lord North, the trail runs cold from there unfortunately." Banefort stood with quite an effort, his left leg bowlegged and wrapped in bandages, relying on a cane to stand well.

Tyget smiled as he walked down the steps of his throne, "Ah, Lord Banefort. Thank you for letting me know that my brother may not be dead. I suppose that would be a good thing to hear wouldn't it?", he walked straight up to Banefort, standing within arms-reach of the hobbled man, "But... I am curious, you did not answer my question. Why has all of this happened? I didn't ask you, if my traitorous glory hungry brother was alive, I asked you why everything seems to have gone so horrendously wrong... can you answer me that lord Banefort?", even though he seemed genuinely curious, it was blatantly clear King Tyget was rather... upset.

Banefort stared back, eyes trembling softly in quickly wetting sockets. He turned away, limping towards the other lords, his cane tapping against the stone floor. "I have no answer for that, my king, and I believe you know that. I don't understand why you felt that you had to ask?"

"Well, my lord BAnefort, I felt the need to ask because,", he drew Widow's Wail and plunged the Valyrian steel into the floor, the horrible sound of splitting stone heard throughout the room, "I wished to know why all of my Lords seem to be completely void of rational thought!", he stared at every one of them with utter contempt, "I return from a very succesful venture, to find my orders disobeyed by my own brother, one that is only free because of me, and that my lords followed him without question to attack a well fortified city.", he sighed angrily. But inhaled and seemed to calm himself somewhat, "Now. I want to ask all of you, who believes they know our next course of action?"

Banefort turned, sweating suddenly, a dot of blood appearing on his injured leg and slowly getting larger. His squire walked over to him, speaking a few words that only they could hear, the squire nodded fearfully, stepping back behind the lords. Banefort's walk became even more pained, but he stepped forth once more.

"Our next course of action, is to do it again." The lords growled at this, but Banefort seemed to ignore it.
"The two dragon-riders willing to do it have flown away, and with the boy injured, we have a perfect shot right at it." Banefort's face slowly changed, turning more thoughtful, he stood up straight, considering his options better.
"Actually, no, we strike at the only thing keeping the pretender on his throne, Highgarden." He coughed violently, cringing as his leg twitched.
"With their army in King's Landing, we have a perfect shot at the Hand's family and retainers. It is our best option at the moment, perhaps you send Tywin north to secure the marriage while you take the castle, Garland is a boy, a soft ruler, his castle has been left undefended in a foolish display of youthful incompetance, and we have a chance. Unless you wish to surrender again." Banefort's eyes took a mischevious tinge to them, and he smirked.

Tyget smiled widely at Lord Banefort, "An interesting proposal Lord Banefort, now how do you suggest we do that? They do have all their raised men in Kings Landing don't they? Yes... I suppose we could be there in... a few days hard ride eh? Good... and Lord Banefort?", the king turned to him, and harshly smashed his foot with his armored boot, drawing close to him, "You will not insinuate that I am a coward again, understood? As a reward for bringing this opportunity to my attention, you will live, and be allowed the lands of... lets say... House Vyrwel in full after we have taken them.", he smiled as he lifted his foot.

Banefort growled, but still managed a courtesy bow, limping on both feet now.
"Thank you, my liege, I will do my best to repay this debt I owe you, though I won't be able to command the troops as I once did." He lightly tapped his bandaged leg with his cane.
"Thank Lord Massey for that one." He grabbed at his pockets, before drawing a large crown, emblazoned with jewels and shaped like a stag's horns.
"Found this in a cellar, the design's not great, but the gold could be reforged into something more suited to you, your grace." He took to his uninjured knee, bowing his head and presenting the crown as a squire would his sword at his knighting.

Tyget walked to stand before Banefort, gently taking the crown from his hands, and placing it on his head. It was not the same as the ultimate Crown, but that would come. As the crown touched his head the other Lords followed Banefort's suite, bowing down and kneeling to their King, Tyget smiled... was there any man more deserving. He turned, walking back to his throne as he spoke, "Make sure your men are ready to leave tonight. We will waste no more time for Garland to return before us. We have the advantage, let us not squander it. Banefort your son will lead your men, your nephew will be on the field with me as my squire as always."

Banefort shook his head.
"My son is twelve, your grace."

Tyget turned as he walked up the steps to his throne, "And? Tywin Lannister was but three Namedays older than your boy when he destroyed two rebel's Houses was he not? I believe your son will do fine Lord Banefort, we will be walking into an undefended, unprepared land of soft men who have never seen war. Perhaps he'll even bring you back a daughter in law... or at least a few bastards.", he chuckled as he reached his throne and sat down, addressing the still assembled Lords, "Well? Go! Any of you not injured need's be ready to accompany me. We go to plunder the Reach at Dusk."

When the lords had all cleared out, presumably to gather their forces, Lady Crakehall approached her Lord husband, hands linked together over her dress.
"You're going off to war again?" She asked solemnly.

Tyget sighed, and waved Lorch and Falwell away before he spoke to his wife, "My dear Leonette, I have no choice. I remain here, doing nothing and my claim will fade. If I can take Highgarden, force Garland's hand, I can take this Kingdom in one fell swoop! I must do this... and you must prepare Leona for travel to the North."

She sighed, her face growing smaller and her brows furrowing.
"Why? Even after your brother fell in a similar situation, even after Lord Banefort was crippled? Why can't you lead the troops from home? Garland seemed to do pretty well leading from his sickbed." She circled in front of him, moving more easily into his field of view.
"I'll never understand why you can't just hang this up and lead as your parents did, we'd be safe, Tyg, now I have to fear every shadow!" She sighed again, her posture changing to one of someone agitated, with arms crossed and body upright.

Tyget chuckled as she mentioned his parents, "My parents Leonette? My father was a drunken oaf! I'm like this because of my mother, I named our daughter after her because of that!", he wrappd his arms around her trying to get her to put hers down, "I do this and you are the queen! And Garland won't use assassins, he has to much honour for that. You're worrying to much. And Garland didn't lead, his uncle did. Thats why we lost... besides if I don't take the crown now there will be consequnces.", he put his hand on her swelling stomach, "And I will not leave my children, born or not, without me. I will make them Princes and Princess's."

Leonette pushed Tyget away softly, walking two steps away to give herself more space.
"You will not leave your children? You already have Tyg! When was the last time you saw your son? He's been in Harrenhal for so long I barely remember his armor. I was trembling when I helped him freshen up for your seven-forsaken speech, and I haven't stopped since."
She turned back to him, angrier now.
"If you want your children to be princes and princesses, then give it to them, but don't leave them, please Tyg! Gods, why are you so stubborn? First with this "Lord of Light", and now with this..." She shook her head, placing a hand on her forehead.

"Please, calm down Leonette! I can't lead an army thats miles away! The Reach is unprepared! There is virtually no danger in attacking it, and it will cripple Garland. I am not going to be in real danger. Tywin is... Tywin is fine I'm certain! He is a good fighter, and the Tully's support us.", he appraoched her again, "And the Lord of Light brought me back dear! If not for my faith in him I would not be standing here before you and you would be widowed!"

Leonette's eyes widened at his statement, and her hand went over her mouth. Tyget suddenly felt a pit in his stomach opening, this was the first time she had heard.
"What are you saying?"

"You... No one told you?!", he sighed, removing his breastplate and opening his shirt, revealing the scar on his stomach, "Lord Drumm ran me through with Red Rain here,", he tapped the blades hilt, "And, without a red Priest for hundreds of Leauges, I cam back! The Lord of Light himself revived me! He said I was a son of Azor Ahai!", he gestured to his scar, "What is this other than a miracle?"

Leonette was indignant.
"You... This is a lie, all of it! You... you're doing this to anger me, right? To... prove me wrong with some rediculous fantasy. Well I'm done, Tyget! I'm tired of all your nonsense, I'm... I." A tear fell out of her eye, her face contorting into something between anger and dispair.
"The others take you Tyget!" She turned away and began to leave angrily, sniffing.

Tyget sighed exasperatedly, grabbing her arm, "Listen Leonette! Listen to me!", he pulled her close to him, putting her hand against the burnt scar, "This is real! The Lord of Light is real!! The evidence is here! Right in front of you! You have to trust me! I told you I would come home from Kings Landing, I did. I swore I would return from Pyke, I did! I swear, I will come back from Highgarden!"

She pushed him away, more forcefully than ever.
"I'm done listening to this, I'm tired of hearing you lie to me, then swear that it will not happen again! I'm going to my chambers, you may sleep with the dogs for all I care!" She cried.

Tyget wanted to run after her, to make her understand... but it was no use. He could explain it to her when they were the king and queen... then she would understand. He satlked back to his throne, sitting in it and sighing loudly. Nervously, his page entered, a bottle of wine in his arms. "Here boy, pour me a glass... I am going to need quite a bit before this war is over."

_{collab with @bluetommy2}

"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."



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.

---

"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.

Rhaenyra Targaryen awoke in a cold sweat, having awoken from a fevered dream. She, like many of those that had followed her from the Northern Crownlands and King’s Landing, had taken a nasty cold during the voyage over. A few hundred had passed, no doubt from the lack of clean food and water, but their sacrifice was not forgotten nor in vain. Of the roughly 20,000 people who followed their Targaryen princesses, 18,500 were free, free from tyranny, free from madness, and able to no longer be trapped in creaking wooden ships and at the mercy of the seas. The voyage had taken a little over a week, one fraught with tragedy, sickness, pirates, and fear.

Shivering, Rhaenyra walked over to her window, throwing it open to allow the sunlight to stream into her room. It felt wonderful on her skin, as she wiped sweat from her brow. She knew she was sick, but thankfully, the worst had passed the night before. Her stomach was angry, not to mention her bowels, and on top of it all, it was that time of the month. She let out a soft laugh, marveling how fate seemed to cause chaos at the most inopportune times. Still, she was alive, and many of her subjects as well. She still had not crowned herself a Queen, let alone “Lord” of the Stepstones. Not until all the islands were firmly under her control would she dare such an action.

Her forbear Daemon Targaryen had crowned himself King, after conquering all but two islands in the chain. Yet, it seemed wrong, if not premature to do something like that until she knew that full control rested solely in her and her sister’s hands. Baela was no doubt off somewhere killing the last remaining holdout pirate lords who had refused to swear fealty to the Targaryen sisters. After the fall of Torturer’s Deep and Grey Gallow’s to the Targaryen forces, all but the most diehard and foolish captains and pirates had sworn their fealty, now knowing what the wrath of a dragon truly was, let alone two. Rhaenyra shook her head, moving to sit down at her table to catch her breath, and to ease the pain that currently emanated from her stomach.

“Seven be damned,” She thought, as another wave of nausea washed over her. Closing her eyes, she laid back into her chair, letting out a sigh, as the pain subsided. Her mind raced as the thoughts of the past came to the forefront once again. Funny, how when the world seems to be going crazy, with things spiraling in and out of control, we look back to the events of the past, our actions, and those of the individuals around us. The lords and ladies back in King’s Landing, that arrogant bastard Aerys, the Crakehalls… all these people swirled about her conscious thoughts. But, even in all that murky chaos, one face came to the forefront, Kevan Crakehall.

Of all the liars, cheats, monsters, rats, the negative and undesirable, Kevan Crakehall was one of the few faces that still shined brightly in that darkness that was King’s Landing. That city had paid dearly for the price of Rhaenyra and Baela’s escape to freedom and self-created exile. Perhaps the city was saved, perhaps not, but it was an action that had allowed not only for the sisters and their military forces to escape, but also their civilian populace to complete their own exodus from the Northern Crownlands. Sure, some people had stayed behind, choosing to live in the lands their families had worked and lived on for decades, but other chose to follow the Targaryen Duo, choosing to sail into the unknown.

Rhaenyra rose up from her seat, heading over to add more firewood to the hearth. The room felt cold, and a little extra heat would not only help cook her food, but also allow for her to relax without shivering every ten seconds. She enjoyed seeing the flames grow, burning higher and brighter, licking greedily at the freshly added lumber. She stood close to the hearth, letting the flames warm radiance wash over her like a wave of comfort, closing her eyes to relish every moment of it. She had secured a great victory on this island, and the nearby ones as well. It was only a matter of time before the outlying stragglers fell into line, and under her domain.

How novel she thought, looking back onto history once more. She was going to do what no member of her family had ever been able to accomplish, not even Daemon Targaryen. She was going to fully conquer the Stepstones, from the Broken Arm to the Disputed Lands, she would be its Queen, the sole uncontested leader of islands that had never submitted to anyone before. She felt herself smiling, reaching up to cover her mouth as she coughed. This damned sickness, the sooner it was gone, the better. Sighing, Rhaenyra sat back down in her chair, easing her legs out before her to be more comfortable. The sun was still rising in the sky, meaning it was morning at least.

She leaned back, closing her eyes. At least she had slept through the night, finally. Being sick was a miserable experience, but in a way, it humbles people. Rhaenyra shook her head once again, rubbing her head as she tried to ease away the pain in her mind, a headache starting to form. It was going to be a long day to say the least, but she took solace in knowing that soon she could be back in the field, helping her people, helping her sister. The sooner that she had conquered the Stepstones, the sooner she could begin to revolutionize these backwards pirate havens into a truly united and cultured realm worth being recognized. The rebirth of the Kingdom of Stepstones would be in honor of King Daemon Targaryen, in honor of all true Targaryen descendants that truly deserved to be called Kings and Queens.

Rhaenyra began to doze off, her eyes closing, while her head began to bob in exhaustion. She soon found herself daydreaming, perhaps closer to a fever dream, but all the same, she began to recollect of the voyage from King’s Landing, the storming seas, the pirate fleet, and finally the siege of Torturer’s Deep. She’d been cooped up in the conquered castle since it had fallen to her forces, or rather, the dragons, and then the remaining pirates and brigands being mopped up by her loyalist forces. Perhaps it was the dead that spread the sickness to her, or perhaps it was just latently waiting within her body before it finally struck, but either way, she’d been sick for the past week, bed ridden and unable to lead.

The voyage itself started off alright, but soon descended into a chaotic storm that sank its fair share of ships. She’d nearly been thrown off her own ship twice, thankfully being saved once by the rigging and the second time none other than Ser Trevan Waters. He had definitely saved her from falling into the briny deep, even though it nearly threw him into the sea as well. She understood why the seas were so feared. She had felt so powerless, so utterly weak and at the mercy of the tides and winds. Even her dragon hated being cooped up, and had chosen to fly for the most part, circling high above the fleet in the safety of the calm skies. They had not prepared enough for the voyage, nor was anyone else for that matter.

Though, after a week of rough and stormy seas, the storm finally broke, and land was finally sighted. She exalted at finally coming to the safety of land, after finding the ancient seat of power of King Daemon Targaryen, Lord of the Stepstones, Protector of the Narrow Sea, King from the Broken Arm to the Disputed Lands. The entire fleet had let out a cheer that was told by those that had surrendered could be heard from shore. Through fire and blood she and her sister conquered the Stepstones, with the might of their dragons, and the prowess of their loyal soldiers and generals, lords and commoners alike. It took all but a day to conquer Torturer’s Deep and firmly control the entire island. Though, who could truly say otherwise, when one had dragons?

The castle was old, and ill maintained, which had helped the Targaryen forces wrest control from the pirate and brigands who had laid claim to it. They were fierce fighters, and they didn’t let their island redoubt fall without a fight, but once the two dragons were unleashed, most if not all semblance of resistance and defiance evaporated, gone like smoke in a storm. The dragons had ushered in their resounding victory over their enemies. By day’s end, the smoke and flames were gone, and repairs were underway to the castle, which had been renamed Queen’s Rest, in honor of Princess Rhaenyra, and of Queen Rhaenyra of centuries past. Rumor said that this very castle was the one raised by King Daemon Targaryen, when he crowned himself King of the Stepstones, so very long ago.

She was so happy that day, so alive, so full of energy and vigor. Yet, that night, she had come down with a sickness, and like the others, she became bed ridden. Like anyone when they were sick, she simply slept and rested, occasionally getting up for food, water, or to vomit and make use of the latrines. So much for the fabled blood of the dragon, but either way, she endured through it all, still provided direction, even when she could barely walk or leave her room. It was Baela who shined brightly in this time, riding to and fro atop her dragon, Jadefyre, and bringing the other islands of the Stepstones to heel.

The smart pirates had surrendered, pledging themselves to the service of Rhaenyra and Baela in exchange for pardons and jobs. The others… well, their ships lay at the briny depths, burned atop the waves, or were roasted in their own small holdfasts, those that lingered being put to the sword by the roving bands of Targaryen patrols and military forces. It was a feat of military genius, luck, and sheer force of will, that had allowed for these separate, individual islands to now fall under one flag, one banner, and truly become a unified Kingdom. Though to call it that, even now, was premature, far too early and too soon.

Time was their ally here. The Stepstones were fractured and had fought against one another. This played to the Targaryen’s advantages, mainly in that they only had to face one enemy at a time, and those fools who stood up to them, well, they soon learned the same fate as Harren the Black did when Harrenhal was burned by Aegon the Conquerer. Still, time and patience would win out the day though. After all the castles and keeps had fallen, they’d need to be rebuilt, the shanty’s burned and replaced with true villages, and the land tamed and tilled for farming. The Stepstones were a wealth of resources that no one had ever bothered to truly tap into, something that both sisters were not going to ignore.

Soon enough, Rhaenyra had fallen fully asleep. Here dreams of the past eroded away to sweet peaceful thoughts of summers spent in the past with her family. Rolling to her side in the chair, she let out a small sigh, enjoying the sun’s rays warming her skin. Soon, the last conscious part of her mind though, she’d be able to be back in the field once more, to be able to rule as a true leader. This damn cold would not get the best of her, and better yet, she was overcoming it even as she finally drifted off to sleep, and let nature take its course. The world would still be there when she woke up, and she had set strict orders not to be bothered unless it was direly important.



Baela looked down upon the smoking ruins of the enemy fleet. They had finally begun to band together, in a vain hope to defeat the Targaryen sisters. It was too little, too late, and their final acts of defiance only seeking to irritate the conquering army. These pirates, brigands, and sellswords had lived without reprisal for far too long, and perhaps because of that, they’d grown lazy and complacent. Either way, against well trained men, and the help of dragons, these outlaws were quickly falling in line, or being burned to a crisp. For whatever reason, it seemed as though every island had just one more cove, one more cave to clear, before it was finally safe.

The benefit of all of this, at least, was the untold accumulated wealth of who knew how many ships, merchants, traders, kings, queens, princes, princesses, and more. These vile spawn of the forgotten corners of the great kingdoms and realms had congregated in the Stepstones for centuries, turning them into a pirate haven of pirate havens. Not since Daemon Targaryen had anyone ever tried to truly rule over these islands as one unified nation, one people, all under one banner. Baela laughed, turning her dragon to the left, spotting a small smuggler’s ship trying to make for the open ocean. How many more would try and run, rather than surrender? She shook her head, and beckoned Jadefyre onwards, aiming the dragon directly at the fleeing ship.

With one word, a gout of flame shot out, igniting the very waters in front of the fleeing ship. She soared over the ship, nearly causing it to tip over with the gust of wind from Jadefyre’s wings. Her hair streamed wildly behind her, as she turned her head to look at her handy work. The fools were running scared now, having turned back for shore. The bastards thought they could seek shelter in their little grotto, but they were wrong. She urged Jadefyre forward, and with a roaring screech, the dragon ripped the ship in half with its powerful talons, tearing the splintered wood up and away. She let out a laugh, enjoying the fun she was having in mopping up the last of the resistance on this particular island she was at, oh what it was to be alive, and to actually be fighting for something greater than any dared dream of for many a century. Still, she thought, her sister deserved to be here, rather than being bed ridden back in the new capital.

Flying up and away, she turned Jadefyre back towards the center of the island. Her forces were laying siege to a small holdfast, perhaps no larger than on of the towers in Kings Landing, but out here, it was among the largest structures on the island. She circled around the tower, knowing that it’s commander cowered within, his host having scattered at the first sight of her dragon. Even today, after all those years had passed since Danerys took the throne, dragons were still scarce, and in less developed regions, still very much a myth, at least until now. Baela wheeled Jadefyre over, and turned her dragon towards the roof of the keep. It was time to force this battle to a close, and secure this island for the Kingdom of the Stepstones. Jadefyre roared loudly, and came to a halt atop the tower’s roof, gripping at the weather worn stones. The dragon’s eyes scanned for anything that could harm its master, as Baela Targaryen hopped down from her dragon.

She pulled her hair back into an elegant ponytail, tying it off with a piece of deep purple silk. The least she could do is not look like some bedraggled ragamuffin, and more like a conquering Targaryen of old. Baela sighed, sitting down on a crate, as she waited for her prize to show up, knowing that he would not sit idly by with her finally landing atop his keep. Those that had been captured referred to this particular individual as Captain Honjar the Red. Said to be one of the descendants of the original defectors from the Royal Navy so many years ago, the marines and sailors who took the massive warships that the Lannisters had built, and sailed off to the Stepstones to become pirates. He still held one of those ancient ships in his possession, something that would no doubt be a nice prize to take home to Queenstone Island.

Somewhere off the coast of Massey's Hook

The ship rocked forwards and backwards, the distant sight of the morning sun on the horizon. They had left port last night, and were about to start passing Tarth soon, which would come on their east. This was a mission of a low key, and both Garland and Alerie had been reunited after making it back to the rest of the Redwyne Fleet that were deployed to the Blackwater Bay as a logistical support to the campaigns of the Reach as well as being approximately a quarter to a third of the existing Royal Fleet that Aerys had in theater already, sitting in the bay and simply watching the chaos unfold. From there, the majority of ships had met the navy of Tarth, and it had been a confusing divide. You couldn't tell exactly which ship Garland and Alerie were on, with this particular convoy having a set of green and gold sails, wind carrying the ships south-eastwards, across the Narrow Sea. It was a galley, with around 50 men or so on board, out of four ships detached from the main Reachman navy, flying predominantly Redwyne flags.

On the deck, Garland leaned against the wooden barrier, his health a little better since he'd come to sea. They had missed a major storm, one of the Captains had told him- ones that no doubt, had shielded the Targaryen sisters' voyage, and in the aftermath, the sea was no longer a bubbling, seaming cauldron. It seemed a little more gentle, though waves crashed and roared around the ship on occasion, the land masses that they had once been upon now in the distance. Garland could walk now- his legs were fine, it was more to do with his strength, the Maesters had said. He just needed to rest, though as of now, he wanted to at least be able to get around. He looked at those seas, his hair blowing in the breeze, sea salt on his lips, and his sword at his side again. His armour had been quickly looked at by an Armourer in King's Landing, and had repaired the damage that had been done, though Garland had no intent on wearing it just so quickly. It was a couple of weeks to home from here, yet Garland knew that there was a couple of visits he had to make. Baela was in the eastern Stepstones, while Rhaenyra had settled in Bloodstone, rumours already circulating that the pirates were routing, and they were already . Garland himself felt a little better, and indeed, despite his scars and the Milk of the Poppy that he occasionally took, things were improving a little better now he was out of the capital. He was able to hold his weight, his legs feeling like they responded to his want to stand, and while he leaned on pretty much anything, be it a cane or a side, he could probably stand if he had to force himself to, and endure a little strain in his side.

He was young after all, and the blood of Reachmen seemed to be a resilient one by it's well-sustained nature; unlike Northmen, the Tyrell blood seemed to be strong because they had food in their stomachs, not fire in their hearts. The wound could have been far worse, he reminded himself. Any further, he'd certainly have died, any lower, and it would have gone through his stomach and intestines, and he'd have died. Garland's lung had remained intact, or else he would have probably gotten infected, and the fact of the matter was, Garland was driven to at least stand on his two feet. He had two more weeks of being able to get used to movement, and then being able to hone his sword skills once more. Drawing the blade gently from his hip, he looked over the rose inscribed into the top. Every good sword had a name, he heard. He had still never named his, thoughts of it had gone through Garland's head, but he hadn't ever found the chance. He had a whole sea journey, he thought to himself, as he lay his thoughts to something else altogether. His twenty-second nameday was barely in a few days time, and he would be sitting in the hold of a ship, waiting to go home.

Garland knew the Stepstones well, and he knew that whatever strategical value they posed for the Seven Kingdoms, it was not in resources. No gold, no silver, iron, disorganized men with a low population, and a position that placed it out of reach out of easy control of the King of the Seven Kingdoms. How it hadn't become controlled by Lys, Pentos, or Tyrosh, was the real question, as the culture that it had was more in common with those, than of Westerosi Valyrian principles. The islands were hilly, and fish stocks were good, albeit piracy was lucrative for a good reason....it was easier to cripple trade than it was to cast nets, particularly when a band of merciless thugs could do that very well. The Reach did not dabble in Anti-Piracy, and when it did, the Redwynes were held accountable, and it always came back, growing like a weed in the dirt because if it completely died out, someone would stake a claim and take the whole of the island chain....and this was particularly what was going on right now. Still, a Queen of the Stepstones was an interesting move that Garland guessed Rhaenyra would want to make after this invasion, and one that had removed the two Targaryens from their responsibilities in Westeros, in the slithering in-between of Westeros, and Essos, a blank canvas in which to rule. Or, as Garland had figured it out, somewhere to learn how to rule. Like Queen Daenarys Stormborn Targaryen, who ruled in Astapor, Yunkai and Mereen before she made her invasion of Westeros an intent, perhaps these young women were searching something smarter. And Garland wouldn't be surprised, not in the slightest, he thought to himself. Still, he had his eyes set on Baela, and through Rhaenyra, he had his end of the deal to return.

Alerie herself looked a little weathered, and wore her usual dress, her hair flowing deeper and farther than usual, down to her upper back, lain out from it's bun and knot to a flowing, burgandy-red that sat over the soft material of her dress, puffy over the back and shoulders, revealing Alerie's cleavage at the front as comfortably as she liked it, her young face glowing but with a little wear from the night before. Alerie always found it strange, explaining how she did not have the usual brown or brunette hair of her family's forebears, and many an individual had attributed it to bastardry. There was an answer, however, and it relied in her mother, Elinor Tyrell- her distinct red locks in themselves a product of Ashford, that mirrored themselves in the young Tyrell Lady. Walking across the desk, Garland turned, nodding to his sister. She sighed too, flicking Garland's hair a little, brushing it from around his ear as she always playfully did.
"You're standing. That's good." She said, as Lord Tyrell nodded, smiling a little.

"Yeah, I felt that sitting wasn't doing me any good. I feel far better on sea, whatever in seven hells it was, it's given me a bit of strength. That and some food. I won't be fighting till we're home, but I can at least stop being a fucking cripple." Garland replied, as Alerie chuckled. He wasn't in the best of states, anyone could see that, but he seemed better than before.
"Oh, because you wouldn't want to disappoint the Princess Baela, would you? Oh, Garland. You know, you'll need to save your strength for the bedding." Alerie giggled, as she reached her frame upwards, the ship shaking a little from side to side, the sail flapping in the wind for a moment as the sailors adjusted it. Garland grinned, as he knew she wasn't lying.
"So, you seem to have an idea of what next, then?" She added, as Garland nodded.
"You could say that. The Crakehalls are on the back foot, and whether they like it or not, they're going to do something stupid. I then suggest we take Tyget's throne from his head. Take his head too. Let another minor Crakehall get in, someone like Kevan. Gerald will die for what he did, and I'll have Willas deliver his punishment when the time comes. Their family has no structure, no respect, no honour. They spend their time eating themselves alive, they won't claim Kings. I have a funny feeling Tyget didn't want what happened in King's Landing to happen. He mistrusted someone with an awfully great ordeal, and he lost. Tyget Crakehall wouldn't have done that." Garland said, as Alerie smirked, nodding, as Garland continued.
"I've heard from some of the men sailing upriver that Lord North has started some sort of revolt, he's already began attacking Tumbleton, and areas in the Crownlands, Westerlands and Riverlands from Harrenhal. He has 10,000 men, and while I don't fear his force, if he turns it upon King's Landing, we could have our resolve tested." Garland said, as Alerie cut him off.

"That's why the men of Tarth and the Yunkish are there. No doubt the Stormlanders won't want to do more than patrol the capital, but their captains will want to command. Lord North can be extinguished quickly."
"It worries me, sister. Why on earth Lord North is doing this, as of now. What is it he wants? He's angered Lords everywhere, and he has nothing....well, relatively so." Alerie turned to Garland, seeing the concern on his face, the thought as he spoke.

"I'm not a strategist, Garland. But if I were Lord North, I would see the chaos and use it fully. To create a realm of his own that cannot be contested, and when the conflict subsides, support the Crown or whoever is King, with a force that surrounds the capital. That would include us. He relies on this war to keep him going." She replied, continuing.
"End the war, and he dies out. He could turn to Crakehall for that backing, and likely, that could bolster the war against us. Hence, the men of Tarth and the Yunkish mercenaries can make a mark. Whether Theo or Willas leads the charge, it won't matter. They'll be responsible for that decision once they have their men."
"I agree....it is disconcerting, but I would imagine Willas can handle that situation. I have no idea how. Wait out until Lord Tully orders Lord North to stand down, or take the fight to the God's Eye. If they are kept as a third party and isolated from the Westermen, they won't be able to consolidate their position. No doubt Tyget will want to do something after this fight, and wheather that means taking his brother to account or attacking our lands first, even the flames couldn't tell you." He added, looking out to the sea beyond, before turning back.

"And what of Aerys, my sister? He's paralytic, comatose. Alive, but we don't know what of him."
"Aerys is a good little boy. He serves exactly what I think we want him to, don't you think? He is the Boy-King, by his birthright! Supported by a noble House of the South, who provides food, armies and his new alliances. Two out of the Seven Kingdoms want him in power for certain, and Dorne will also vouch for Aerys, hence, they shall join this fight on our side or provide at least, backing for his regime. Allegiances are not a fickle thing, not when it is in letters to the Lords, Ladies and Princesses of the Realm. Words may be wind, but reputations are built by people who stand by them. Dorne shall not worry us." Alerie added, smirking, as Garland nodded. The sailors were too busy, too distant.
"You did the right thing there, in the Holdfast. I know it does not feel like it, but we don't need to declare anything more than we already have. Let him carry on being." She added, Garland giving a simple nod, as he wrapped his arm around her side, looking down at her smaller sister.

"I agree.....we've got a lot to do. I just want to go home, and fuck women and drink, Alerie. I want to be under Jehrilla's heaving mass again." Garland and Alerie both laughed, as Garland looked over, sighing a little after it subsided.
"I always dreamed of leading men in those fights, but by the time we get home, this war will be half won, won't it?" He said, as Alerie responded with a simple nod, Garland looking back at the blue seas again.
"Whatever they do, Loras won't be stupid enough to concede our ground. As much as the man is an oaf....any Tyrell is able. They'll hold them back, then we'll throw as many Roses into the Westerlands as we can. It would barely take a couple of months. Now we make them dance for us, sister. Whatever they have left, it will cost them more than their gold." He said, as Alerie chuckled, looking out.
"Someone will figure something cleverer than that out. That's why you still got stabbed when I tried to get us to King's Landing against that force. We may hold all our forces in reserve and have them ready for when we arrive, but if we make a mistake, we will not get a second chance. If I were you, I'd get some more rest. We've still got a few days to sail to the Stepstones." She added, as she turned back towards the hold, heading back in, as Garland followed, using a cane to prop himself a little when he stopped, though it seemed he could now carry his weight, just about, as he headed back towards the steps into their quarters.

It’s fairly easy to get anywhere when you have control of the ocean. The Drowned God can reach up and guide your ship, take it to the place you want to go. But he can also stop you cold, and make it harder to get where you’d like. Cidran counted himself lucky. And that the Drowned God smiled up at him from the bottom of the black abyss of the sea today.

It had been a short time since Peytr Harlaw had returned from the waters. Having trailed Tyget’s fleet all the way down to that spur of land that house Banefort. The pair of Iron Fleet ships that Peytr had lead along with Captain Saltthroat had trailed and dogged the path of the Crakehall fleet for two days, before stopping, and heading back to the Iron Islands with all speed. As soon as he was, and had a day of rest in him. Cidran and Peytr had summoned the captains on the waters back to the islands. Their ships no longer needed to protect the island out on the water anyway. No they were needed for something else entirely.

As soon as his son was rested, Cidran sent out the word. By Raven and by ship. Sent far and wide across the islands, and a few left for the Greenlanders to find. The letter read as follows:



With his son rested, Cidran called his own ship the Black Vision to be reprovisioned and repaired for a raid on the main land coast. With the Black Vision, an Iron Fleet ship, armed with Scorpion spear launchers and Spitfire bomb launchers. As well as three times the crew of a normal long ship. As well as another four longships. Numbering some one hundred and fifty souls. And quite a few of them being warrior women. Women of the Iron Islands who want to fight beside their menfolk. Cidran’s own wife Tillia stood beside him now in dressed in weathered fighting leathers, and fingering an axe at her waist. She had specifically said she’d be coming with the two men of her life. Her son and husband of course. She would not wait at home and knit while they sailed the waters and fought and shed blood in the name of the Iron Islands.

Before them, they could see the shore of the mainland. And on it, a small trading and fishing town. Cidran really could not care what this Reach land town is called. As far as he’s concerned the place is lightly defended, it has goods and it has things that they can raid and pillage. It’s name doesn’t matter. It’ll burn if they fight, and it will give the Ironborn a good start to their raids.

It was such a nice day in the dock and trading town North of Blackcrown. The seaside market had opened early, metal and jewel smiths with wares made from trading ships that had come around the southern coast from other towns and locations were hawking their delights. A clam and cockle girl roamed the dock, calling her wares. A few mixed patrols of Bulwer and Tyrell soldiers made their lazy way down the lanes. The town is thought to be safe, this far from the main lines of battle in the other parts of the kingdom. The soldiers unworried.

It's a small child who notices something out of the ordinary. He’s playing with a wooden ball, when he notices the big shark figure-headed ship heave into the port. Followed close by four smaller ships with other dreadful figureheads. A killer whale, a kraken, drowned man his eyes buldging, face painted blue and the last a hammer head shark. He giggles and points the ships out to his mother beside him. She looks up, and gawks. No Longship had been seen this far south in decades, maybe in a century.

She watches, as there’s the plain sound of a heavy rope being released, and a massive iron spear sails off the large ship, through the air, and crashes into a stone wall, almost utterly demolishing it. It’s quiet for a time, before a quick succession of twangs and whumps are heard from the big ship again, as another huge Scorpion is fired, and the Spitfires are fired as well. A long spear, with several torches attached sailing through the air and slamming down into the roof of a building, setting the insides ablaze. Men running, some coming out onto the streets with sword, dagger or axe. The soldiers running to the docks, confusion writ plain on their faces, who is attacking them? What in the devils is going on? They are witness to the four longboats beaching themselves at either end of the docks, one of them crashing up and shattering a wooden dock like so much kindling. Leaping off the front, a sight to behold. Harlaw men and women. Armed and armored. Swords, sabers, axes and shields. Moments later, like some great leviathan from the depths the huge shark figureheaded ship slid up to the docks. And Cidran in his chestplate, club in one hand and sword in the other is the first over the gunwale, falling 9 feet to the dock. His wife, son, and brother Maxos “Merling” Hawlaw with him soon after.

Cidran grins, watching the carnage and spotting the soldiers. As other Iron Islanders join him he points forward with his sword, “Take everything, gold, jewels, weapons, food, liquor and wines. Anyone who stands before you, lay them low. Kill no one who doesn’t take up arms.” He starts moving forward. The soldiers of the Mainland finally get their balls to work again and charge. Cidran’s eyes light up at the chance of a fight. His wife sides her axe off her belt, and his son draws his paired sabers off his hips. Cidran’s brother produces a heavy iron mace off his back. And before long the fight is joined. It’s a melee. But nothing like what the soldiers are used too. The leader of the soldiers had stepped forward to ask the Islanders to stand and put down their weapons. And prepare to be arrested. He never gets the word out. As Cidran lets out a growl and almost parts his jaw from his head with a vicious swing from his club. Dropping the wooden bit and two-handing his broadsword he steps forward engaging another foe. Maxos takes out a man with a single swing of his mace, caving in his chest. Peytr taking apart another pair of soldiers with deft smooth movements of his sabers. It’s Tillia that astonishes the first of the Mainland soldiers into running. As she runs forward with a ululating scream, hurling herself forward and bears the man down under her weight, hacking into him with an almost mad abandon.

Further down the dock, another group of Bulwer soldiers arriving to be instantly waylaid by another group of axe and saber wielding Iron Islanders. Nearby that fight, a quartet of Islander kicking in the door to a gemsmith, disappearing within. Moments later the gem smith, still holding the smoking hot iron poker he had tried to attack one of the men with comes sailing through his front window. The man who he tried to stick coming out holding his arm where he had taken a brush with the poker. He picks up the gem smith by the collar, dragging him over to the waters edge and plunging the man’s head into the water, roaring, “This is the only thing you should fear. Fire can be extinguished! Water is eternal!”

Cidran battered the shield of one of the mast standing soldiers aside, grabs the blade of his own sword and half-swords the man across the temple with the guard of the sword. Spilling him to the ground. Peytr finishing of his own final opponent by chopping off his sword hand. And Tillia pulling her axe out of the shoulder of the final soldier. Maxos chuckles and booms in a low voice, “I knew I’d get to cave someones head in if I came with you brother.” Cidran grins at his younger brother but taller brother, “I aim to please. Come! I want to see if this place has something I can wet me throat with, and then I know there is a jeweled sword or pendant somewhere in this town with my name on it. Come!” He marches forward, a small hoard of islanders following behind him and his family. There is a similar scene like this in other parts of the town. And Ironborn men and women sweep through the town, kicking in doors, grabbing up loot and goods, setting some building alight, chasing people who don’t attempt to fight out of the city. No woman is raped, taken like an animal though. On express orders. And no man is violated by the women of the Islands either. They come for prizes and pillage, and the chance again to wet Ironborn steel with Greenland blood.

On the edge of the city, one of the few surviving soldiers, just a handful left, looks to a young man from the village, handing him a message, as already the rookery has been burned the birds within set to the flame, or shot out of the air before they could take wing to far by Islander bows. The message says only that the Iron Islanders are in the town, flying the colors of House Harlaw. Atleast one hundred and fifty strong.

A scene similar as this happens all up and down the west coast of the mainland. As small fleets of Iron born ships, often with one or two Iron Ships with them attack along rivers, or up and down the coast. Almost all the houses of the Islands are shown to be raiding. Blacktyde burned a town in the North up a river. A daring Raid by House Stonehouse from Old Wyk and House Stonetree from Harlaw, attacked, gained entry too and raided the docks, banks, and storehouses of Seagard, it’s fleet of ships taken to task by twenty long boats, and three Iron Ships.

The biggest altercation being the simultaneous burning of ten coastal towns on the Westerland coast lead by ships flying the colors of Houses Harlaw from Harridan Hill, Grey Garden, Harlaw Hall, and Tower of Glimmering as well as Houses Kenning and Myre from Harlaw Island.

The message of the raids is clear. The Iron Islands have been roused. And woe to any that stand in their way now.