(Collab with @Abefroeman)

The Seven Kingdoms of Westeros stand at a crossroads. The once united and peaceful realm of King Aegon the Tenth have fallen into chaos and uncertainty with his untimely death, and the destabilizing events that would follow. Prince Daenys Targaryen, Lord Tyget Crakehall, Lord Hand Garland Tyrell, and Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen all laying claim to the Iron Throne one way or another, be it through marriage, right of succession, or in order to protect it from usurpers. In the end though, it would be the son of Prince Daenys Targaryen that would ascend the throne to become King of Westeros. Sadly, fate had other ideas.

In the chaos for the scramble for the throne, the Iron Islands have risen up in defiance, declaring their independence from the Seven Kingdoms. The Westerlands and the Reach are at open war with one another, pitting Houses Crakehall and Tyrell against one another. The Vale, the North, the Riverlands, and Dorne have yet to become involved with the fighting, their Lords and Ladies waiting to see who they shall support in the fight for the Iron Throne. The Stormlands support the forces of House Tyrell, but are currently contending with an open rebellion threatening to overthrow House Baratheon. The Iron Islands now bide their time, with House Greyjoy's near-destruction, House Harlaw now commands the Ironborn, ready to remind the mainlanders "What is dead may never die, But rises again harder and stronger."

To the far North, the Night's Watch remains ever vigilant, defend the realms of men. And while the world's eyes watch who shall sit upon the Iron Throne, those very eyes have ignored the letters and signs from the Night's Watch proclaiming the return of the White Walkers, the return of the undead hordes that were supposedly vanquished millenia ago. To the East, a new kingdom has arisen from the ashes of a long forgotten one, the Kingdom of the Stepstones. And the leader, Quee-

The maester stopped writing as the floor creaked behind him, Daenys smiled as he strode into the room and pulled out a knife, hiding it behind his back. The maester turned slowly, his eyes wide for a moment, before closing in a scowl, the corners of his mouth turned downwards as Daenys came closer. Daenys wanted to slash his throat then and there, but he felt like it would be more fun to torment the man.

He was dressed as a Tyrell, so he knew the maester would answer to him, but first he had to work his charms.

"What is it? You do understand I'm working on a history don't you?" The man aggressively questioned. Daenys chuckled and walked up to him.

"I just was wondering why your study is so disgusting." He joked.

"I'm actually here with a notice from Commander Willas, he has made it clear that the commission will be late, as King Aerys will not be available to sign for it." He grabbed his hands together behind his back, pushing the knife's handle with both palms.

The maester sighed and turned back to his writing, only turning to give a near silent recognition of Daenys' statement. Obviously he didn't wish to be disturbed. Instead of disturbing him, which would have been rude, Daenys simply stood in the doorway, thinking about how his blood would flow and paint on the ground, how he would gurgle and sputter before expiring and being silent, how Daenys wanted to paint his final moments.

The maester looked over his shoulder for a second and then looked back to his work, another second later he turned back to Daenys with a growl.

"Is there anything else? I'd prefer not to be disturbed." He questioned in a tired manner. Daenys moved slowly into arm's reach of the man, smiling and turning near-drunkenly. The man leaned back in confusion as Daenys placed a hand under his chin.

"Don't worry, I'll be out of your way soon." Daenys spoke, moving the blade from behind his back.

---

"Back in line." Daenys chuckled to himself, the words tasting like wine on his lips.

"Back in line." He tossed off the borrowed helmet with a flick of his wrist.

Daenys had finally found himself alone, no small feat with the size of King's Landing, and especially when one was dressed as a Tyrell man-at-arms. He cursed the golden rose that hung from his neck, before pulling 'his' gauntlets off and dropping them. He rotated his wrist a few times, allowing it to crack.

How Daenys enjoyed saying those words, "Back in line." the power he had over those who feared for their lives, he could say them and men would obey, all of them would, for fear of becoming one of his victims.

And they all will obey, from the Starks in the North to the Martells in Dorne, even the Crakehalls will eventually be forced to yield.

Daenys twisted at his neck, placing a thumb and a forefinger into his mouth and whistling loudly over the hills.

Men obey, they obey Tyget because they were born into his lands, Garland for the same reason, but they continue to obey the wrong people, for they were all born into my domain, my lands, my crown, my throne.

His dragon crashed into the hill just in front of him, crying out it's deathly shriek as dragons were like to do. The beast reared back and flapped its wings again, blowing Daenys' hair away from his ears.

"Back in line, I will bring them all back in line, with you, my sweet Bloodfyre, with fire and blood I have returned..." He stopped and stared off in the direction of the huge city, sprawling brown over what was at first a green hill.

Garland Tyrell still lived. Daenys bemoaned the man's absense, for the knife that misses once always returns the second time. Garland still claimed the throne for Daenys' son, stealing the crown out from under his nose, and using his own blood as a puppet as well?

Daenys had seen it, what they had done to him, took his mind and half his head with it, no man deserved that, no less a boy half-god. The red god was a lie, he had proven it himself by defying the "will" of a priest broken by torture and upjumped on his own nobility. A god obsessed with flames and sacrifice? Daenys would show them the greatest sacrifice of their time.

But enough silent boasting, he hadn't murdered two gold-cloaks and a Tyrell soldier just to get disappointed by Garland's absense, he had heard of Lord Velaryon's purchases in the stepstones, and the ownings of his cousins Rhaenyra and Baela. From what had been said, Garland had already taken the younger sister's virginity, though rumors were always exaggerated and told one too many times.

Holding out a hand, Daenys beckoned his beast to him. Daenys had never quite gotten over his fear of the beast, large enough to crush him in it's jaws and devour him piece-by-piece, a fate that Daenys had not yet inflicted upon someone, hopefully one of the Lord Paramounts would end up fighting him, other than Garland of course, he had something special planned for him. Mayhaps invite Lord Stark to King's Landing to pay him for his inability to answer the call of his liege. Or, he could pick Lord Valaryon apart for daring to provide troops to the pretenders.

That would be exceptional. Daenys grinned at the thought, it would have to be so, he would have to do it.

Of course, he couldn't ignore the Arryns of the Vale or the Tullys of the Riverlands, he would collect a payment from them as well. Lord Tully still held on to his belief in his own superiority, the thing about beliefs, they are shattered just as easily as a glass in the hand.

Of course, he knew that he couldn't just kill Lord Valaryon yet, he still needed the man's levies, perhaps once the war was won, or perhaps he would have to take the Reach first, force their forces to raise and take Driftmark for his own.

Of course, the throne would be his, there was no doubting that, but intrigue seemed not to be the way forwards, so he'd have to raise something, and he needed Dragonstone for that.

Dragonstone, gods he hated Dragonstone, Dragonstone was rocks and bastards and maritime winds, bah, ugly horrid place, but, no matter that, he would have to go, killing more King's Landing folk would only get him caught again, and that was not a chance he wanted to take.

Mounting his dragon, Daenys scoffed and ripped the Tyrell flag from off his chest and stared at it for a few moments.

Westeros would remain in chaos until one strong enough to bring it back arrived, and that one would have to be him, for there was no one as powerful as he, there were no gods behind them, and he himself was the god. It was true what they said, wasn't it? That he was the mad servant of the Stranger.

Chuckling, Daenys pushed his dragon to flight.

He loved flying.

The solitude of Riverrun’s godswood had been comforting for Riaon Tully, as it had been since he was a small temperamental child.

A solace that perhaps was indebted to his romanticization of the old texts and the old cultures of his kinsmen. Before the invasion of the Andals, there was only the first men with blades of copper and bronze who defined themselves by a prouder way of life. A way of life before knights, “new” gods, and thrones made of iron and gluttonous, boisterous beliefs. He often wondered what it had been like to have been back in a time before his people had been conquered several times over— before the Valyrians, before the Ironborn, and before the Andals. A time where Westeros only held two proponents of people; the First Men and the Children of the Forest. What a time it must have been. But that time had passed, and Riaon Tully was no fool to presume it could ever return.

The present was empty, insufferable, and full of pointless conclusions— but it was the present. As much as he would’ve liked to lay in the godswood far away from reality and responsibility, he knew that he couldn’t; especially now that he was the Lord Paramount of The Trident following his father’s death to the same loathsome illness that had consumed his beloved wife seven years ago. Being Lord Paramount was something of an inevitability following his brothers deaths, a consequence of the brutality that occurred in the Trident when “Romarn Mudd” declared his right by inheritance to retake the Kingdom of Rivers and Hills from House Tully and bring back true prosperity to The Trident. A sentiment that Riaon might have been ensnared by had he not been the enemy of the overzealous rebellion in the first place. The War of the Four Swords. He had been a young, aspiring knight then and now here he was as the successor to his father many years before he should have died of old age. His father did not deserve to writhe in the bed coughing his lungs until he turned over. His wife did not deserve to spasm in pain as she collapsed down a flight of stairs. His child didn’t deserve to die before it even had a chance to breathe.

A heavy breath left Riaon’s lips as he remembered a phrase his uncle, Manrel, used to tell him.

Few get what they deserve.

Riaon stood up from his position kneeling before the godswood, lamenting the responsibilities and the losses was something that gave him tranquility but only so for a brief moment of time.

“You’ve been in the wood since dawn broke, brother.”

Riaon chuckled, he must’ve been in the godswood longer than he thought. How the day consumed him so. The reddish brown-haired man nodded to the appearance of his sibling in the godswood as he pushed himself off the ground and to a standing posture. “I suppose I have.”

He hadn’t just reclused into the godswood to mourn the death of his father in peace and dwell on what his next moves as Lord Paramount could be— but the fact that he had been effectively convinced by his sister to let her leave Riverrun when the call of the Iron Throne beckoned had hung over him like an old crow. He and his sister had been pretty much inseparable since they were born; they learned together, they trained together, and they even fought together. When he became Lord Paramount he thought she’d be there as his second-in-command with her sword sharpened at the ready to do her duty for the betterment of The Trident. But… she had wanderlust and ambitions; a fact that ensnared her when The Iron Throne’s Kingsguard came calling to ask her to be one of the rare exceptions to the rule as a female member of the whitecloaks. Riaon knew Cathryn had no desire to serve and protect insane Targaryen kings and queens, but when it came to it she left. He never thought she would. He misjudged her and he misjudged the cunning of the crown to take something from him he thought was unreachable.

He would never admit it, but after the loss of his wife and father the loss of his twin made him feel so utterly alone. Truthfully, while he hated dancing with words and playing games he could never admit his own failings or emotions; it just was something he couldn’t do, especially not while he had to show all of the lords of his realm that he was ready to lead and that he was a strong confident lord in a state of possible crisis.

“I’ve been thinking.” He said as he turned to face his younger sister.

“Oh? Is there anything I can do?”

Riaon nodded as Alyce’s gentle voice left her lips. She had always been the best of his younger siblings and maybe of them all— she lacked the traits that made them all so awful and represented the best of what they could be; or at least that’s how it seemed to him considering he couldn’t read any ulterior motives beneath her kindness, sympathy, and penchant for helping others when they needed it. As far as his opinion went the least desirable thing was that she preferred to be with the gods then with her countrymen or suitors. He was honestly surprised she hadn’t been taken in by the cloth quite yet.

“You can drag me out of this forest.”

A light giggle. “Of course.”

“So who sent you to remind me I’ve wasted too much time?”

“Ser Damon Paege requested me to see ‘if you were alive’, if the language is appropriate.”

Not exactly the proper way of speaking, but Ser Damon had been the man who trained himself and Cathryn in the art of the sword and upon his father’s death Riaon had personally elevated him to his personal council to serve as his marshal until he decided that he was unable to do so or was buried and gone. Knowing the old man he had a feeling it would likely be the latter over the former option, a fact that amused Riaon greatly.

“I see. I guess the council wants to meet to have that discussion about what we are going to do going forward.”

“The succession crisis?”

Riaon nodded as a heavy breath left him as he thought about it as the two walked through the godswood, making for its exit. He had slept on it since it had happened— the whole business with that forsaken archaic throne that had no business ruling over his people and getting fat over its coin and bread. So many people claiming ownership of The Iron Throne and who deserved it. He had received letters to mull over from House Tyrell, House Targaryen, House Crakehall, The Citadel, and even an unknown author who had scribbled inane subtle threats at his expense. Ultimately, it didn’t really matter if he stayed neutral or not since in his eyes it wasn’t a problem for him or his kinsmen. The last time they marched for or against the damned throne had resulted in a great loss of life and inane subterfuge; how could he allow himself to let that happen again when he didn’t really have a strong opinion of the people involved?

He knew people would come to him, one way or another to try to sway him. But even with that in mind he just wasn’t sure what he should decide; the matter had to be delegated very carefully even if he didn’t truly care about the affairs of his “liege lord”.

“Well, I hope you come to a decision that is best for our people. I know you’ll make the correct choice.”

By the gods, he sure hoped so.

Lord Cidran Harlaw, his brother Maxos and Lil’ Ant Harlaw all stood in the ruins of a Westerland river town. The place functioned as a trade center. Barges moving up and down the river to the coast and then up to places inland where goods are exchanged back and forth. But today, the town burns. The Lord of the Harlaw family has one hell of a chip on his shoulder when it came to the Westerlands, especially the houses of Brax and Crakehall. Any time he could manage he’d go out of his way to leave a message for either of the Houses. And today Cidran, his brothers and their three ships are deep into the heart of the Westerlands. Every single soldier stationed here already a corpse, just a few of the civilians remain, many of them also butchered and left to become maggot food on the streets, and inside their burning homes.

Cidran breathes in deep, smelling the carnage. His brothers and their raiders stood in the city center, around a very nice looking bit of masonry that was at one point a fountain, but the tip of it, a Crakehall emblem now lay crushed to one side, a soldier head impaled upon the stump of stone at the top. His still open eyes stared into the distance blankly. Cidran turned slowly, to look at the few remaining citizens of the town, a bailiff of the town court, the mayor, a few families here and there, the children of which were being taken to the ships, to be broken and trained as Thralls. He chuckled softly. Looking at the last remaining Westlanders here, “So, I’m sure you’re curious what this is all about.” He grinned as a few of the raiders walked by all casually with some of the spoils of the raid. A big chest of silver and some food and drink. One of them already drinking deeply of a big bottle of beer. Cidran chuckled, “I know how much you must hate us for this. But this isn’t your fault. Nor is it ours. If you blame anyone while going to your graves, blame your great lord King Tyget Crakehall. He’s the one who started this. And he’ll be the one to pay for it. But not in your lifetime I’m afraid.” At a nod his brothers and raiders struck, all but the mayor was left alive after the Ironborn fell on the last members of the town. Throats were slit. Maxo set a record with how far he can knock a head off someone’s shoulders with his mace. Antom Harlaw ended his victim with a quick slick push of his long dagger through her shoulder down into her heart. The only man left was the mayor. It’s Cidran who walks up on him, “You’re going to be the signature of our message. When someone finds this town burnt to the ground, cinders blowing in the wind. They’ll find you all. But you most of all.”

Cidran fell upon the man. His sword sliding free, a dagger in the other hand. The mayor had a quick end. But the desecration of his body was such that few would recognize him. Cidran wanted to send a message. He began to cut, and carve. The eyes were the first to be removed. Torn free of his lifeless head. Set upon the edge of the fountain. Next was the mayors tongue, cut free and placed between the eyes. The man that was the mayor butchered right there as the rest of the town was piled high and set alight. Cidran still worked though. Next came the mans ears, sawn off and placed beside the eyes. Last to come off were the mayor’s balls. His manhood desecrated with a sawing motion of the dagger in his hand. His son Peytr brought him a wooden box, into which Cidran placed the items. And he placed on the edge of the fountain. He left a note atop the box, that read, “The Iron Islands remember, Crakehall.”
Their message to the Westerlands left, the raiders gathered up their loot. Boarded their ships. And with the heave of oars and the billow of sails. Disappeared back out to open water. It would be a day later when a patrol came to the town, finding the devastated town, the grisly container and the note. And not long later that the letter and contents taken to the throne room of Tyget Crakehall.



Cidran leaned out from the side of the Black Vision, an Ironship fully 120 meters long, with a pair of scorpion launchers and a spitfire launcher on top of that. The mighty ship had one hundred and ten souls aboard, of course armed as you might figure. The Elder Harlaw watches as they cut through the waves off of Old Wyk Island. The raiding had finished, mostly. The ships are returning. And many of the Houses of the Iron Islands are sailing for Old Wyk.

On the way in he’s already seen ships flying the banners of Houses like Botley, Humble, Sharp and Ironmaker. The ship flying his brother in laws colors, those from Blacktyde had pulled up beside them a few hours ago. And his wife and her brother had been playfully shouting jibes and barbs back and forth across the water at each other. His son’s cousin from Blacktyde had swung across on a rope during a swell and the pair were now engaged in a friendly sword duel on the deck of the Iron ship, practicing to fight during the dips and swells of the water.

Ahead the shore below Nagga’s Hill loomed. There were already a few ships beached up on the rocky shore. One flying the banner of House Stonetree, another flying the colors of House Volmark. Cidran hrmed as he jumped off the rigging and landed beside his brothers. He groaned and popped his back, having landed a little badly. His little brother Jonaton reaching back and helping him stand tall, “Easy brother. Don’t hurt yourself before the Moot. You’re our best bet after all.” Cidran growled, “Even if I don’t want the Seastone chair brother? I want the Islands to succeed, but taking that Seastone chair on Pyke, that’s not my best outlook of things.” He sighed and stood up full and straight, “But I will put my name forward anyway. Maybe just maybe the name of Cidran Harlaw will be called out the loudest.” He gave a chuckle, and looked back over his shoulder, his brothers here to stand with him, his wife at hand, her hair flowing in the sea air. His son coughing and laughing on the deck after his cousin had landed a proper blow on him.
He shouted out, warning everyone of the upcoming beaching of the ship. He grabbed abit of rigging, While his brother Maxos leaned forward. His wife squealed and grabbed the gunwale. The ship growled and groaned as it hit the sand and rocks with a mighty boom! Several of his men jumping off the ship, crashing to the shore and pulling the ship up a few more feet, securing the might Iron Boat to the shore. And then turning to watch the already gathered Ironborn. These men were here for the Kingsmoot.

Soon Cidran swung down and landed calling out, “I am Lord Cidran Harlaw, Lord of Ten Towers, Lord Harlaw, I come to put my name forth for the Kingsmoot.” A Drowned Man, one of the priests of the Drowned God stepped through the crowd and called out, “Then be welcome to Nagga’s Hill, Cidran Harlaw. We begin as soon as all the Salt and Stone Kings who wish to put their name forth have arrived. Come. Join us on the Hill.”



A pot clattered over the heat of the stove. One of several in the underground hidden section of the small building in fact. In the pot a slurry of mashed up vegetation. And what looked like scorpion stingers…or maybe even Manticore tail tips. It’s not really clear, the way they are all just floating there. Could be anything really. After a moment the lid is lifted off the pot, and a pair of green eye peer down at the strange slurry within the pot. A small steel spoon raises then dips in, stirring the mix, once, twice, thrice. A few ginger taps on the side of the pot and it’s closed again, keeping what is likely a very dangerous mix hidden from the eyes of any who might descend into this alcove under the house. Roderick Flower, scion of House Hunt hrms, running a hand over his tattooed shaven head. He heads over to another of the many stoves, their exhaust pipes built through the walls, and cleverly hidden when they reach the surface behind the house. Where smoke or floating embers wouldn’t be out of place.

It's a good few minutes before Roddy heads up stairs to the house and shop he tends too. As you might expect no one entered the building while the slightly eccentric apothercary, brewer and rumoured assassin was out of sight. Some of the items on the shelves, quite dangerous to the people who didn’t know how to use them correctly. There are loads of people who would love to get their hands on essense of nightshade, or concentrated wolfsbane, but those people don’t usually come to the small little shop on the outskirts of one of the many little satellite towns that dot the area around Horn Hill.

It’s still several more minutes later, that we find the young man reading a book on various uses for certain plants and animal parts. Like the poison paste he had taken off the heat. Business this day is fairly light, none of his normal clients or any new clients make their way into his shop. Thankfully he did fairly good business with those people who used his services so he didn’t have to worry about going out of business anytime soon.

So he waited. Maybe just maybe someone would come along to visit Little Roddy Flowers, the Poison Flower of House Hunt.

The Vale of Arryn was quiet across its beautiful land. While struggles over the Iron throne persisted to the south, the naturally isolated eastern part of Westeros was peaceful. House Arryn, the rules of the Vale had been silent for decades, letters and ravens sent to them about affairs outside of their domain went unanswered. The lords of the Vale had their own problems, and by the Seven they were certain any ravens they sent to the south seeking aide would also go unanswered.

Sterlan Arryn watched from a window in the Eyrie, the ancient castle as sturdy and defensible as ever. A light breeze blew leaves to the ground and knocked specks of snow off the mountain tops. The young lord's eyes were upon a clear ground where two figures stood, as they faced each other with clenched blunted swords. The taller one, clad in fine leather armor was in a defensive stance as their opponent, wearing more casual clothing, swung at them, each blow blocked with precision.

"That was barely an attack, Harrold. Are you a swordsman or some wee lass who's never picked up a sword before?" Ryden Waynwood taunted, a knight of House Warnwood, one of the great noble families sworn to House Arryn. He was in his forties and a close friend of Sterlan's father when the man still breathed. His long brown hair had started to grey, a trimmed beard on his face hiding a small scar on his left cheek.

"Bet you won't see this coming!" Harrold exclaimed with the usual grin that was seemingly plastered on his face. He swung downwards towards Ryden's legs but the older knight read the move as it happened and deflected the blow. Harrold's sword bounced across the ground and rolled away from him. The young Valeman rushed towards it as Ryden smirked.

"You know if we were actually fighting then you would have died then and there." Ryden said with a laugh as he allowed his boisterous opponent to gather up his weapon. He retook the defensive stance as Harrold circled around him and searched for an opening. Sterlan, unnoticed by other of them watched with enjoyment.

Harrold lunged forward and Ryden blocked the blow, but then the young man picked up the pace as his speed picked up. The actions forced Ryden to backpedal as he deflected blow after blow. Still experience and talent with a blade dwarfed speed and youth as the elder knight countered each blow with certain finesse. Then Ryden went on the offensive as he swung powerfully at Harrold, the young man blocked the blow but his whole figure shook from the force of it. As the training session went on Sterlan’s eyes were drawn away from it at the sound of a creaky wooden door opening.

“My lord, another letter arrived from the south." Maester Edam said politely as the grey robed stepped into the room. His chain collar rattling as he moved.

Edam was a wise old man, his head was devoid of hair, a thick grey mustache covered his upper lip. The man was his father's maester, and his grandfather before that man. In one of his hands was a letter, carried by a raven to the Eyrie. The maester handed it carefully to Sterlan who grasped it with a stare. He read it over, speaking to Edam as he did so.

"Another asking for our great house to support their claim to the Iron Throne. How do they expect me to support them over a simple letter? If they want my allegiance then they should come to Vale and speak to me personally." Sterlan stated before he placed the letter into a cabinet containing more papers like it. He would devote a serious amount of time over who to write back to and what to say.

"House Arryn is still a great name across the realm and the knights of Vale's reputation in battle is known, my lord. I believe you will need to decide who to support, it would not be looked well upon for the Vale to stay neutral as they have in the past." The maester said with honesty, he watched as Sterlan walked past him into the stone hallway as he followed the lord.

"I do intend to support someone. We've been isolated too long," Sterlan said as he went down a short staircase that lead to another, Edam following him closely. "How do I pick someone to decide in such an impersonal way? A letter can hide one's true intentions, the last act I'd want to do is to align with a tyrant that goes against House Arryn's beliefs."

Outside where the two figures sparred sounds could be heard as Harrold dropped his sword and fell to the ground with a grimace. Ryden had a smile on his face as he he mad contact with the boy's arm with his blunted blade. It gave a small cut, ripping the fabric of his shirt. He wouldn't die from it. He yanked Harry to his feet as Sterlan continued to descend down the Moon Tower. He entered into the Crescent Chamber, the reception hall for guests to the Vale. It was a lightly filled room, around a large fire sat some merchants, servants handed them refreshment as they exchanged tales of travel. Some noblemen were chatting in another part of the room, Sterlan smiled at them as he walked, Edam now alongside him.

"Your father would have said the same thing, my lord." Edam said with a smile, as Sterlan returned the expression.

"He would have indeed, he was a great man, I can only aspire to do what he wished to achieve before sickness robbed him of his life." The young lord said with sadness in his words. As he walked he noticed his brother Harrold and Ryden enter from the outside, Harry held his arm as it appeared Ryden had just finished laughing.

"Little Harry got nicked by my blade, barely touched him with it and he's acting like he lost the whole arm." Ryden said as Edam shook his head and walked towards Harrold to inspect the wound.

"It's nothing life threatening, my lord. Will leave a scar but won't kill him." The maester said as he turned towards Sterlan who was shaking his head, nearly laughing at how his brother was over-exaggerating the 'injury'.

"Well, Edam, give him some medical care. Harry, where is our sister, last I saw she was with you?" Sterlan inquired as he wondered where Haleigh, Harrold's twin was.

"She went off riding her horse, said something about picking flowers in the fields." Harry muttered.

"With guards?" Sterlan asked, he doubted anything would happen to her but it never hurt to be on the safe side.

"Yes, brother. Two of them." Harry answered before he was lead away with Edam, Ryden following the duo as well. Sterlan turned away to speak to a nobleman.

---

Haleigh Arryn had a smile on her face as she rod her horse through the grass filled fields in the valley below the Eyrie. Her long brown hair blew in wind behind her as she breathed the fresh air outside of the castle. She enjoyed the wilderness and riding horses especially. Behind her were two guards also on horses, bored looks on their faces and swords on their belts. This wasn't their idea of fun, but it was better than patrolling at least.

As she reached the top of a flower covered hill Haleigh hoped off of her steed then grasped its harness with one of her manicured hands. The Arryn girl walked through the grass slowly as the beautiful scenery around her shined. The Vale was gorgeous during this season, there was green all around her as birds chirped in the sky. She saw three deer dash into the forest as they heard the horses from a distance. There were no sounds of battle here, no screams of terror. There was a beauty in being in such an isolated area, it was untouched by war.

She didn't want to leave it, it was her home and there was so much beauty in it. But the truth was there, someday she would have to leave here and go where only the Seven knew. Marriage was expected for a girl like her, her brother was an honorable man, much like their father was. She knew he would only marry her to a man as good as he was. She just hoped wherever she ended up that it would at least come close the beauty of her homeland.

On march to King's Landing

Three days of hard marching. Three days of fast, hard and backbreaking march. The pace was punishing, but it had been necessary. Although Casterly Rock was far from the border of the Reach, an army of fifty thousand men mobilising was hard to keep secret. By moving so quickly Tyget had shaved days or even weeks of off the march to King's Landing, ensuring the small force he imagined held garrison there would receive little to no warning of their approach. That was worth it. Even with destroyed walls and small numbers a well enough prepared force could hold King’s Landing. Tyget would ensure that they could not hold it against him. He awoke on the fourth day of march, ready to tell his Lords and men that they would be slowing down to a regular pace, no doubt to their relief.

He awoke to prepare his armour, his Banefort Paige ready to assist him. His armour sat kneeling proud on its rack, the proud steel suit still shining from its recent forging. His sword the reforged ‘Red Rain’, now called ‘Heart’s fire’, stood in it sheathe. He had had the blade reforged to be more appropriate for him, the thick inelegant blade now undulated like flames, ending in a thick point. The red smokey Valyrian steel had been tested time and time again, no less effective in its new form from its old. The armour, newly forged after his ‘resurrection’, matched his new heraldry. The deep earthy tones of the layered and segmented plate were accentuated by the thick bands of gold and red rims, the colors of bright flames stuck out against the dark armour. The plate leggings and gauntlets bore red and gold detail, the fauld and cuisse similarly colored black, red and gold. His sloping helm had its edges shaped to undulating fire, the plumage once white had been replaced with feathers of a bright fiery red taken from some exotic bird. Its golden crest stood tall, its top undulated like fire and was tipped with blue. A pair of horn-like tusks stretched up to the sky, tipped with blood red. Tyget stood before his paige, and helped to put on his Gambeson.

The breast and backplates were tied and clasped together, his gauntlets and vambrace similarly placed on his arms. His spaulders, shaped to be flaming boars, were tied as well. His bright yellow surcoat was put on, on its back his new heraldry. A Boar, reared up on its hind legs, screaming to the ground as he prepared to come crashing upon its foe. Its fur was fire, orange, red and gold. Its tusks were black and ringed in golden flame, its proud head a flaming blue crown set atop. He took his helmet under his arm, and marched for the large council tent at the camps center. He opened the flap to find Lord Payne waiting for him already.

The King chuckled, “Ah, Lord Payne. Always early, never on time. Why is that?”

Lord Payne smiled, the short, stout man gave a sly smile to his King,“Your Grace, a man who is early misses nothing, and gains much more.”

“Well regardless it's good you're here. Any word from your brother on my son and the forces I sent with them?,

“No your grace, but my brother is anything if not skilled. I’m certain your son is fine.” Lord Payne smiled assuringly

Tyget nodded… he needed to stop worrying, Tywin could take care of himself. He sighed and took a drink from the goblet of wine his paige poured him.

“Of course, its why I made him my first Kingsguard after all. Tell me Payne, surely you have reservations about my plan? Take a city whose walls are ruined by dragon fire? Give me your sage counsel old friend.”

Lord Payne stroked his chin in thought, no doubt he had some hole to poke in Tygets plan. But, he simply shrugged.

“Well your grace, if you believe you can hold it, then I will see that its held. I am but a loyal servant after all. Kings Landing holds your throne, why wouldn’t you take it when it’s so weakened?”

Tyget smiled, Payne almost always gave counsel pointing problems in a plan and this day he was silent… good. Unfourtanetly, their peaceful conversation was broken by Lord Lorrence Lorch storming into the tent. Lorrence was not unlike his father Joramy, massive and intimidating, he was by far the tallest amongst the lords, even over the traditionally tall Cleganes. He was about 6’4 or ‘5 and carried about a massive maul whose head was shaped like the tail of a manticore. This maul swung at his side for now, his helm under his arm, his mustachioed face on full display as he slammed his hand down on the table.

“You give the landing party to Ser Falwell?! A Kingsguard?! I should be the one breaking into that damn city!”, Lorch declared loudly.

Tyget sighed, “Falwell is an experienced knight and, most importantly, expendable Lord Lorch. If my gambit to take the city fails all we lose are a knight and his men. I’ll not lose another lord in a gambit.”

And if they find Lord Garland or Ser Wilas? Their Head are mi-”, Payne interrupted him.

“Garland is not in Kings Landing Lord Lorch, w-”,

“And how do you know that Lord Payne?! Are you the new master of Whispers?!”

Tyget answered, taking another sip of wine, “We know that because Garland would have no reason to stay and every reason to stay. Its a city with ruined walls and he has better things to do that babysit it. Wilas may yet remain as leader of the Goldcloaks and the Tyrell men still there. However, we can’t know for sure because we have no spies like we did before.”

Lorch turned back to Tyget, his eyes filled with anger, “I want both their heads your Grace! It is because of them my father is dead and they will die by my hand alone!”

“I cannot guarantee that Lord Lorch. For one a battle is a chaotic place, any man could kill Wilas or Garland on one. And, you will not be receiving Garlands head. He will not be dying if it can be avoided.”

“Why? He has risen arms against you, rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms! And he may live?!”

Tyget growled to his rowdy Lord, “If I have Garland executed the Reach will burn its crops before they give them up to my seven kingdoms. I will not starve the people for your revenge Lorch, a King must consider things far into the future. Garland is simply doing what he, as Hand of the King, is meant to do. Keep the succession line unmuddled and ensure the correct heir takes the throne. I will not have him killed because he was wrong. When the North and Riverlands join me he will bend the knee then. Wilas is yours if I can give him to you, but I make no promise.”

Lorch huffed and sat down heavily in his place at the table. following his outburst the other Lords filed in, ready to be briefed on their King's plan.

____________________________________________________________________________

“If our scouts are to be believed, the vast majority of the Reach’s forces reside within the Reach for fear of an attack by our army as they learned it has returned to the West. We also know, following the burning of King's Landing no Tyrell forces have been sent, meaning the forces there have not been bolstered. With estimations from our scouts and spies, the Reach stands ready with eighty thousand or more in their homeland. That, paired with observations of their forces in King’s Landing before the burning means there may be ten to fifteen thousand men or less in King’s Landing. We have about fifty two thousand with us here; five time their number. It has been too short a time for the walls to be repaired, this we know from the fact dragons fire melts stone, making it hard or impossible to repair without removing whatever is left. All the masons in the seven kingdoms could not repair it in that time. But, they are still the defending force and may decide to dig in like a damned tick and wait for help. That will not happen.”

Tyget pointed to the black water, several towns a few miles from King’s Landing, and the King’s Wood.

“As we are not bringing or fleet, we will muster before the main gates, make it appear that we intend a frontal assault. Ten thousand men will muster at the King’s Wood, further drawing attention to the front battlements. This will leave the mud gate, and all other gates along the blackwater undefended or sparsely defended. Sir Falwell will split with us before arrival at King’s Landing and commandeer enough boats for two thousand men. Under cover of night this small flotilla shal float into the blackwater, undetected, and take the mud gate. That done they will assault the likely smaller force holding against our men in the King’s Wood and open that gate. That done, they will assault our enemies at the main battlements, trapping them betwixt our forces. Any questions my lords?”

The many assembled Lords sat in thought, there were few holes in his plan but Lord Marbrand spoke up.

“What of the fleet in the blackwater?”

Tyget nodded and tapped the blackwater, “The fleet is not going to be expecting any sort of attack and, is most likely scattered to allow for trade. The Tyrell’s fleet prevents us from bringing ours, so why would they be readied? They will think nothing of a few boats ferrying in and out even if they notice them, which is unlikely at night regardless.”T

heir Kings logic sound, and the Lords seemed satisfied. It was only when the Elderly Lord Lefford spoke that again the Lords seemed worried.

“Your Grace, w-without the walls… how shall we hold the city against Lord Garland Tyrell? Surely he will mount a siege to retake it?”, the assembled Lords began to grumble

“Y-you yourself said there is not time to mend the great walls… what is your plan?”

Tyget smirked at the elderly Lord, then spoke.

“That, Lord Lefford, is the most important question you could have asked. For we are already outnumbered, and will no doubt take casualties in the taking of King’s Landing. That, and none have declared yet for us, how will we hold against a siege with no walls?”

He pointed again to the blackwater, front of King’s Landing, and the King’s Wood.

“As you know, I ordered masons, wood cutters, blacksmiths and other craftsman marched with this army correct? They are for our defense. The masons will do what they can with the walls then abandon them, they are our last line of defense. The King’s Wood, or very much of it, will be cut down and made into trebuchets, catapult and other defenses. Every smallfolk in King’s landing will be given work, food and pay to assist in this, as well as digging the trenches.”

“Every man who can, smallfolk and men in our own army, shall dig a vast network of trenches before the city, interconnected and reinforced with timber from the King’s wood. In addition the vast amount of soil dug up will not simply be tossed, it will be made into a great earthen wall, reinforced with timber atop which another trench shall be dug. Great lumber spiks and fortifications will be placed within it to deter cavalry, and force them to assault it on foot. Archers will be placed in it along with spears to keep them from climbing the steep wall. It will be far shorter though than the walls of King’s Landing, no taller than eight men atop one another. Archer towers will be built peering over it to pour more fire unto our foes. If that wall is breached they will needs contend with out trenches. fighting trench to trench until they finally reach the walls. If they do, they will find us waiting with phalanxes of spears and tower shields pushing them back. Even before the first earthen wall is assaulted or horse, which will be placed several miles away, will join my sons forces who will be called and attack while our enemy prepares for siege. Along with an assault from men at our own front they will agains be caught between two forces in the raid. As they begin to awake both forces will pull back out of their reach. After this, our cavalry will continue to harass them as they attempt to breach our wall. Garland Tyrell will sue for peace long before they breach us.”

The table was silent. Each Lord in his turn trying to find fault. A few spoke about the weakness of earthen fortifications but were quickly silenced when no better alternative could present itself. Purely wooden walls could take too long and be knocked down easily, and an earthen wall so stout would deter traditional siege engines. The trench works were well wrought and would be hard to get any cavalry over and have to be cleared one by one. The night raid was brilliant, and the continuing harassment would be difficult to stop and destructive to moral. It was only when timid Lord Serret spoke that any problem was found that could be realistically solved.

“What about the fleet? What if Tyrell calls upon them?”

”We will be prepared for them too. The Blacksmiths of King’s Landing, and those we bring, will work on two jobs. Providing our men with the spears and towershileds we need if they pass the trenches, and smithing a great chain. The chain will, much like the battle of the blackwater, be dragged across the bay. Making sure that no ships will be able to assault us. Even if they row their long boats in we will have men posted and waiting with oil, arrow, spear, sword and more.”I

t seemed as if Tyget had covered all his bases… all but one. Lord Payne cleared his throat to speak.

“And if Garland can bring dragons to bear, your Grace?”

Tyget’s face twisted into a cruel sneer as he spoak.

”We will be ready for them too. I will have ballistae made by the carpenters, and we will rain great arrows into their scaly hides and keep them off the earthen wall and trenches. If they try to destroy them… then arrow and spear shall meet them. The ballistae will be spread out so as to cover one another yet be out of reach to be all burned at once, ensuring getting rid of them will take time. Even if they cannot fell the dragons, they will keep them away from our other defenses long enough to readjust or simply hold longer. I am confident the North and Riverlands will eventually ride to our assistance, and the siege will be over. Besides, I doubt Garland will resign the people of King’s to death by dragonfire. None So Fierce.”, Tyget growled

Those are the words of my house. Not, None So Fierce, other than Dragons. Not None So Fierce but my enemies. It is None. So. Fierce.. For, there are none in all this world to match my wrath nor strength. There are none to doubt our resolve nor steel. No one will ever doubt us, my Lords. The Westerlands are the Lion, the Boar, the one to break our enemies! When the Lannisters stood all feared them, as Long as the Crakehalls stand no one will breach the Westerlands! We broke the Ironborn on their shores did we not? I drowned the great Kraken in fire and stomped on its corpse!” T

he Lords who had been there let out a cheer.

“I died on a ship in those waters, only to stand again and strike the head from our enemies myself! I lead the breach in Pyke! With R’hllors fire I scorched our foes!”

More lords rose in cheer as Tyget stood, his hands balled in fists as he spoke, voice booming throughout the tent.{

color=brown]”A flower will not stop us! We will drive all before us, and take that damned Iron Chair for the West!”[/color]

With this declaration the Lords stood and cheered, fists slammed to the table or lifted goblets to the air… Tyget was their King, and while they would run when his brother lead, none dared defy the Old boar.

____________________________________________________________________________

Several days later, the Crownlands

I warn you Ser, I have been tasked with guarding this bridge from any men to enter who wear armour. You will not pass, and I would truly prefer not to fight on such a beautiful day.”

The massive man stood between the men at arms and their goal, a small town where they had been ordered to recruit. The sergeant gulped at the sight of the man. He was as tall as a man and a half! His girth was as impressive, a mountain of man stood their. He wore what appeared to be simplistic armour, a breast plate over a gambeson, greaves and gauntlets and even a greathelm!

“Y-you will move at the order of k-k-king Tyget Crake-”

The giant interrupted him, “I’ll move when the fine people of this town who were kind enough to give shelter and food to a wandering knight tell me too friend.”

The sergeant sneered, “If you’ll not move… We’ll move you! Go! Kill him!”

He ordered. His men looked at each other briefly, but decided they outnumbered him. Three charged him, spears held high and lunging for his unprotected areas.The giant sighed, before a great rumbling shout echoed from his lungs, he hefted his two massive axes, they would be wielded two handed by any other man, their thick heads shaped inwards like a man's body, not unlike the axe of an executioner. He swung them about like a regular sword. He parried one spear hard enough its haft shattered into splinters. Another was knocked away, and the third caught in between both axes before he snapped it like a twig. The man whose spear had been parried but was still whole swung it back, only to be parried by one axe, and another brought down on his head. The giant split it in two, helm and head, with his axe. Yanking it from the man's skull to turn to his friends. Both looked on in horror as his body fell sputtering to the ground before turning tail and running.

Not far away the Army was setting up its camp. King Tyget strolled around the outskirts on his steed as he often did, he found it helped the men if they saw their proud king, he would even occasionally hop off and talk with them or even pitch a tent. He had led men for years, and it never hurt to be near them. Ser Falwell and Lorch marched alongside him as always, never out of arm's reach. It was during this stroll, proud in his full regalia on his horse, that he spotted the giant and his men’s clash. Five bodies lay at the giant's feet, all further failed assaults. He seemed largely uninjured… but it appeared the sergeant had decided to stop just throwing men at the massive knight. A ring of archers stood around him, ready to perforate the hedge knight for daring to stand in their way.

“I’ll give you one more chance Ser! Move aside or we will kill you!”

The giant sighed once more, ”If I am to die here, it will be a knight's death. I do not fear it.”

The sergeant raised his arm. “KNOCK, ARROWS!”

The Archer’s knocked.

“AIM!”

They took their aim, the giant closed his eyes in prepartion.

“Halt sergeant.”, Tyget spoke loudly and with authority, but did not shout.

The sergeants blood ran cold, and he gave the order to drop their arrows before kneeling before his king. Tyget looked from the sergeant to the armored giant stood at the bridge, who looked him over. He looked down to the sergeant.

“Who is this man?”

“S-some dissenter your Grace, he refuses to move so that we may recrui-”

“I am more than some dissenter my lord. I am an anointed knight, my Lord”, he bowed his head to the man of noble bearing.

Tyget raised an eyebrow, and trotted up before the knight, signalling for his men to stand back, Falwell and Lorch nervously doing so, leaving their king before this massive man alone.

“And what is your name Ser?”

Ser Godry Langward my Lord.”

Tyget smiled, Actually Ser Langward, it's ‘Your Grace’ when addressing a king.

The Knight tilted his head, before giving a hearty, booming laugh.

“You would dare laugh at King Tyget Crakehall?! You cur! MEN! KN-”

Tyget held up his hand to silence the Sergeant, letting the man laugh.

”I-I am so sorry your Grace, I did not recognize your sigil.”

Ser Langward bowed deeply, before again facing King Tyget.

”Before I left to find my fortune, I know my house sent men to the aid of your brother at King’s Landing. The Targaryens have had their time, we support you your Grace.”

Tyget smiled widely, turning to the sergeant to speak to him first.

Return to your posts, there will be another village with young men seeking silver before we reach Kings Landing!”

The men scrambled away, some picking up the bodies and dragging them, ready to be burned or buried. Tygets guard approached, their dark red armour was tinged with flares of orange, yellow and gold. Their cloaks were gold with flared, fire detailed borders. The bottom of their cloaks appeared to be the beginnings of fires slowly creeping up their backs. Their helms had been shaped like screaming boars, whose coarse hair was flame trailing slightly behind them tinged with blue and gold.

”Tell me, Ser Langward. What would you say to joining the most prestigious order of Knights in the land?”

Ser Langward gave another hearty, booming laugh before he kneeled before King Tyget.

”I would be honoured, Your grace.

Willas looked down at the boy, shaking his head. The night was still strong in King's Landing, the morning light barely breaking, broken by the one or two fires, not from furnaces, that burned outside.
"I hope you were right, Alerie." Oathbreaking was not unknown to Willas. The other men who knew Willas broke an oath to the King, were dead, all of them. All apart from Florent, but he was no longer in the capital, after he had been taken off of the Kingsguard, unfit to guard the King Aerys due to his missing leg.

The situation had not improved, by any measurable margin, in King's Landing. Whilst Theo Stanton was the provisional Castellan, he was under a mountain of paperwork, or on the streets having to deal with people rioting, looting and begging. Food had been restored, but the city had to be retaken, block by block. They were unruly, and the Reachmen inside, Owain Footly and others included, had their hands busy, trying to quell and keep the peace. The walls did stand, they were burnt, but they stood, and the gates had been repaired once more, albeit not to the standard that they had been before. Even so, it did not have gaps, and any attacker was going to still struggle if they wanted to get in. They wouldn't withstand a siege, everybody knew that, it would be days before the city ate itself alive, right now, it was barely ticking over.

And so, with that in mind, Ser Willas Tyrell, the last Kingsguard left alive and in short, it's de jure Commander by default, or at least, so he had to now see it, was now doing what he did for family. He had betrayed the Kingsguard once, when he stayed in the capital, while the others flocked to Aerys. And he knew that people were honor, duty bound to serve their Kings, to do the right thing, which was always what their King commanded. That was the oath he had taken, and whilst he had fulfilled his duty to the King, he had failed. Royce had let him go, told him it was fine, Willas remembered. Yet here he was, doing it again. He was dead, as was Dayne, Florent, Footly, all of them, gone. Duty bound, he had to protect the boy King, for everything.

Yet he was mad.

The young boy was the promised one, yet looking at the promised one now felt disgusting, it felt unnerving. Worst of all, it felt like it wasn't right at all. Fuck honor. Family mattered.

Alerie's letter had said it best, what was to be done with Aerys, so as to keep suspicion minimal. And right now, Willas was untouched, unstopped in what his actions were to be. Nobody would tell him what to do, or to stop. The Tyrell Retinue, the 20 men he had trusted in King's Landing the most, weren't even in on it, well, not their entirety. Ser Maxwell, the Commander of the Gold Cloaks, with him in the moment that they killed Darren Celtigar and bloodied the cloak, was the only other man who entirely understood what was going on. This was for the greater good of the Realm, for Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen. Willas knew she was a good woman, and felt idiotic, moronic not to accept that when it was there. Now, they would undo the mistakes of the past. And wash it away in blood and flowers.

Looking over at the golden soldier at the other end of the room, the Tyrell nodded, looking back. He took no pleasure in this, but knew it was to be done. Ser Maxwell walked over, and took Aerys's legs, as Willas took his body, picking it up, and slowly dropping it into the casket. The oak casket was shut with a lock, as Willas looked to the other man that came into the Maester's room, dark skinned, the look on his face one of a grin, not of a somber mood to what was going on.
"King's Cock." He simply said, as he walked up to the casket, patting it.

"Where I come from, this is something you would pay hundreds of gold dragons for. Let alone the rest of him. His heart, his eyes, his balls, his fingers. You can perform such magic with it, don't you know?" The figure said, wearing a brown cloak, a golden tooth in his mouth, a piercing around his nose. It was difficult to tell where he was from, but Slaver's Bay wouldn't have been a bad guess. What he did, well, you didn't want to know. Alerie appeared to have poked fingers at the right people in Queenstone, and sent him to Willas, that, and a bunch of other instructions. The Knight thought he was a pretty awful human being, but none the less, he was a good tool for the job.

"I didn't. But I hope whoever has the fortune to buy finds a use for them." Willas was cold in his reply, as they took the box, picking it up, lugging it out of the room. It was heavy, it was like carrying a coffin, precisely because it was, to Willas. The robed figure would take it far away, the simple payment being that it was to never return to Westeros or be seen living in Essos, ever again. King Aerys was to be cut to pieces, drowned, taken apart. Willas didn't care, his heart hurt knowing what he did was bad, and he knew it entirely. It was malvolent, evil. But it was a needed act to help the family. And nobody would stop him. The boy was pretty much dead, so he wouldn't feel the pain of being plucked apart, as one of the robed figure's guards followed him, taking the box from Willas and Maxwell, carrying it forwards and out of the Holdfast. He was going to the port, and would never be seen again. Willas knew that this wasn't entirely it, however. The plan was not complete to Alerie's instruction.

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

The boy had been found in the hovels of Flea Bottom, a street urchin, one that would do the job rather nicely. Willas, aware of his role in this conspiracy, had dealt with it himself, alongside Ser Maxwell. It hadn't taken long to have him carted back into the Red Keep, and on the same table Aerys had been lying on.

He wore Aerys's clothes, and over his eyes, lay purple glass eyes, his eyeballs beneath rotted away, his hair dyed white, so much so that it looked the same platinum blonde as Aerys's hair had been. He looked about the same size and age, and while he didn't look perfectly alike, it was enough to give the impression away. Few had actually seen his face proper, and only the most knowledgeable would understand that this wasn't Aerys, but some poor bastard child in his clothes.

He even had repeated sharp knock that he had taken in the side of the head, a blow from the side of Willas's poleaxe handle, which had killed him almost instantly, the boy that is, not Aerys. And now, he was here, dead. Soon, the news would leak out, and Willas would know what would happen next. He had letters written to other Knights of the Realm, some still neutral, some not abiding by the call to arms that Aerys should have recieved, others from home. Cathryn Tully, amongst others, her in particular Willas remembered as being mentioned to him as one of the greatest soldiers of the Riverlands, still unmarried, and against usual traditions, willing to be a Knight of the Kingsguard. Perhaps a female ruler would appreciate the gesture, he thought to himself. He left the room, shutting the door, looking over as the Maester walked along the corridor, only walking by. He would know what would have happened. But if he were to speak, he'd have his throat out. And Willas knew that he knew it full well. This was for good reason, the right reason. The only reason that mattered to the whole of the Seven Kingdoms.

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(@bluetommy2 collab)





The white castle stood amongst the late summer, the evening breze gentle, as it came in from time to time, the distant sun going down amongst a nice haze of clouds. A gentle steam rolled off the trees of the Rosewood, the castle's innards working as they usually did. Right here, it didn't seem like there was a war on, and in the city that surrounded Highgarden, the same could be noted, that trade was as usual, to the lands beyond. Even with the threat of the resurgent Ironborn, the fields were a beautiful golden brown and green, following the collection of the harvest.

Within the council room, Lyanna, Loras, Belgrave and Ser Alesander, the Master of Arms's right hand man, were sat, and this was a council of most urgency. The situation had changed from when the initial rallying call had been put out by Loras, and it seemed even the oafish Hightower did now fully understand the gravity of this situation. He sat up, the Lord Hightower wearing a cloth and leather jerkin, looking across at the others, as he sipped down some more Arbor.

The whole situation in Highgarden was clear, what they knew was rather clear cut, rather simple. The Ravens had arrived back, and it was clear, Garland and Alerie were alive, the capital was secure, and whilst the walls had taken a battering, the sandstone in places melted by dragonfire, the capital retained it's position under Tyrell and Crown control. That was good enough news for the Tyrells to get, that it could be developed from there, in regards to what would go on next. Garland was in the Stepstones, and Alerie was headed home, it appeared. Rickard had arrived at the Citadel, and the army of the Reach was mostly encamped outside of the white walls, green and gold banners flying high.

Belgrave, at least, seemed displeased with the atmosphere, he had fought hard for his personal guards to be brought into the room, but after their behavior the last time, it seemed unlikely now for them ever to get let back in, he had also asked for one of his cousins to be allowed in, not even Bryce Tarly's clout could allow the man in, considering Lyanna's stern and unwielding attitude, he had managed to get his squire, Big Bryce, into the room, if only to aid the man in getting out of his armor, which he had donned as a result of a deserter assault. He still seemed over-dressed out of his armor, and he was the only seated person with a blade off his hip, Heartsbane hanging over his back simply for transport, as no knight worth a dragon would walk into a battle like that.

"So, the reports are to be believed? He has 50,000 men?" Loras asked, as Alesander nodded, looking across at Belgrave, the shining Valyrian Steel on his back reminding the Knight that he was in the presence of a blade that wielded respect to it's user, no matter what, someone who would be far more knowledgable. Still, he had to let the table know, knowing it was to be discussed.

"Indeed, they feigned a move on our borders. They're going down the Gold Road, the only way to King's Landing from Casterly Lock, my Lord. They know we have our forces bolstered and are fresher than theirs, so Tyget could have panicked. He wants to act now." Alesander simply replied, as Lyanna looked over, the look on the Reachwoman's face stern, her wisened look acutely aware as to what it meant.

"Of course they did, you fool. I could have told you that." Her barb was sharp, as she shook her head, looking at the map of of the land that was placed on the large table, of southern Westeros in a relatively accurate entirety.

"They are going to take what is theirs, and not stop until they have it. You haven't clearly been listening to me. We are going to repeat the same mistake again, unless we do something with what we have. We have more men, who are more fresh than them. So what is stopping us?" Lyanna simply added, as she gently drank a little mead, Lady Tyrell clearly set.

"Nothing. You're going to let them walk into a burnt city and fortify. Seven Hells." She was firm, as she sighed a little.

Belgrave scratched at his beard a moment, letting out a tittering with his tongue.

"They'd be daft as a rat to fortify a burned city, they're doing this for the throne, they're set to have Tyget sit the bloody thing and then leave with a crown, drum up more support. If they do mean to fortify, then they'd better hope that they have the manpower to rebuild a bloody city in a week or so." He tittered once and placed a thumb under his chin.

"Of course, I'm no strategist, Tyget probably knows better than I ever could."

Loras looked across, as he nodded, looking at the map.
"Willas is still there." He simply said, as he looked at King's Landing on the map, painted in a particular way on the large parchement roll.
"Family, friends, and King Aerys, I'd imagine that they won't last long if the Crakehalls make it there. They won't fortify it in time, even the Crakehall gold won't make miracles happen. But we have had many already, so we can't write them off." Loras simply said, as Lyanna nodded in agreement, Loras able to at least put the gravity across when he had to, as she looked at the map.

"I'm not a strategist, no military planner, I do not concern myself with war. But with an army such as Tyget's, is it possible to stop him making it to King's Landing by force, Lord Tarly?" Lyanna simply asked Belgrave, looking across at him, a little more on his level than she felt like she could sometimes be on Loras'.

Belgrave scratched at his beard a moment.
"We do have ten thousand more men than he, but I wouldn't get comfortable," he turned to his squire, who handed him a small knife. Belgrave pushed the tip against his thumb and rotated it a while.

"Tyget Crakehall defeated the Ironborn in one smooth motion, I would say that takes an expert in tactical matters, especially considering his fleet was outnumbered at least ten-to-one." He tittered and shook his head.

"If we could catch him marching we have a good chance of destroying his troops, but if he's encamped, his defense advantage could push him over the edge."

"If we are going to attack, we would have to do it in broad daylight, which means it would be hard to surprise him, we cannot attack during the night, as his defenses would be raised and his troops encamped. Perhaps we could hide in the kingswood and strike when he is forced to march through." He suggested with a shrug, not raising his eyes from his knife, which he had begun using to clean his fingernails.

"If we attack him in the open it would be a battle of tactics, and I know I'm good, but I'm worried Tyget may be better."

Loras shrugged a little, as he looked over at the Master of Arms, taking in what he said.
"He might be, but we haven't attacked him yet. I don't know much strategy, but Tyget has always had us on the back foot, always assaulted us, without end. Perhaps we ought to make him think. We have the larger force, but it needs to be used correctly." Loras said, as he looked at the map.

"What about Payne Hall? We could attack him, while he marches, using the hills to our advantage. Our men would be fresher than his, surely?"

"Perhaps, it might be workable, if I may comment. We would need to be careful, perhaps lure him out using other forces so that we catch him without a solid encampment. They will know we are coming. But so do we." Alesander said, as Lyanna looked in, the Gold Road weaving through the Westerlands, the lower hills of Payne Hall still not able to conceal an army, but firmly in Westerlander control, a cutting point between the Reach and the Riverlands.

"Tyget is a smart man, but he's desperate. If he wasn't, he'd muster even more soldiers, mercenaries, and he'd hit us where it mattered. If like you say, Loras, he wants the Crown, then he would have been wiser than to leave Gerald to it. There is little other play he has left if he wants to retain his head. As they say, in this fine game of thrones, you win, or you die." Lyanna slyly commented, as she shook her head.
"Cersei Lannister was an awful human being, but she also had a point. I suggest we make it time to see if he's willing to play this game at the highest stakes." She added, looking to Belgrave once again.

"You've fought for the Iron Throne and against Dorne for most of your life. Tyget is a man of coin and manipulation. He isn't a glorious commander, just stern is all. You don't have to use him to win, that's how he fights his wars, by doing that don't you see? You just have to make him scared and you'll unravel him....and a fight will come, indeed. Tell us, Belgrave, what can be done?"

Belgrave frowned.
"What is there to be afraid of? Tyget has one of the two largest forces left on the continent, aye, ours is larger, but he has children, children who he can marry, the North, Vale, and Riverlands are all still neutral, if Tyget secures their alliance, only gods can save us, the key isn't fear, it's speed." He scratched his beard, but caught himself doing it, lowering his hand and frowning.

Lyanna nodded, a wry smile on her face.
"I wouldn't worry about that, Lord Tarly. Our family will play it's part in this great game. A great one, indeed, so will yours. The North will not rise to a war for a Westerman, and the Riverlanders only remember too well what war brings. I might have a plan for those Rivermen after all, and should it work, I wouldn't imagine we wouldn't be encircled, rather quite the opposite. Far more appropriately than one queer flower of the boar in Lord Tully's court ever shall succeed in his attempts." Lyanna looked like she knew, it appeared, by what ear, nobody would really understand how she knew of Tywin's positioning in the world, but she had her sources, and a Lady like her had to, if she needed to know who was gossiping. The look on her face was concealed, but she seemed to have a certain kind of cunning,

No little birds, but a few little sources, here and there, people that walked in on conversations, on little rumors, and by seven hells, did Lyanna sometimes enjoy listening to those people's little rumors. A gay Prince, how utterly charming, she thought to herself. Tyget had to be furious, if he knew, or even believed what was heard. A young dashing blonde Knight, who was not known to be active with women? He wasn't a chivalrous Knight, he was something else...perhaps.

"If speed is what you need, Belgrave, you have it. Shock, aggression, the Rose's thorns in the Boar's belly." Loras commented, chuckling lightly.

Belgrave frowned with one eyebrow raised, seeming unable to understand what was meant by a "Queer flower", however, his frown turned to a nod as Lyanna continued speaking.
"We have the initiative, we just need to take it, our forces are fresh, if we march hard, we should be able to reach the Gold Road before Tyget, but we could also march to the Crownlands, or at least I assume...?" He turned to his aide in Ser Alesander, who nodded.

"Well, if we can reach the Crownlands and thus the Western Kingswood, why wouldn't we take that chance? Stopping them at Payne Hall is safer aye, but do we want safe or decisive?" He shook his head and leaned back.

"Of course, the idea of drawing Tyget into an ambush is not a bad idea either, but we wouldn't be able to hide our army, perhaps place a small unit of infantry 'out of position' and attack whatever goes after them, draw them into an encirclement."

Loras nodded, looking at the map once more, agreeing.
"The Western Kingswood then, perhaps. The Vale of Blackwater Rush. Close to his borders, close enough to scare him. He would have no other way around, he would be forced to go back, or press through us. No detours into the Reach, or else he'd be going backwards, and we'd chase him down. Two forces of that size cannot miss, not on the Gold Road But....he is cunning, a fearsome opponent indeed. If he saw our army disappear, he'd think we were getting ready to ambush him. It'll be difficult to lure him to a trap. Not unless he has something to lose, something he couldn't lose."

Belgrave shook his head.
"We couldn't just allow our army to disappear, when he is entering the Kingswood, we would need to be sure that he knows where we are up until we both enter, just so that he doesn't pull away and decide to strike for Highgarden. My plan at this point is... hmm..." He looked around.

"Do we have a map of the Western Kingswood anywhere? So that my tactics can take form, rather than just being in my head."

Alesander nodded, as he stood up, knowing that it would benefit in general, compared to map of just the southern Kingdoms of Westeros.
"Aye, m'Lord. Jamie the Green was responsible for it's expansion along the Blackwater Vale after all, he probably had some archives of his own. No doubt that Tyget could immediately have the same idea, though if he is moving and isn't expecting it, it's hard to think he'd get a map of his own." With that, he headed towards the exit of the room, knowing it would be a little of a walk, to find the map from the Maester's library, across the innards of the castle.

Lyanna sipped a little more of her mead, looking once again at the markers on the map, and the intricately illustrated map on the table.
"He'll be smart. Cunnning old bastard, he'll potentially even wait us out, if he doesn't take the bait and knows he can't move. But that only will secure us time if something went wrong. Time to pull back, and hold off....but then again, he is rushing. He is panicked." Lyanna simply added, sighing, as Loras turned to the Lord Tarly.

"I would want Garland to help you lead the men, Belgrave. But right now, I believe he's helping deal with our troubles with marriage. I can do what I can, if you want me there." Loras may have been the Hand, and in the stead of Garland, he was practically the Lord of Highgarden, running the realm in his absence, yet it didn't entirely seem like that was the case sometimes with his advisors and Lyanna around.

Belgrave whistled for his squire, who took the knife off of his hands. He placed his elbows onto the table and nodded in Loras' direction.
"I'd be honored to have the castellan of Highgarden on my side, just as long as you don't try to be a hero," he chuckled.

"I'd much prefer if the lord of Oldtown survived my leadership." He roared in laughter and smacked his knee loudly. Still laughing, he took a sip of mead, coughing and groaning.

"Mead? Augh, I much prefer wine to be honest, you couldn't get Lord Redwyne to send some Arbor?" He asked, half-jokingly.

Loras chuckled, looking at Lyanna.
"She insisted. It's something different apparently." Loras himself had Arbor, and Lyanna, strangely, did have mead, as Belgrave had noted, Lyanna noding as she shrugged, chuckling lightly at Belgrave's comment.

"I would think as so much, we drink too much of Lord Arthur's finest. Oh, and I would agree, Lord Tarly. I'd prefer it too if he didn't die, although..." Lyanna was cut off, as Alesander came in, with another parchment, bringing it in. Moving the figurines of the Reach, Westerman and tiny retinue in King's Landing off the map, the map of the Western Kingswood was in view. Jamie the Green in the times of Aegon VIII, in his later years had helped to plant the coniferous forest that lined the Vale (Valley) of the Blackwater Rush, the river valley to be dotted with isolated patches of forests, many of which were displayed on the map, albeit one lined the river's banks closely. Wherever there were no forests, farmland filled the land, the peasants recouped for their losses, and the valley was easily wide enough and flat enough to accommodate an army marching through, with little to no problem, albeit never to hide one like the Kingswood proper could. The valleyside was not steep, it was gentle, and a slight elevation change. Jamie the Green was not a cartographer, but it was in remarkable detail, a map that could be found in few other places than Highgarden, such was it's difficulty to reproduce.

The Blackwater Rush, flowing from the hills of the Westerlands' High Lordship of the Gold Road, and the Blackwater of the God's Eye met where the forest began at it's thickest, leading to King's Landing proper, dotted across, not a sweeping mass such as it was in the High Lordship of the Kingswood itself. It was a fine region, and whilst part of it was a part of the Reach, Riverlands, Westerlands and Crownlands, it was dominated by the Gold Road, and in itself, close in it's proximity to the capital. The lands of House Lolliston, Footly, and Payne seemed to intercept here.

"Here it is, Lord Tarly. Didn't take me as long as I thought." Alesander simply added, taking a seat by Belgrave's side again, as he looked across once more.

Belgrave tittered and looked over the map, frowning and shaking his head.

"Not as large as I expected," he bemoaned.

"Jaime should have planted more trees." A moment of silence fell over the room as Belgrave looked over the map, until finally he spoke and laid a finger upon a patch of forest.

"There, where the hills open up into the forest, that should be dense enough to hide an amount of men in, and that patch over there..." He poked another, smaller patch of trees inside the valley proper.

"That could hide the rest, they're far apart... but we could hold with the force at the hills and rush over with the rest, we would need to place our knights and archers with the reinforcing group, our heavy infantry are going to have to shieldwall down here, and we'll have some light infantry here to flank." He pointed to the mouth of the valley, then the forested area to the right respectively.

"It's gonna be a lot tougher than I expected to ambush him, but if we hide well he should still be marching in column, it will certainly be more open fighting, but the surprise should be enough to take him." Belgrave rubbed his chin with a thumb, still planning in case.

"That's all we need. It's going to be a fight. Even if it's a small surprise, an upset is enough to hamper him. His men will be near exhausted by the time they get there if they're forced march. Even if they reinforced for an attack against us, time will serve us." Alesander said, as Loras nodded, approvingly.
"It won't be easy. There will be blood, but there's no other way. Not unless anyone has any other ideas." Loras added, as Lyanna looked over.

"Even I don't have any better solution. But things that I can work with will occur soon. Alliances, the game of rulership. The Ironborn are raiding his lands, the Yunkish have taken some slaves, and his army has marched hard. They'll be tired when they get there, they'll be rushing hard, so even if Tyget has the right idea, his commanders might not. He is rushing and not thinking of his consequences." She simply said, sighing.

"You men can have the war. But leave us to the politics. I'd think we're fine with that." Loras looked on confusingly at Lyanna as she spoke, her grey emminent stare shutting him up, as Alesander turned to Belgrave.
"It's a good call, Belgrave. But this is going to be brutal, no matter what."

Belgrave nodded.
"One mistake and we're back to where we started, hand out a plan to every commander, I want them aware of what we're doing at every moment, we cannot be disjointed, if one commander reacts too late, we'll be caught out and Tyget will be able to form up," he demanded sternly.

"Bloody hells, why couldn't Tyget just have been the Lord of Storm's End? That would have made things so much easier." He shook his head in a tired fashion, rubbing a hand over his forehead and tittering nervously.

"Well...the Seven bestows challenges upon us for a reason. If he can challenge Belgrave, then it's a match to watch." Loras meekly commented, as Alesander chuckled, shaking his head.
"Challenges like Tyget fucking Crakehall. And the fact that it's our whole Realm at stake if we make a mistake, Lord Hightower. I hate to say it, but I don't think we'll die fast if Tyget wins, not if the stories are true...so it's better we have him in chains than us."

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It was later that night, that Lyanna Tyrell began writing, and enacting her end of the political deal. In the absence of Alerie and Garland, she had to send her messages, and get it through to the other Lords of the Realm. She might not have held the titles that Garland did, but her wisdom and knowledge would be understood by those who knew of her name, of the Queen of Thorns that resided over Loras's power.



Not everything was going to work out perfectly, but Lyanna was blunt at times, and guessed a little that Riaon's personality was similar, like his father, unwilling to particularly care for other Realms. But the Tullys had become a resurgent force in recent times, as had the Starks, Arryns, and Martells, all people of which she would have to write to. Those were letters to come.

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(collab with @Gowi )





After some heavy sleep, Willas was up again, the breaking of dawn barely an hour past, knowing that correspondence in the form of a Raven had arrived back again in the Maester's quaters of the Red Keep, for Willas, no less. It appeared Cathryn had replied, and was coming earlier than expected, a positive bode of news, at least. Women didn't normally serve on the Kingsguard, but right now, Willas had a feeling that Kingsguard wasn't going to serve a "King", rather a Queen, in the not to distant future, and that it would at least appease the Rivermen with a presence of their own in the capital. The Shark's sister was good with a blade, and as far as he knew, willing to serve in the guard, to give up the other pleasures in life to serve loyally as a guard to the Crown. Once again, whilst Ladies were not often anointed as Knights, Ser (or rather, Lady) Cathryn had proven remarkable, and to Willas, if the stories bode true, then it was a worthwhile appointment, alongside the rest he had in mind and was yet to hear replies from.

Someone else could take a look at how bad this situation, he said to himself in his head. They would know who she was, and who she was coming to visit, so she wouldn't have been hassled on the way in, not by any of the Reachman soldiers at least. The peasantry wouldn't have thought much to it, so long as she was swift. As far as Willas knew, the Lady Tully was a fierce fighter, through and through, and would be a fine addition, even if it were techincally supposed to be the job of the King, to appoint a guard.

A few minutes later, and from the top of one of the gatehouse's towers, he saw the group of horses roll up with the banners of House Tully, the Rivermen that acompanied Cathryn's horse simularly armoured, as Willas headed down from the gatehouse's wall, the distant noise of chians being turned and the gate being slowly lifted, followed by the trotting of horse hooves inside the Red Keep's courtyard and stables. Willas as per usual wore his Kingsguard plate, a poleaxe on his back, the look on his face weary and stern to the world, the usual appearance he had after waking up from such a short sleep, and an important night. The Knight's weary face did not age him, but did suggest that indeed, over the last few weeks, he had seen an awful lot of madness and dealt with it in turn.

Cathryn looked incredible, the Lady Tully, turned Knight, one woman that seemed to hold a particular gravity, as the twin sister of the current Lord Paramount of the Trident, and as her own being. Her armour appeared to have a light green accent to it, contrasting her sharp red hair, a lighter and brighter shade than Alerie's, Willas thought to himself, yet it burned like a dull flame, beyond her platemail. Whilst she may have been Riaon's age, and a fighter indeed, from where Willas stood, the scars didn't show, and she seemed relatively pretty, like someone Garland too, would have fallen head over heels for. Willas approached her in the courtyard, followed by Maxwell, looking up as he let her step off her horse.

"Welcome to the Red Keep, Ser Tully." He knew it seemed and sounded wrong, using a male term for a female Knight, but it would have to do, in absence of anything.

"I understand it must have been a long journey, and it's still early, after all. The Keep's Guard can take your belongings to a quarter, for now." Willas added, the last Kingsguard looking at Cathryn, awaiting her reply.

“What little belongings I have, I suppose.” Her glance moved over to her companions and gave a slight nod.

She seemed to have a few notable companions with her, Willas noticed, as he looked over at them, when she did. Marcyl Whent looked at Cathryn a little more lustfully than the others did, Willas could see it in his eyes and from what past experiences he had of when he had seen people look in that particular way. Whilst they appeared to wear a simular mixture of platemail and mail, they didn't have the presence that Cathryn wielded, a woman who looked like far more of a warrior, her presence in plate seemingly more prominent, from her broad shoulders to simply the way that she seemed to stand.

"Splendid." Willas was tired, that much was visible, as he looked back at the Great Hall, then back at Cathryn and her companions.

"Ser Whent, I assume? I did keep you in mind for the Kingsguard, I was half tempted to write you a letter too. Perhaps while you're here, you can prove yourself." He asked, looking at the other Knight by Cathryn's side, someone he didn't recognize so well, but Marcyl was a relatively experienced Knight, dutiful, but still mostly an unknown to Willas.

The brown-haired man’s eyes widened for a minute, but he covered it well enough to not have the rest of Cathryn Tully’s entourage to notice his instinctive reaction to the comment— though it didn’t matter because Willas saw it. “It would be an honor to, Lord Commander. I don’t think my family has had such opportunity to serve the realm since Robert’s Rebellion.”

Willas nodded, knowing that while he made no promises, it could be interesting to see what he was made of. Still, there was much to do, and much to be seen, and he still wanted to talk with Cathryn, on her own, later in the day. Even Marcyl, who's father, Brynden, would be a valuable asset in the coming fights, particularly if the Crakehalls tried their luck again. Willas knew that wasn't a distant future, but could happen again, if Tyget was driven enough, not that he knew the reality.

"Well, I ought to show you our King's fine castle. Might as well get to know it if you're going to be serving him. Though, wheather we serve the King for much longer is up in the air." Willas simply said to Cathryn and her entourage, a little lightness in his voice, knowing that while it was the morning, he had to just keep things going.

With that, he looked over towards the Great Hall, the Cathedral-like place in which the Iron Throne sat, the thousand swords of Aegon's enemies, no less. He didn't know if Cathryn had been here, but he thought it would be a good place to go, rather than leave them out in the courtyard, waiting.

"We have much to talk on, Cathryn. And yourself, Marcyl."

“Aye, you two take care of yourselves. We’ll be in the city for a few days before we head back to Harrenhal ourselves, ‘less you need us here when the damned Crakehall’s rear their snouts again.” The older companion of the entourage, one Bennard Lolliston, commented as he scratched the edge of his beard as he paused for a moment before adding on to his words. “Though I suppose that’s if they do. What do you think Lord Commander?”

Turning quickly, he looked to Bennard, the bearded knight looking on at Willas, the Lord Commander noting that Ser Bennard was of the respective House that sat on the Gold Road entering King's Landing, beyond the Crownlands. No doubt the Crakehalls had already roamed through his lands to make it to King's Landing once, and routed through it, along the Vale of the Blackwater Rush, so his point was of relevance to note.

"It is possible, Ser Lolliston. I am glad to hear you don't approve of them wandering your lands to attack this city, nor to Harrenhal. I doubt we'll need your swords, but if the situation arises, we could use all the help we can get. From yourself, and your House. And you would be rewarded for retaining the King's peace if you did." Willas said simply to the Riverman, guessing from this attitude that the Southern Riverlands appeared not to be at ease with the Crakehalls passing close and through their lands to attack the Crown, and that it would be useful if an alliance or a coalition had to be made. The Tyrell was not a politcally astute figure, yet he had dealt with people of these kinds in the past before rather diplomatically, and it had worked itself out rather well. It wasn't much, but simply knowing that he accepted Ser Bennard's suggestion, could yield a few hundred more swords for either King's Landing in it's time of need, or the wars to come.

The older man nodded, “Hoping the new Lord Paramount puts his foot down instead of letting them do whatever they wish to. We shan’t be allowing military forces to stomp over our farmlands idly. But that’s just an old knight’s opinion.”

“My brother isn’t exactly the submissive type, Ser Bennard.” Cathryn commented in reply, as she kept her eyes on the men before her.

"It's of my opinion too, Ser Bennard... I would imagine though, that Cathryn's brother is who you serve right now. If you wish to fight when they take the fight to House Lollistion's lands, we will help you in any way we can. I have no doubt there will be a fight, on our lands, or theirs, or here." Willas simply added, as he knew that they were going to part ways, they appeared to want to head off, into the city itself.

"If you need anything from the Crown while you are in the city, let us know. It may be chaos, but food and water has returned." Willas simply concluded,

He laughed, “How about a good drink?”

Willas chuckled, looking up.

"With the climate we're in, I wouldn't blame you at this time of morn." Willas shook his head, as he sighed, looking on as he watched them turn back to their horses before ultimately heading off into the city, leaving Cathryn and Marcyl with Willas and Ser Maxwell.

“I suppose we should get on with it, then.” Marcyl commented.

With that, Willas led the way, heading towards the doors of the Great Hall. It had only been a couple of weeks prior, when blood had run down it's floor, along every single crack after what had happened between the Tyrell Retinue and Lyman Lannister's mad attempt to seize the Throne's gold. Once a Lannister, always a Lannister. Until it had been proven he was a lowborn scumbag, and that he was just some common thief. Everyone was the fool, until Willas stabbed him through the throat with the end of his poleaxe.

The Great Hall was truly magnificent, as Willas, Ser Maxwell, Cathryn and Marcyl entered, the empty chair on the far end visible, as Willas led the way forward. They walked through the empty hall, not a soul inside, the light breaking through the stained glass, and the uncomfortable-looking chair at the end making it's presence heard.

"That chair is to what we serve. The thousand blades of Aegon's enemies. I am glad to hear that you're both interested in serving. It's a difficult job, with many vices to give up, a code of honor to uphold." Willas knew that even in his own heart, he had broken the latter, but he had to say it, out of knowing it was simply to tell them to act as he said, not as he knew in his heart he actually had.

"There isn't any need for theatrics, but you get the picture. The Kingsguard are a noble, and honorable institution. I wanted you here, Sers, because it is us that protects the person on that chair from the people who seek to take it for themselves, the last line of defense. I may not be ideal, but I have served King Aegon, and Aerys faithfully, as you would."

“Indeed. I believe it truth that we all know the history of those who bear the white cloak.” Cathryn nodded, as she looked over the desolate and empy chair.

"There isn't pefection, many of us have not been honorable, but we do our best, to uphold the valour and values of our position. And are willing to die, if needed, to protect our King." Willas simply said, coldly, as he knew the other two Knights would understand full well what he said. He could tell that Cathryn was devoted, she seemed committed in her own mind, to do what was needed. Whilst her red locks would go strangely against the silver plate, and the white cloak, she seemed to be someone who understood what was to be done in this place.

“There is great good to be done in King’s Landing.” Cathryn stated as she crossed her arms, her comment made with no sense of doubt or lacking in dilligence. Since she had sent back her letter of acceptance for the posistion, it was clear that there were few places she would rather be.

"Good to hear. Because there is an awful lot of work to do. I'll show you the rest, then Breakfast should be served, or they should be getting it ready at this time. We can spar afterwards in the practice grounds outside the White Tower. I want to see how you fight, after all.....I'd like to see what you are made of, Ser Cathryn. I'd like to see if the stories are true." Willas replied quickly, as he looked over the two again, Cathryn shorter than him, but still stocky for a Lady, definitely with a martial calling over anything else.

“Of course, Lord Commander.”

Cathryn’s brows narrowed as she focused intently on her to-be opponent, bringing to her mind any knowledge she held of the man since she had never witnessed his feats in combat ever in her life, and although this was an informal contest of martial prowess and not a case of combat on the battlefield there was no thought in her mind that she was going to fight any differently than she had. She had made a promise to herself many moons ago that she would never underestimate her opponent whoever they may be and especially that she would give everything she had until she was dead and buried; she would not act idly. Her opponent was a veteran member of the Kingsguard, and the sole survivor as far as she was aware following the incident in King’s Landing not that long ago. He was the Lord Commander and even if he was a decade older than she at five and forty years past his nameday she knew that he was no indolent combatant despite murmurs of him being a “tourney knight”— after all, she had heard that his skill with a polearm was on par with that of Dornish spearmen; a feat not so easily accomplished.

And then Lord Commander Willas put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Lord Commander. I wish you to not give me an advantage, if we are to spar truly I wish to fight you with your proven weapon in hand.”

"It's going to be a sharp weapon. The reason poleaxes work is because I can poke. But if you insist." Willas replied, as he looked across, looking over Cathryn, taking in her size, her differences in physique, and what she would be like.

“If you are afraid of wounding me, then grab a training variant.” She smirked, tauntingly. “I’ve endured much worse, I assure you.”

Intently not grabbing a wooden one, but a steel-tipped poleaxe that he'd traditionally used, the combination of a steel pole, with a pile affixed to the end, and an axe that flanked it, rather neat in his gauntleted hands.

"If you insist." Willas held the polearm tight, the training ground outside the White Sword Tower a useful place to start, as the Tyrell readied his stance. "Well, I suppose it'd be a nicer test to try and use a blade, but your enemies won't always use them, as you know."

Her enemies had used axes, spears, swords, and bows— she was well familiar with what sort of weapons would be thrown at her and she had survived many scrapes and wounds with great success. The maesters had always told her that the gods had taken away one gift from her to give her another and perhaps believed she had inherited some sort of luck from such graces. Cathryn had always seen it as the maesters talking down to her and belittling her in clever albeit asinine ways. Cathryn wasn’t much for faith or science, all she knew was her body could take a beating despite being undeniably feminine and could wield a sword like no other.

“My enemies never have, Lord Commander. Let’s get on with it.” Cathryn reached out to her long sword, the metal sliding out of its sheath with a loud metallic ‘shink’ as it did so.

With that, Willas started the spar, and moved forward, swinging the poleaxe a little, as he used the axe to commit to a high attack, finding that she was fast, as Willas kicked back a little, using a little force to throw Cathryn back, as he spun the polearm again. Coming back, he gave a sharp assault to the side, using the axe to counter Cathryn, before pushing forwards, thrusting the polearm forwards and upwards towards her chestplate, where he knew it wouldn't do any damage, watching as she recoiled a little away and countered, forcing Willas to raise the polearm itself and use the arm to parry, before pushing back.

"Good, good. You're countering neatly. And so far, you wouldn't be dead."

“I’ve fought rebels, criminals, hill clansmen, ironborn. They haven’t killed me yet.” She managed as she kept circling her opponent, ducking and weaving when she needed to— her eyes looking to watch for the poleaxe with every strike. If it would come too close she could grab it along the shaft of the weapon or push it back. But she could not get arrogant here and she knew that, her brazen fiery disposition would not come out here today beyond a few smirks.

Willas chuckled, as he pushed forwards, using the polearm side to block one of Cathryn's attacks, before kicking out, hitting her straight in the abdomen, knocking her back, watching her stumble.

"I'll add Riverwomen to the list." Willas chuckled, as he saw her come back, and ready again, knowing it was a little dirty, but then again, Willas knew that fighting was never clean, as he awaited her next.

He’s faster than he looks.

Cathryn took a light breath before returning to her tactics— keeping her space outside of when she was in striking distance. This battle would be only over when Willas either said it was done or until he was on the ground unable to continue. However, as the events would prove in the next subsequent moments as the morning dragged on it was to be the former over the latter. After the two had traded blows past the morning bells of service, it was indeed Willas who decided to end their “match”.

Willas pushed back, knowing he could crack her open, but just didn't know if he could, or should have. A sharp pike was not good for anyone, and she probably knew it, just as much as he did, with the sword that was certainly sharper than a dulled blade.

"We're going to kill ourselves if we fight any longer. And I still have Ser Marcyl to have a go with. Though I feel he'll keel over easier than you, if you don't mind me saying." He said, holding back, the Polearm in both hands, held at a long stance, as he looked at Cathryn, seeing she was breathing heavily, as was he, the both of them sweating, the spar extended; he simply added, chuckling, still semi-ready. "Long time since I've sparred like that. You and I both know that we're not exactly peasants with blades. So then again, I'm not suprised we kept it going. I bet the courtiers must have enjoyed it."

“Have you not fought in longer periods?” She inquired, taking a breath. As much as Cathryn didn’t want to admit it he was right to end the duel of sorts here and now before they wasted time and energy that could’ve been productively spent elsewhere. After all this was just a “test” to gauge her abilities as a member of the Kingsguard rather than take what he had heard at face value— at the least, Cathryn could understand and respect that.

"I have. You're an interesting opponent though. I wanted to study you just a little, you move with a certain poise, counter well, respond well to when there's a pike in your face. And there's still potential in you." Willas replied, chuckling lightly.

"Otherwise, I'd be dead. But sometimes you have to end the fight, in whatever grizzly fashion you have to. The reason this polearm works is because it can be pointed through gaps, your side, your helm. It is a difficult weapon, but, it works on a field of battle, not so well in a spar. Still." He added, commenting on his weapon, as he turned to the weapons rack, his blade still on his person.

“A dornish spearmen competed in a tourney in Riverrun once, I believe he was an Yronwood. I think you’d give him a good duel. You are quite skilled.”

"I'd enjoy that, but I'm beyond my time duelling people. The polearm is a weapon of choice for the Knights of the Reach on foot for a reason. We learned from our neighbors rather nicely." Willas placed the poleaxe into its position on a weapons rack, as he sighed, looking back at the tower.

"So, why was it now you chose to come to the Kingsguard? Why not a few years ago?" Willas asked, an honest question, not a blunt one, just out of his curiosity, as he exhaled, the morning sun in the air, thinking to himself of the events that had happened over the past night. It was only a matter of time before the news was found out.

“The Hand of the King, the Lord-Regent Garland Tyrell, sent a letter asking if it is an opportunity I would like to challenge myself to. Though he said it far more eloquently then I could ever do. I suppose before that letter I was ready to serve as my brother's personal guard given the circumstances.” Cathryn took a light breath, less out of fatigue and more out of anxiety. “He’s probably not too happy about my decision.”

"Makes sense. Serving family. It's a duty to our blood, after all." Willas wittily replied, as he led the way, heading back towards the White Tower itself, back inside, and into the shade.

"And I can imagine he isn't. But you're talented, and if the Seven bestow a talent to fight on your hands, the Warrior, then you don't embrace the others so much, I suppose." Willas was meek in his comment, as they headed through the main hall of White Sword Tower, the sight of ornamental pieces of armour on the left, of famous Kingsguard of times past, from giants to men such as Criston Cole, no less. It was remarkably empty, given that few squires, and few other courtiers were left around, Willas turning back to Cathryn.

"Tell me, would you have made for a good mother, d'you think?" Willas asked, again, as honest as his intentions could be, knowing he wanted to just poke Cathryn a little in regards to this, to explore her mindset a little.

Cathryn’s expression went cold as she looked down at the ground. “That was never a possibility to me, the maesters told me that some years ago. So, I’m not sure… how I could answer such an inquiry, or at the least truthfully so.”

Willas turned his head again, stopping his slow walk, looking on. He realized fast what she meant. "Seven Hells. I see."

"I suppose motherhood would have been a waste when you can fight that well." He chuckled lightly, wanting to break the ice between himself and Cathryn, knowing that he did view things a little light-heartedly sometimes, even though it was a serious topic to handle.

She rose her head, a soft smile raising on her lips. “I’m the first woman to be granted this opportunity, to be a member of the Kingsguard. I can only imagine what that means going forward. It’s motherhood in its own way, isn’t it?”

"I guess it is. We're a family now. Lots of firsts in this Kingdom anyway, but you're right, the Kingsguard doesn't normally admit women. But they never said it was a restriction. It was merely the best Knights in the realm, seven of them, to guard the King. You seem like one of them." Willas commented, as they continued walking, heading up a set of stairs, up the thin tower, as he looked back.

“Brianne Tarth was eventually knighted— I think she was the first in that regard. I suppose it’s like I am carrying on her legacy that she left behind. At this rate we’ll have an order of knights exclusive to womanhood. Wouldn’t that be something.”

"Wouldn't it just." Willas smiled, knowing she was right. Perhaps the world was changing, faster than anyone could guess. There could be a Queen on the Iron Throne again, in her very own right, and women like Alerie and Lyanna still played an important role in the Reach's politics. Women weren't submissive, not in the knowledge Willas was seeing now.

“But perhaps we should worry about protecting kings and not dreaming. Should we call Marcyl down now to get this done with and get to our duties or?”

"I'll call him soon...I need to write to Lord Garland. Get yourself something to drink, take the place in a little. I'm sure you're finding all of this a little new to you, but this is our home, after all." Willas simply replied, turning to face Cathryn.

“Very well. Until we next meet, then.”

The alien sensation of doubt sat like a stone in Edric's stomach. For so many years of his life he had simply done as he wished, disregarding consequences in favor of his own desires. He was young, rash and as mercurial as a wild son of the North should be. But no longer was he simply a son of his beloved Kingdom. Now he was its highest lord, the lives of millions in his hands. From the Neck to the Gift, from Bear Island to Skagos, his decisions would bring about repercussions for all of them. So much rested on his shoulders in such a dire time for the wolves of Winterfell.

But he could not be passive. His lords would not accept, nor would he. For hundreds of years the North had sat dormant, isolated and foreign from the Seven Kingdoms. Now was the time of the wolf, with blood drenching the realm and cold winter winds rising. He rose from the sturdy oak desk with sat proud in his chambers, kicking back the fine chair he had been sitting in during his contemplation. If he was to declare for anybody, he would need his lords behind him and a path down south. While it would be weeks for his lords to arrive in bulk once he sounded his call, securing his passage would be quicker.

It took him but a few moments to slide on his leather gloves and pin on the thick, black woolen cloak which so many of his kin had taken to in times of brisk Northern cold. The days of summer were fleeting, as House Stark's words would always remind him. The gust of chilled wind which brushed against his bearded face only reinforced this. The impending snows would only push forward how important quick action would be. Subconsciously, he found it pushing forward his own pace as he sought out the one woman he required.

________________

He felt foolish, having looked for her anywhere else. Since he was seven years old he had watched his aunt feather target after target with arrows. Hell, he had joined her many a time, as had all those who had spent their early days within Winterfell's walls. He paced along the raised wooden pathways which surrounded the courtyard, eyes zeroing in on the fiery haired lady whom had claimed his uncle for a husband. His cousin, young Alys was with her, no doubt practicing her skills under her mother's watchful eye. She was a good, he knew. Probably better than he was with a bow.

Her skill helped soothe any quarrels he may have had in ending their session early. The lord leaned forward against the railing, strands of his wild mane hanging across his face as he did so. Sucking in a breath of frosty air, he called out towards the two females from across the yard just as an arrow saw fit to fly from his cousin's bow.

"Don't miss!"

Unsurprisingly, the shot did not ring true as the distraction had veered the two’s attention elsewhere— the disapproving scowl on the Alys’ young face as she realized who had caused such distraction to her person. Had she not been trained to know better she probably would’ve thrown her shortbow down in a huff. She however was not so composed to resist the urge to shout across the courtyard at her kinsmen.

“Edric! Why you—”

The outburst was cut short by the presence of Laerra’s hand on her shoulder. “He did say not to miss.”

Edric couldn't help but allow a laugh to bellow from his upturned lips. He always did love messing with Alys. Her temper was almost as bad as his own and watching her huff always amused him. He was quick in standing straight and making for the stairs which led down from the observer platform so he could better interact with his family. The sly grin on his face didn't fade much in the time it took him to reach them across the courtyard. A gloved hand quickly reached for Alys' head to ruffle her thick auburn locks.

"All that shooting won't do you any good if loud noises make you miss, will it?" He teased, grey eyes drifting from the smaller to the larger of the duo. It was as if simply looking upon Laerra had dulled the small bits of joy which punctuated his worry. Not for for the woman herself, but what was to come. He did his best in masking this.

"I'll need your mother for a few moments," He piped again, briefly gazing to Alys and gesturing towards the courtyard's exit. "Go warm up in the hall. Skinny lass like yourself can't be doing too well in this chill."

“Fine.” The younger Stark retorted as she immediately went to straighten her hair as she walked off. Her attitude was clearly brazen, so much that it was so very reminiscent of when Laerra first walked in the halls of Winterfell— being adamant as she refused to be “tamed” by a wolf. A time that had felt so long ago in retrospect.

Laerra let out a light laugh. “So you need me, is it?”

Edric waited for Alys to leave earshot, looking around for a good couple seconds. It was fairly empty, aside from an occasional servant passing along the edges of the yard and the sentries. None would hear what he would say, he was confident, but Laerra herself.

"The war down south is growing worse. There won't be a peaceful solution, not as far as I can see," he began, features sharpening as the tone was set. "We can't remain neutral anymore. Tyget Crakehall came to our aide when nobody else would; I mean to declare for him."

“You mean to declare for Tyget? Interesting choice, but I suppose with that betrothal you feel like you have a responsibility to do so.”

"He sailed a fleet North and helped us toss the Ironborn back into the sea. He burnt Pyke to ruins for their transgressions. No Tyrell man would dare help us like that." Edric was quick to note, upon hearing his aunt's disapproval.

"My father saw fit to promise Edwyn to his daughter. One day, our houses will be bound by blood, just as House Tully is. If the Trident was to come under siege, the swords of the North would be drawn just as quickly, as they had years ago."

“And what if House Tully favors flowers over pigs? Would you drive northmen swords through the throats of my family and people? ” She sighed as she leaned on a nearby wooden railing, her eyes expressing a sorrowful regret; Edric could tell she was anxious and fearful. “My apologies, Edric. I’ve had a lot on my mind with the crisis in the south and word of problems beyond The Wall. It seems like we’re beginning to descend back into chaos and I fear there is no way to stop it. My brother, Riaon, is Lord Paramount now and his sister a member of the Kingsguard. Uncle Manrel as well as Arthas Mallister sit on the Small Council. It would not take much of a push to lead my brother to the hands of the Tyrell’s. For these houses to attempt to make fish and wolf their playthings is foreboding, I think. Tyget is a ruthless man— he will try to force it.”

Edric's expression softened as Laerra expressed her own doubts. She could afford to do so, unlike himself. A leader couldn't doubt his own decisions, no matter how much he felt unsure. No man would follow a leader like that.

"I don't like this anymore than you, aunt Laerra. The last thing I want is sending Northern men to die in a southron war. But it is not our way to sit idly by, nor spurn a man who helped us in our hour of need during his own." He paused for a moment, casting a gaze towards the sky. The southern sky.

"I mean to send you south in my stead. I will call my lords to Winterfell in the coming days and if all goes well, their banners. I need you to speak reason to my uncle. When House Mudd saw fit to drive him and his from Riverrun, did the Tyrells rush to his aide? No. The Tyrells are a scheming lot, who only seek out others when they see fit to gain from it."

"If he wishes neutrality, it is within his right to have it. But passage through the Trident is paramount. Do you think he will listen?"

“He will listen if he hasn’t made up his mind— there are many years apart between him and I, but I do not hold much sway with him as I left when he was still quite young.” She took a heavy breath. “He would prefer to talk to you directly, that I know— another Lord Paramount showing his intentions and speaking with him will at least show a respect others have not given and that should mean something. But what will you do if he sides with House Tyrell? I need to know this if I am to send a raven to tell him to delay any definite conclusions he is making. I need to know The Trident and The North will not come to become enemies where they spill each others blood. I need your word on that.”

"I had feared as much." Edric remarked with a sigh. It would not do well for him to ride south while calling his men, but if it did any good in calling Riaon Tully to his side it may have been required. It was Laerra's ending words which struck him like a bolt. It was a real possibility, if the Riverlords rallied behind the Reach. If they did, how could he proceed? Why need he swear so many oaths to so many people. He could only pray to the gods of old that his uncle would see his side.

"... I will do all I can to prevent bloodshed, I swear it. Come dawn tomorrow, I will embark with a small guard and make for Riverrun. I need you to send a raven today; implore Riaon to hold back on any decisions until I can arrive and speak with him myself."

“Gods save us from what I fear and let us hope this does not ruin us.” She nodded as she turned back to Edric, with a stressed smile of agreeance.

"I pray it does as well. A long war will do no good, not with winter coming and bringing the dead with it." He remarked, sadly. Time would see if any gods could save them all.

"So, who was your father?" Daemon said as he threw another rock over the water, placing a hand upon his tunic and leaning onto his left foot.

The rock bounced five times before disappearing under the waves with a plop.

Five times too many. Baelor thought as he stumbled down to the rocky shore where the other youth stood. He grabbed the flattest rock he could, juggling it in his hand to test it, before preparing his throw.

"Aegon the Tenth." He lied as the rock splashed once against the water. He knew that he wouldn't be believed, Aegon the Tenth had no true-borns and no lovers, so how would he have had a bastard? Baelor knew that he would get called on it, even Daemon wasn't deaf enough to ignore that.

"I was Maegon, sired me on some tavern wench before he went east, she handed me off to Prince Aegon, the ninth one, then went off to drink herself to death."

Perhaps he was that clueless, but no matter the case, Daemon had a much more believable story, Maegon was a well known King's Landing lech who raided the rooms of every woman from Dragonstone to Casterly Rock. Though Maegon left thirty or so years ago, and Daemon didn't look a year over fifteen. Perhaps Baelor was wrong and Daemon was just older than he looked, it wouldn't be odd, considering Daemon always liked surprises. But the story did have one huge inconsistency.

Baelor walked away from the water and sat upon one of the largest rocks, resting his arms over his knees. Daemon smirked at him, to which Baelor only nodded.

"How's it feel to know you were named after a traitor?" Baelor asked with a grin, happily confident in the fact that this would catch Daemon off guard with both the sudden statement and the truth behind it.

And indeed, Daemon scowled open-mawed for a moment, obviously looking for something to say. Silently his mouth clamped shut, and Daemon tossed another rock over the water aggressively. Baelor stood and streched.

"Well, at least you'll be happy in the knowledge that you're the third Daemon with the personality of a shaved bear being castrated." Daemon turned to him and bit his thumb spitefully before throwing the rock yet again, skipping it four times.

"Hey, I take comfort in the fact that I'm the second Baelor who fights like his wrists are broken, why can't you accept the blessing in your name?" Baelor grinned and strode back up besides Daemon. Daemon lightly tossed him a rock and raised a finger in his direction.

"At least neither of us are named Daenerys." He chuckled and nearly fell back into the water, Baelor using all the power he had over his body to not push him.

Daemon enjoyed being the superior one in their relationship, and Baelor subservient. Of course, they had no pretensions of their familial bond being healthy, though Baelor knew that whatever familial bond was left was barely enough to make the term "Cousin" appropriate, considering Baelor's family had long since given up the "Waters" from their name.

Baelor held his breath and grabbed his stone tightly in his left hand.

Flick at the wrist, follow through. He reminded himself silently. He took in one deep breath, grunting out as he threw the rock straight into the sand just below the water's surface. Silently cursing his inability to perform physical actions, Baelor thumped back down onto his rock, the hill behind him providing decent enough shelter from the maritime winds.

"Daenys is close enough, though i wouldn't say that to him, unless you're a fan of being a blind eunuch."

"A blind eunuch?" A new voice, accompanied by the most startling shriek ever heard to man, the shriek of a dragon.

Baelor broke out in a cold sweat, he felt his eyes opening to the air. Desperate, he looked to Daemon, who stood, his throat letting out odd choking noises. His hand opened and his rock splashed into the sea, in a moment he was upon them.

Daenys Targaryen placed an arm over Baelor's neck, just tight enough to choke him, but not tight enough to constrict his breathing. He was dressed immaculately, Baelor couldn't help but notice, a black doublet speckled with a variety of metal platings. Metal rings held the strings of his cloak, tied haphazardly into a knot with one red string dangling down to his chest, meeting with a dragon medallion which blew slightly in the cool breeze. The inside of the doublet was red velvet, looking half from Yi Ti itself, soft enough to be a pillow, which doubtless would have been used to smother a pretender babe or the sort. His white hair was combed to the left of his head, but quite a few threads dangled like vine over his brow, which was wrinkled by the widening of his eyes.

And above all, he appeared completely mad, and Baelor knew there was a very good reason for that. He was looking over two pretenders on his island, the island which he had just arrived on... or at least Baelor assumed, though perhaps he had walked into the main keep and told his household of his arrival. Whatever the case, Baelor felt as if he had a manticore resting upon his neck, fascinated by the pulsation of his vein, and that one wrong breath could lead to painful stinging death. Appeasement was the big word when it came to Daenys Targaryen, though it was rare to have someone succeed at that, Daenys was fickler than wildfire.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, their souls connected, Baelor knew it, even if it seemed impossible, he saw something he had seen before but never thought to think about. His eyes, the prince's eyes they spoke in a way that he knew not even Daenys himself understood, every scowl changed his face but not his eyes, they had a way of attaching themselves to people, jewels that captured Daenys' soul within them, his soul which gave him every thought and every emotion.

He remembered back in the courts when they had locked eyes before, Daenys' head had tilted from across the room, the whole room seemed to go quiet as the prince's lavender flames burned weakly, displaying his emotions without words. He saw then, Daenys' soul morph at his sight, turning from a flame of unending anger and childlike compulsion to a cold, different stare, despondent hatred, as if just the sight of Baelor's white hair and almond eyes made him downtrodden and broken. He stalked him, like a Shadowcat watching a rodent before leaping and devouring it. Now it was something different, his smile did nothing to hide rage unbridled, and something much worse that he hadn't the words to explain, with more rage than a raging fire, and yet cooler than ice. All in the prince's eyes, unlike anything Baelor had ever seen in his life. They seemed amaranthine, almost as if he could dive in and swim in the man's soul, see everything he could ever need to see about the man, ever need to understand.

His smile faltered, but the prince's didn't, his smile a facade constructed upon stages and stages of pure child-like rage and ignorance, which itself had been hidden under a layer of the embitterment of failure and adulthood. Buried deep within, Baelor knew he could see the spark of kindness that had so powered Daenys' brother, buried so deep that Baelor almost thought it was impossible, but Daenys had the look of a broken child, kind and innocent, if only for a moment, before it was buried again, it returned repeatedly, Baelor saw it, but never the same, it was more jaded with every passing moment, until it was gone, now all his eyes showed was the hate, the hate that drove every one of his actions, the hate that spoke in a way hidden to Daenys himself and presumably anyone that saw him, but Baelor heard it, somehow, perhaps it was all in his mind, it spoke, it said something.

You must die, it said, through Daenys' eyes it growled out the words, or maybe they were barked like an order, maybe they were never there at all, but Baelor knew it was real, and he was afraid.

Daenys smiled even more then, even his eyes did, the jewels swelled and laughed silently, in victory, in triumph. Baelor knew then, fear more akin to pain rising in him.

His eyes had betrayed him.

---

"Grain? What for?" The man asked in a thick Braavosi accent. Daenys rolled his eyes.

"We're at war, here on Dragonstone, we're going to be needing grain."

Of course this was a lie, Daenys never truly intended to distribute grain to the people on Dragonstone, they could survive well enough on fishing and the privateering that certain ships had taken to doing, Daenys knew that from the North to Dorne he was hated, it didn't matter, of course, but if he wanted to take the throne, he had to bend to their demands eventually, it was what a king had to do, even if he hated it, he was a god! They needed to bend to his will, not him bend to theirs, but even a god could be killed, and Daenys had plans on that front, though that was far in the future, but for now, he just had to purchase the grain, commission a baker, and fly west, watch as the people flocked to him like moths to a flame, joining his army of peace in the stead of Rhaenyra's army that nearly destroyed King's Landing.

Aegon would have had another stroke had he seen what had become of his descendants, Daenys bemoaned, he would provide a worthy successor, as would his son after him, their line would be perfect, and all the others would end at his hand, the beach was just the start of the cleansing, no more false dragons would fly these skies, no more "wise lords", just dragon kings, Valyrian supremecy over all, Valyrian invincibility, as it was said in their day. The stubborn rose would finally be cut, and replaced by one of his bannermen's second sons, men who would never account to anything otherwise, he would make kings out of shepherds.

As the dragons did however many years ago.

The Braavosi gave him an odd look, before lugging an assortment of bags of grain from the large boat he stood in, up onto the deck, wiping sweat off of his brow and pushing a mat of curly brown hair back up onto his head.

"That's all I've got, it's going to cost you." He said, placing his hands on his hips.

Daenys chuckled at his belief that a prince would be paying, it was buffoonish really, how could he not see that Daenys was a god and thus above purchasing objects from anyone? It was obvious to see, the Braavosi was a believer in those other gods, obviously, a fact that excluded him from receiving Daenys' grace, an unfortunate thing really, but it was his choice, a one he had decided to make despite his meeting of a physical god. Daenys truly pitied this man.

Shaking his head, Daenys placed a finger between his lips and whistled, in a moment, the dock shifted under the weight of a dragon, Bloodfyre, his dragon.

"I'll take the grain now."

The Braavosi stared at the dragon, letting out a fearful squeaking noise. His knees shook and he crouched down, attempting to hide within his ship. Daenys smiled at this, beginning to load up his dragon with the bags of grain. He was getting tired, it was normal, considering the amount of activity he had been putting himself through.

Flying back to the castle, he locked up Bloodfyre slowly, nearly falling asleep as he fumbled tying the knot over and over again, before finally leaving it and simply allowing the dragon to wander the island freely, he had no reason to care anyways, the people would moan and complain, but Dragonstone was no home of his, Aerys could deal with it once he took it over, he was a bright lad, always had been, almost on his father's level, he was probably doing his best to keep the Tyrells from sinking the Seven Kingdoms into the sea.

By the time he reached his bed, he was already too tired to stand, and the bed felt soft, whatever position he came to rest in was comfortable, and his mind was silent. He had to work himself to the bone more often if this is what the result would be. Chuckling once, he rolled onto his left and fell asleep, massaging his old scar and sighing once before the dreams replaced any thought.

He dreamed he was young again, he saw Aegon, angry Aegon, soon the world became real around him, and he forgot it was a dream.

Daenys smacked the tree again with his stick, enjoying the crack and the vibration it sent up his arm. He hadn't remembered how long he had been at it like this, but it was both tiring and surprisingly fulfilling, focusing on his swing, he remembered his father's flicking wrist and short grunt with every swing.

"Brother, knock it off." Aegon said, annoyed and angry.

Daenys never knew Aegon to be angry, but he was sure it was nothing, Aegon was a kind lad, everyone loved him, he was going to be king! Daenys was happy for him, and he was sure he would be a wise king, a king to make his predecessors proud, just as long as the people were happy, that was the important thing.

Smiling, Daenys dropped the stick and hopped over to his brother on his stubby little legs, he was always shorter than his brother, and the sers said he acted half his age. He didn't care what the sers said, the sers were jerks! He was the smartest nine year old he knew, and the handsomest, and the coolest, he was just the best! No one could compare, not even Aegon, though he was the second best nine year old Daenys knew. Daenys arched his back slightly and hopped in place, prepared just in case Aegon attacked him with a stick of his own, that would be fun, of course, Daenys just didn't want to get hurt, getting hurt sucked, it was the suckiest, he confirmed to himself. Whatever the case, Aegon looked tired, probably from a court session, he just had to ask him about it! He loved Aegon's stories.

"Hi brother! How are you? Where's the guards? Why do you look so angry? What-"

Aegon growled and smacked Daenys across the face, sending him sprawling. Daenys yelped in surprise and confusion, and as the pain throbbed, he couldn't help himself but cry. What was happening? What just happened? Had he hit his head off the tree? Did his brother just hit him with the stick? Were they playing?

"Shut up!" Aegon yelled, crouching right in his face and hitting him again.

"One of the sers at court said I looked like you, that's ridiculous! I'm to be the king! I can't have people thinking you're me! You're daft as a pile of dragon-crap!" He pulled a knife out of his pocket and tested the sharpness on his palm.

"I'm done having to deal with your foolishness, brother, it ends now!"

He grabbed Daenys by the collar, placing the knife to his neck, just where his chest met it, drawing it across, he slashed deeply into Daenys' skin, causing him to cry out and struggle to get away. Aegon growled and put the knife back, standing, he dragged Daenys, one-handed, over by the tree, which he now held on to. He had looked back on this moment again and again, he still had no clue how Aegon had gotten hold of a knife, though he assumed he stole it, just as he stole everything else, he was more a danger to himself with that thing than anything else.

"You show the worst of our family, mad and foolish!" Aegon yelled, the words lacking impact and childishly mis-chosen, the impact came when he kicked Daenys in the ribs again and again, causing him to cry out again and again.

This continued for longer than Daenys could count, and by the end his face stung from the tears and he was curled up in a protective ball. He cried quietly, because if he did it any louder, Aegon would hurt him again. Eventually, Aegon left with a scoff, leaving Daenys alone to cry, which he did for hours, even when the rain came, he still cried. By the time his father found him, he was so wet and cold he was in pain. He didn't tell his father what had happened, because he knew if he did, Aegon would just beat him again and there was nothing his father would do to stop him. His father sighed, grabbing up Daenys and rushing him back to the keep, his chest was warm and his arms held Daenys tighter than was comfortable, but it was still the best feeling that he had ever felt.

The memories flew by, again and again Aegon beat him, more and more violently as he aged, to the point where Daenys' torso was covered in scars from his brother's knives and sticks, he always hid it in fear of what Aegon would do.

Eventually, something cracked, during once beating he grabbed Aegon's stick from him. Aegon's face lit up in confusion. Daenys came closer, screaming in his brother's face before taking the cold stick from his hands and smashing it across the elder prince's face. It was among the best feelings he had ever felt. He hit him again and again and again, when his arm got tired he kicked, and when his feet got sore he bit, he yelled at Aegon through it all, calling him more names than he could remember, all of them more cathartic than the last. By the time he was done, he was laughing, he hated him, wanted every part of his smug face to be torn off by hungry horses, and now to see him whimpering in the same way, was funny, too funny, he laughed loudly and repeatedly, and no-one came for either of them, as no-one had come for them back when Aegon beat him. No-one cared about his cuts and bruises, they thought he was just "clumsy" or a fool. Daenys half laughed half cried at this thought.

"Look who's the fool now!" He screamed in Aegon's face as he stomped once more on his brother's chest. with fist and foot, he smashed his brother until he was a bruised and bloody mess, and it felt amazing, the best feeling he had ever felt.

Then he returned to the castle, to his angry father. Aegon had told, and Daenys was locked in his room for two whole weeks without even being allowed to tell of Aegon's brutal treatment. Daenys hated them all, he hated every thought of them, he wanted them all dead, he wanted the throne so that he could throw them all from the parapets into the sea! He was perfect before! Perfect! Now he was scarred and hideous, and it was all Aegon's fault, and he was the one punished. He screamed for the rest of that day, spending the next weeks catatonically eating and laying in his bed.

Aegon became king a few years later, and he made Daenys hand of the king for a fortnight, just to make him a target, Daenys was sure, and when he wasn't killed, Aegon had him demoted while he thought of another plan, he constantly apologized and said he wanted to make it up to him, but it was all lies, Daenys knew, his brother was an evil man, and the king wanted him dead, Daenys knew it was true. Aegon always met with the maester about "impotence", Daenys was assuming of the poisons they used to try to murder him in his sleep.

Daenys hated him, he hated how he lied to the people, how he lied to his wife, and especially how Aegon lied to his nephew, he did what he did for the good of the realm, he recalled saying, he knew it to be true, it was for the good of the realm.

Daenys awoke with a start, after looking around once, he laid back down and grabbed his pillows, covering his head and growling as comfort evaded him.

The People's Guard, following the Lord Commander Wallace of the Storm's End Garrison, slowly approached the gate. They hugged the tree line, afraid to come out. Wallace slowly rode up to the gates. There must be at least five archers aiming at him and his horse at this moment, ready to pick him off the moment he makes any unexpected, or more likely expected but unwanted, movements. He waved to the garrison members on top. The portcullis was raised, allowing him to enter.

Slowly, the rebel army emerged from the trees. With their brown clothing and the dirt that covered them head to toe, it's as if the ground rose up and split into many human shaped pieces. A few of them, separated from the rest by not having as much dirt caked onto them, slowly shuffled to the front of the horde, and made their way into the gates of the keep. The rest stayed nervously outside, expecting a hail of arrows to rain down upon them and break the peace.

The cleaner people walked right up to Wallace and began demanding to know where Gris was. Their voices slowly raised, some stating they want to kill him and others saying they just want to discuss peace terms. This escalated until one of them shouted at the top of his lungs, silencing the rest of them.

“I’d say Lord Gris is in his study right now,” Wallace drawled. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

“Nay,” a rebel general said. “We’ll come with.”

He was so close now, soon he would come to a breakthrough. He had for once in his life gone to the castle battlements without his sister, and unveiled his invention. He had hoped that with his victory, knowledge would prove triumph over force. With his loss, he had locked himself once again in his workshop. Yet now, he could not find refuge in his work. The image of his father haunted him, taunting and jeering.

“A son of mine you are not. You have shown your worth upon the battlefield, and have been proven unworthy,” would repeat in the recesses of his mind. Desperate to drown out the disappointment, he threw himself at his latest project, almost reaching fruition. A knock on the door jarred him from his thoughts.

“Milord, the generals are here,” a voice reported from the other side. “They want to discuss peace. There’s no need to respond, just . . . consider it, will you?” A small clambering of voices rose up suddenly, some shouting “Get out here!” While others shouted at the shouters. Gris, of course, did not make any noise.

“He’s not coming out,” said one of the generals, raising his axe. “Stand back. I’ll drag him back if I need to.” With a roar, he brought down the axe, burying it in the door. Unfortunately for him, the door in question was over 6 inches thick, and the head stuck. Grumbling curses, he tried again and again to reclaim it, but it was stuck tight.

“Listen, he has to eat sometime. If we must, we’ll wait him out right here.”