[IC] Blood Runs Over Westeros: A Game of Thrones RP

[Bluetommy]

Gerald Crakehall-Wilderness near Casterly Rock.

Gerald had been away too long.

He had forgotten what home was, where it was, and mostly, he missed it, just the Westerlands in general, he'd sure not missed the time when lord Brax had spat in his face and called him a deserter, and he'd doubt that Tyget missed him, considering his actions up until that moment.

All he really could do was be the best damn puppet-king he could be.

Lord North had lost Harrenhal to rioting, so he hanged another of Lord Footly's sons and cut off one of the lord's fingers, proceeding to disembowel him slowly, following by tearing out the man's throat with his teeth. Right now, House Footly rested at a daughter and a son, though the son was only alive because one of the ironborn took him to ship and sailed for Pyke, so Lord North forced the now Lady Footly to declare her forces for the new king, to seal the deal, Lord North married her.

Gerald couldn't leave, the men liked Lord North too much to let him go, but he was afraid of what the man could do, he was one of Daenys Targaryen's few friends, which was never a good sign, though he had managed to endear himself to King Aegon as well, serving two terms as hand of the king. Lord Torwin Costayne of Three Towers had been taken riding for Highgarden, Tambur the Wull tore one of his arms clean off, then drank the brain-fluid that was leaking from the dying man's nose. Lord Guy Baelish had attempted to run for home, Ser Osney North, the lord's son, castrated him and presented his naked corpse to Lord North. Ser Bruce North was the Lord's cousin, he had raped Costayne's youngest son and squire and avoided punishment by hiding the corpse in Gerald's quarters, when Gerald told, Lord North had the man drowned in his armor as to avoid becoming a kinslayer.

Now they were riding for Casterly, with purpose to sneak into Tyget's home and take one of Gerald's sisters as hostage.

Now he was just pissed off more than anything, he couldn't really do anything about it.

They'd met up with Connington on their way to Casterly, they had managed to collect what remained of their armies to sack Hornvale and recruit a group of hedgeknights with the dragons they had stolen. Speaking of dragons, the Lord North had found old Daenys Targaryen's dragon, he had sent the dragonseed to try to tame it, Gerald honestly doubted anything good would come of it.

Suddenly, his horse pitched one direction sharply, and then he found himself riding an uncontrollable beast towards a large yellow plateau. A whistle rang out in his ears, and an arrow appeared bloodily in his horse's neck, sending it falling into the ground. Gerald threw himself out of the way of the falling beast, bouncing across the ground against the feet of a noble, looking up slowly, he saw a peace banner flying over him, an older man smiled at him and placed the tip of his sword against Gerald's throat. "Hello deserter." The silver haired man stated matter-of-factly. Gerald grabbed at his sword, but he only recieved a kick to the ribs from a nearby guardsman. The noble was dressed in a long coat fastened with the pin of House Targaryen, showing him to be there by command of the king.
"What brings you back home?"

Gerald groaned and fought against the men who held him there, but he couldn't manage to make a move.
"You're as of now, in the custody of House Bar Emmon." Was it the lord? No, now that he looked, Gerald could see that it was probably the lord's younger son Jaime, they had never met, but Gerald had heard he was a hellraiser in his youth, but as an old man he was dutiful and willing to listen, maybe he would help. Gerald looked at the older man's confused look, and frowned himself, sighing and being unable to give an answer. "Then it's just the fun of some lad who doesn't know better? Your brother's a hard man, I doubt he'd just take this with stubborn acceptance." Gerald looked back up at the man, bit his lip a moment, then sighed again. Bar Emmon stood Gerald up and grabbed around his throat near tenderly, he smelled of roses and grass, dressed very well for a campaign leader, probably meaning that this was a diplomatic mission, perhaps for peace between the two sides.
"I'm arresting you, and I'm bringing you before your brother as a peace offering, you bloody cunt." He spat out a mere hair from Gerald's face.
"No, I, I need... I need you, to tell him... tell Tyget..." Tambur's voice bellowed from behind them, interrupting Gerald's words.
"Let the king go, or we'll go right through you." Bar Emmon mouthed the word king confusedly, his smell slightly changing as he turned from angry to confused. Gerald spat out some dirt, attempting again to speak to Ser Jaime.
"Tyget, tell him that he's being invaded, tell him Lord North calls me king, you ride under a peace banner, do this one thing, I'll make sure you get away, they won't hurt me." Tambur growled over the hill, causing Gerald to speak more quietly, as he did, Bar Emmon nodded as he spoke, he looked with open eyes and mouth for a moment, before nodding and turning to his guards. Gerald was released, and he stood looked back at the enraged Tambur, and turned to run, instructing Bar Emmon to do the same.

Before he got far, he heard clopping hooves behind him, so he slid to a stop on the balls of his feet, yanking his sword loose. He took one last look at the confused Bar Emmon, before taking a fighting pose and facing down the horsemen. Tambur was utterly taken aback. "What is this?" Gerald smiled, cried out, and slashed the legs of Tambur's steed out from under him.

"This is me killing you, ser." Tambur growled on the ground, shooting up before Gerald could take advantage. Gerald realized how much he wished he was the Bar Emmon side of this plan, but he knew that Tambur wouldn't risk hurting him.

Tambur grabbed Gerald around the throat and threw him a few feet away. Gerald bounced across the ground before rolling back to his feet, landing in an awkward position unable to counter. Tambur pulled his mace from off of his back, charging forth with an overhand blow looking to take Gerald's head clean off. Gerald parried, but he was thrown from his feet and unable to go for a strike. Gerald's legs crossed as he recovered, and he instantly realized his mistake, Tambur followed with a left handed punch that flattened him, his legs getting trapped together and falling out from underneath him. Gerald rolled back to his feet and gripped hard at his blade. Prepare yourself Tyg, I'm coming home, and I'm done being an oaf, just you wait, give me something, I'll do it, I swear to you. Gerald's feet flew forwards to a new position, planting themselves in the dirt before Tambur and pulling his body back, the rest of his being followed with a swing that hurt his body with the power in the twisting of his hips. It buried itself in Tambur's side, the large clansman placing a huge hand over Gerald's face and pushing against his nose and mouth. Gerald again and again yanked for his sword, unable to breathe or see. Eventually he got it free, placing a hand upon the pommel and driving it into the Wull's mouth. He pushed again, screaming like a burning dragon, small sparks began flying from his fists and his eyes lit up with an invisible fire that only he could see. "I am the brother of Azor Ahai reborn! I am a man aflame! I am Gerald Crakehall, my father's son, and I am no maid!" He pulled the blade loose, grabbing the man's face and leaving a burn in the shape of his fingers, before stabbing the blade through the Wull's lower spine with enough force to throw the clansman off his feet.

And then he realized he was facing down an army.

Reality ensued, and Gerald awoke with one less finger than he remembered.

[bloonewb]

The sun flew over the skies of the Stormlands, covered by cloud and radiating a heavy gold at the edges. A few drops of rain lightly hit the soldiers below, cold against the warm and sweating skin, a soft chill spread across the field, blowing grass and hair. Wolves prowled in the woods to either side, hungering for the dead and dying, the rebel's first move was to kill them and send archers to take to the woods. The rebel commander was an old knight, not unskilled at command, but willing to train each and every one of his men. The loyalists had the hunched and half-blind Gris Baratheon, lacking in the strength that had brought his family to the throne once, but having the intellect of two crowned stags, the social skills taken from a third. Gris as a commander would draw many a comparison to Stannis Baratheon, a poor diplomat and hard man who still inspired loyalty in his men, a smart man where other stags would be strong, using cunning against brute force.

Stormlanders were bred warriors, known for their excellent bowmen and hefty constitution, all were preparing for a battle, the only visible difference between the two sides was the banner they flew. The loyalist host flew a Baratheon stag, while the rebels flew a simple black flag. The rebels were peasantry mostly, though not well armed, they were of a resilient lot, spending long days lifting and dropping. The loyalist host was made of professional warriors, they had not the numbers, but they had superior equipment and training, for every one slain, he would bring three others to the Stranger with him. The rebel archers would be fewer in number, but they were more in skill, mostly old huntsman and their children, veterans and their understudies, while the loyalists had more bows, the rebels were better at aiming and hiding.

Ser Bartimus had sent his huntsman to take the woods, he sent his farmers up to the front to hold the men there while the veteran archers shot them from either side, his own elite units, comparable to a loyalist foot brigade, would stay in the back with the cavalry, defending the baggage train and standing in reserve.

The walls of Storm's End were in chaos. Everywhere, people were rushing around, trying to get at least one thing done, but any productivity was impossible in the huge crowd massing on the walls. Captains hastily checked the condition of their soldiers, and nobody was in ideal condition. Their armor was sloppily donned, and in most cases, half of it was hanging off of them. Those in the back rank were trying to finish up while still appearing to stay in rank. They failed at both. While all of this was happening, everyone was being peppered by falling arrows slung from the forests and masses of rebels. Bowmen on the walls were returning fire, but it seemed that with every one taken down twenty more swarm through. A few have even given up, instead hiding behind the turrets and praying to the Seven, trying to atone for whatever it is that caused them to deserve such a predicament.

A messenger was posted outside of Gris's bedroom. His job was to take whatever Gris wrote and run it to the highest general he could find. A page slipped under. Upon it was written "They are peasants. They may have a cause, but no battle experience. Assemble all of your cavalry and scare them off. Go into the lower studies, and retrieve for me Kyle's Thunder." The messenger didn't know what Kyle's Thunder was, but he ran to find a general nonetheless.

Bartimus smacked his discarded glove against his horse's arse, stumbling over to the rest of the men with clumsy purpose before looking at the huge castle before them. "Storm's End is big, but it's been taken before, Aegon the second coming and Daenarys did it, why can't we?"
"'Cause we don't have dragons ya' bloody tosspot." Bartimus was mildly offended, but pressed on with his plan, walking up towards the walls and hailing the guard."OY! You! Archers!" An arrow wizzed just by his head.
"Don't do that! I'd like a word with Lord Gris, if he surrenders there'll be no need for any blood." The archers laughed and scoffed, Bartimus felt ignored and taunted.
"I'm ready to kill ya' all, get me Gris, or I'll give the or- Ah bugger it all!" He screamed much louder.
"OY! FIRE ON THE WALLS! DO IT!" A few arrows placidly smacked into the walls, before finally the full force of the rebel archers flew against the walls of Storm's End, like deadly raindrops they fell against the roofing and walls. Bartimus was very pleased.

The army had moved now, the infantry falling even further back, while the archers were poking their heads out of the trees to fire at the walls. The rain had progressed from small drops to dribbling against the castle, mud, which had already formed, began to turn more and more to liquid, to the benefit of the rebel forces, who began hiding in the mud to avoid returning fire.

Screams of pain rang out on the walls as the rebel's flurry of arrows hit. More than one archer fell behind the walls, clutching at an eye with an arrow's stump portruding out. Below, commander of the garrison Norman was mustering up the paltry cavalry from the paltry forces they had.

"Alright, you lot!" he shouted, "In the saddles, swords ready! I don't want to see any delay! Any rider caught one second behind the man next to him will be hanged! Is that clear!?" A grumble of assent rose up from the mass of horsemen as they mounted their steeds. The thick mud would be horrible for a cavalry charge. Their only hope was that the act of charging itself would force the ill-trained peasantry to rout. Norman took an appraising look at the soldiers in their seats. Then, he jumped up on his own horse. "Listen up! They may be many, they may be hidden, and they may be killers, but we have one thing they don't! We have spirit! And I believe, that the spirit in us shall triumph against any injustice, be it inferior numbers, uneven terrain, and especially treason! CHARGE!"

Gris, along with three others, set the iron tube down at the center of the wall, pointing towards the rebel infantry. He was noticably shaking, glaring accusingly at anyone who looked at him.

"Leave me," he said to the other three, his voice seeming to quaver. They saluted quickly, and departed to join the ranks. Alone and unwatched, Gris began to work. He grabbed a heavy orb, letting it roll into the tube. Then, he took a piece of rock and a shard of steel, and began hammering them together. They created a spark, hitting a notch. The end of the tube let out a resounding BANG! followed by an eruption of smoke. The tightly packed ranks of the peasants were suddenly broken, as if a huge sword or spear cut a line into them. The footmen on the wall emerged from the turrets, praising the warrior at the top of their lungs.

The screams of the wounded, dead and dying filled the air, the remaining men of the stuck unit turned and fled immediately, Bartimus, who was right next to the walls, fell to the ground at the sound, a ringing in his ears and silence from the mouths of the screaming peasants. Whatever weapon had struck them had managed to practically destroy the front line of infantry, though the arrows continued from the woods, in a fewer number, but still noticably, apparently the huntsman thought the woods would provide them a little bit of safety, Bartimus also noticed the cavalry had gone against his orders and approached the castle, hiding beneath the walls in an attempt to avoid the powerful weapon. The knights that they had managed to recruit dismounted and walked to the moat, standing in front of where the drawbridge would fall, most had small castles of their own, and those that didn't were hedgeknights that had served castle-born lords. Whatever the case, the army had taken a large hit, and those that did remain would be forced to hide in fear of the weapon that had forced their comrades limb-from-limb.

Bartimus screamed at the knights after his ears had stopped ringing. "Fall back you fools! Let the archers do this, you lot just go to the walls!" The knights seemed not to respond, so Bartimus simply yelled louder. He continued yelling for quite a bit, but the knights refused to budge, standing before the gates and waiting.

Norman and his regiment galloped through the wet ground, their horses foaming at the mouth. They weathered the constant presence of arrow fire, occasionally losing a horse or a rider. By the time they reached the main branch of the enemy, they had lost more than half of what they started with. The horses crashed through the enemy line, trampling a few hidden archers along the way. The knights, with their heavy cavalry swords, began wildly swinging into the masses, cutting faces, necks, and torsos.

The rebel knights seemingly decreased in size as they noticed the loyalists riding into their host behind them, but instead of taking to the melee, they ran over to their horses and led the rest of the cavalry in a charge, as they were to begin, Bartimus met with them just in front of the walls. "Listen to me! If you go in front of the archers, they'll shoot you, have any of you ever been in battle before? I'm guessing not, just let our men hold the line, they know what to do here."

The knights had charged into a line of peasants armed mostly with spears and pitchforks when they couldn't afford spears, a fight that they (the knights) still looked sure to win, but one that would be a lot more difficult than if the men had worse weaponry, the archers turned from shooting at the walls to catch the now stuck knights in a deadly crossfire, willing to hit friendlies if it would rout the enemy. The much longer line also turned at the flanks, capturing the knights within. Bartimus was pleased. "Now we wait under the walls to catch any infantry, they can't hit us here."

"Shit! We're surrounded!" Shouted one of the knights, just beginning to comprehend the situation through all the blood. A few others, realizing what he had just said, turned and ran from the fray.

"Cowards!" shouted Norman. "The rest of you, fight to the last man!" But it didn't do anything to stop one rider trying to escape, then two, then three, until the only person left was Norman himself. Choiceless, he dropped his sword and raised up his hands.

"They're at the wall! They're at the wall!" yelled a captain, peering horrified at the rebels bashing at the sturdy gates. Footmen carrying steaming cauldrons and lugging huge boulders lined the walls. Rocks and oil began pouring down on the gate.

The leaderless peasantry and footmen were unwilling to accept surrender, and quickly moved in on Norman, no leader figure stepping up to tell them to leave him alive, they were looking for revenge for those that had fallen to Norman's men, they were looking to take his armor to sell, they were undisciplined and unwilling to stop, and no one cared to try to make them.

The knights at the gate were hit with oil and stones, a few falling and being killed, but more fell back to their horses, riding towards the woods where the archers were still firing, Bartimus among them, they had taken casualties, but they would still be able to fight, the archers turning back to firing on the walls.

The commanders on the walls knew it. Gris knew it. The archers on the walls knew it. No matter how hard they fought, there was not going to be a victory for the Stormlanders. Gris angrily retreated back to his room, jotted down a few things on a sheet of parchment, and handed it to a messenger. Immediately, he felt a shooting pain go up his spine.

The messenger took a small horse and rode out to the forest, waving a white flag. He stopped, and unrolled the parchment.

"Honorable foes of the Rebellion! The lord Gris of the house Baratheon recognises your strength on the battlefield! He asks that you approve of a pause in the combat, and would like to discuss with your leader terms of peace!"

(working in unity with @bluetommy2)

[FourtyTwo]

Collab with @bluetommy2

Approaching Queenstone

The ship had been sailing for at least another night and half a day, and Garland had slowly gotten to his senses, walking a little more, forcing himself to begin to get to grips with it. His long curled hair had finally decided to regrow a little since he had it trimmed after his injury, and his face, when exposed to the sun, took on less of a pale shade, coming back to it's usual tone. They were visibly close to the island, and it was barely an hour away, the rocky forms of the island coming closer, and closer.

The Lord Paramount had a lot on his mind, and since obtaining new supplies in Tarth and a set of letters that had come in from Loras, regarding the situation back home, things seemed rather interesting. As had been expected from King's Landing, Loras had raised the banners, or at least given the letter out, and in particular, Lord Belgrave Tarly was expected to be taking their command, in the aftermath of the Battle of the Kingswood. Belgrave was a ruthless and masterful soldiering type, and Garland even remembered after writing to him about the squabbles on the Dornish border, that the response had practically disregarded his liege Lord's command. They lived for it, and the Dornishmen kept their prowess up to shape, in the Torrentine. As much as House Dayne liked to deny it, they enjoyed fighting the Tarlys, be it in a real war or not. Now, there appeared to be one, and the earlier the Reach mobillized, the faster a Westerman threat could be dealt with. And in times of war, the Tarlys would do well in running the Reach as a war camp, and with no Garland to lead the forces, Belgrave was the man that people would naturally look to for a war.

On that front, things looked good, and news of Rickard getting ready for setting off to Oldtown for further tuition had come through, which didn't entirely suprise Garland. The realm was in good shape, and it seemed that in the aftermath of a good summer, the harvest collected, people were content enough to hold loyal to their Lords.

In her quarters, Alerie sat quietly, working with a needle and thread on a portion of her dress, thinking to herself. Her brother wasn't that smart, but he had enough knowledge to know what he was doing wasn't going to get him killed. Any Rose that played with dragons, however, was a Rose that could very quickly find itself in a dangerous place. And she knew that well that Baela was the more uncontrolled of the two, a little more vicious and a little more venomous than the conservative and controlled Rhaenyra. It made sense, however, for Garland to opt for the younger of the two sisters. Alerie knew that Rhaenyra was the Queen of these Isles, and that it could play havoc with inherritance, if Garland's sons and daughters were to become the Lords of these isles....not a Targaryen. Matrilineal continuation was not possible, not with a Lord Paramount, not with the main branch line of the Tyrells down to Garland, Alerie and Rickard. And in King's Landing, the decision he had made was an interesting one. It could work, but Alerie would have personally wrapped Theo in more webs to stop him from making any stupid decisions.

The ship made it's way closer and closer to the dock, the sight of Targaryen soldiers from the Northern Crownlands visible. They wore grey scalar armour, with the naval helms that the Targaryens seemed to adore, Garland thought to himself. He didn't look like much, but he was standing, and he was, at the very least, here to present. The fighting was still raging, but this was a Targaryen port.

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

Highgarden

The Council Chamber had emerged to be called to order once more, and the people that were seated were slightly different to the ones that had been present three weeks ago. It was a council of signifciance, with a number of high-ranking Lords, that were already used to advising and running Garland's homeland, The Kingdom of the Reach. The realm being at war, it made sense that they stayed here, and ran things. For a start, Loras Hightower-Tyrell sat at the helm of the table as Castellan and the most senior individual, effectively the Hand. Adjacent to the middle-aged Castellan was Lord Arthur Redwyne, the Master of Coin, the older red-rosed Lord looking across at the other figures that were here with his green and red tunic.

Ser Mern Garrett, the Master of Ships, was a Knight from the household of the Redwynes who originally came from Oldtown sat next to him, and opposite from Ser Garrett was Lord Paxter Peake as Master of Laws. Paxter and Mern seemed simularly dressed, in light grey and gold garnments, Paxter Peake being around his late thirties. Further along was Lady Tyrell, namely, Lyanna Tyrell, and her presence here was one that seemed particularly unusual, though it perhaps had standing that she was the most significant of the Tyrell household to at least attend one of these meetings, dressing her usual attire.

Maester Davos, the new Maester of Highgarden sat opposite her, and at the other end of the table in his robes, sat Lord Belgrave Tarly, an indvidiual who most of the Council were particularly looking at, knowing that the matters at hand that they had come to discuss were primarily to do with the bloody wars to come. Beside Belgrave stood his personal guard, for some reason he had decided he would bring them to the council meet, all of them rather seedy and large, except for Lord Protector Osmund Rutland, a man of a noble house that Belgrave had just created to serve as the commanders of his personal guard. Rutland was lowborn, and it was obvious, he continuously spat to the ground and cracked at his joints. He was wirey, in both body and hair, his head a mess of hair that appeared less like hair and more like a small cloud that appeared above his head, a pox-scarred face and a bulbous nose, he stared at the others around the table with a small smirk, cracking at his knuckles and relaxing his posture. He was the only one at the table in chainmail, which he wore under a white surcoat, styled with a red dog's head.

Loras sat up in his chair, looking across at the council, knowing that they had all had the chance to have something to drink, and the chance to at least take it in. The Great Hall of Highgarden was large, and it suited a council like this, a little differently to how the Smal Council in King's Landing would meet in the Tower of the Hand, the whitewashed walls making the torches on the walls light the room up bright, alongside the windows that sat across the top of the walls at the front of the hall.

"We still have no letters from Lord Tyrell, but we know that he is alive and well, as is his sister, and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. As for the King, information has reached us that he is in poor health, following the Crakehall attack of the city." Loras started, as he looked across at the council, a short adress to start things off, as he cleared his throat.
"The reports suggest that the dragons Visaxes and Jadefyre were responsible for turning the tide of the battle, though at a terrible cost of lives. The battle was won, and the Crakehalls are in rout, towards the Riverlands and home. They lost a significant quantity of men, and momentum." Loras began, as Arthur nodded, alongside Ser Garrett and Lord Peake, as Lyanna quietly looked on. Loras was stating facts. He wasn't stating realities, was he now? She hated the bastard, he really was an oaf. It was amazing his wife wasn't doing more work than he was, actually, she probably ran his Lordship for him. No, she would stay quiet, for now she said to herself. There were better arguements to pick, the wise Lady Tyrell thought to herself.

"We expect King Tyget isn't pleased." With that, Loras gave off a slight chuckle, as Redwyne looked across, to retort.
"It isn't all he has, Lord Loras. There's more Crakehalls where they came from. And the Iron Isles are raiding our shores once more."
"Indeed, they sacked Blackcrown....fucking defiant bastards. The Redwyne Navy couldn't keep up. I wouldn't imagine they want to go that far again, our navy'll better them if they pick an open fight." Ser Garrett added, as Peake looked across.
"And you know they will not make that mistake again. As for the Crakehalls then, what are we to do, Lord Loras?" Peake asked, as Loras nodded, looking over.
"We called the banners. The moment they stabbed our Liege, we are committed to a war with them. And that is why Lord Belgrave is here." Loras simply added, looking at the other end of the table, towards the Tarly who seemed to have a presence here.

Belgrave raised an eyebrow in Lord Hightower-Tyrell's direction, his teeth slightly showing as his lip raised into an odd grimacing frown. He patted a hand against the pommel of his blade, crossing his legs noisily. "Aye, I'm no good for anything else it seems, I'd much rather be home with my cousins and grandchildren..." He winked at Lord Redwyne, still frowning.
"...But I have no able commanders left, so I am forced to do it myself, aye, I'll lead the armies, but this is the first I've heard of this, I'm unprepared to lead currently with my levies unraised." He looked back at Loras, leaning into the table.
"What are our plans currently? I'd be well willing to show how much of an idiot you are, but right now I have to trust you to have something worth my time." He rubbed at his eyes.
"If not, as I expect the case to be, than I guess we'll just work it out in a minute or two, because that's how war planning works, we just say the word, and it'll be so. Hah." His eyes opened wide and then closed again, only to open into a glare.
"What'll it be, Lord Loras?"

Loras nodded, looking over, sighing a little. Belgrave's commanding presence did have a way with words, but then again, all Tarlys always seemed to. Even he knew that. Belgrave was commanding in his word, and in his doing, and bringing him back from The Arbor was going to come with this, as Loras looked across the table, Arthur looking over at Belgrave. Bastard had the kids that he had been tutoring for a while, taken with him on the ship and then the horses back to Horn Hill....he was protective of his family, he had to give him that, but it was the same protection as it was in The Arbor.

"The Crakehalls will want to repeat something, they will want to defend Tyget Crakehall to the last man, surely! And I wouldn't imagine Lord Garland would want us sitting around, doing nothing!" Loras said, as he cleared his throat, sitting up further, his hands on the table.
"We have options, and many of them involve killing Crakehalls, before they decide to either attack a beleagured King's Landing, or worse still, the very Kingdom of the Reach itself. And we are here to make that decision." Loras replied, as he looked back at Belgrave.
"We raise the banners and hold our soil, then we take their land. Put this "King" in his place. End this war before winter." Loras said, as Arthur nodded, looking across.

"Aye, we would indeed outstrip their capabillities, the soldiers know this land, they know where they would come from, how they would attack. They would be fools to attack, and this is Tyget Crakehall we are talking about...the man is a cunning individual indeed."
"Cunning enough to pick a fight with dragons and trueborn Targaryens." Ser Garrett sarcastically remarked, as Lyanna chuckled briefly, quietly almost.
"Indeed. Tyget Crakehall may be wise, but he doesn't know his wisdom from his madness. It would be preposterous to invade. Even if we have no dragons or trueborn Targaryens...it would be the end of his living. He doesn't know when he is beaten, bold men do that too." She said, her voice bold when it had to be, Lyanna knowing full well that she had to make the comment, amongst this debate of fools. She looked at Belgrave, and it was almost for a second, she had his spotlight, speaking with her wisdom and knowledge, a certain voice coming out that said what she had to.
"Lord Belgrave, I would imagine that our council is still in decision. We have banners availible to you that are rallying, from Torrentpeak to Ashford. Tens of thousands of men, setting up camp outside our white walls, and my nephew who has a gaping wound in his side, with your son also dead, and many of our beloved Lords too. The sparks have been lit, and we cannot be blind to the fires anymore. So, if you have war plans, do tell."

Belgrave was impressed, Lyanna was using her words in a way he could never understand, intrigues and the Highgarden court upset him, Lyanna's tactless reference to his son's death was much less impressive, and Belgrave growled behind his hands. Belgrave had not exactly thought of a real plan of action, but he seemed to be aware of something the others were not. "That's all good, but my other son went to Lord Footly's lands to negotiate a marriage, but all we found was burning and dead bodies, he and his guards checked into the woods, and all he found was more death, including the knight of Griffon's Roost, that's very unusual by itself, but when he approached the castle, no-one responded, unless Tyget somehow got very sneaky very fast, we have a third party to worry about, and if they're burning our lands, it's probably best that we do something about it, or we can sit here and wait for the Crakehalls to invade what's left of our kingdom, as Loras would prefer, also, Lyanna, very impressive use of words, though please be more tactful when referring to my son, in fact, I would prefer if you did not mention him." He pulled at his jaw, twisting at his neck.
"I'd also prefer a 'sorry for your loss' or something of the sort, though apparently your fathers never taught you lads anything of manners, ask Lord Redwyne, I at least told him that I was taking his children along with me, that's polite, or would you prefer I simply told you all what I truly felt?" Belgrave never raised his voice, but was still stern voiced and tranquil in his red-faced anger.

Lyanna interuppted him quickly, looking across at Belgrave, the wise Tyrell seemingly aware of what she'd done. A slight oversight in her manner, one that seemed cold and stern, but one that could find itself remedied perfectly with the right timing.
"We are sorry for your loss, Lord Belgrave. Torwin fought well as a Commander of the Reach, he did the duty that he serves to protect all of our interests in the capital. But let the focus be on how we deal with the Crakehalls." She simply said to him, a cold yet shutting stare from Lyanna's eyes looking across, as Loras looked over, and Arthur Redwyne also. The latter held his tongue, and he was not pleased with Belgrave, yet he didn't want to stir anything, not when Lyanna had him to account, Loras clearing his throat.
"Lord Footly, or Owain of Tumbleton, is still in King's Landing. He doesn't know yet, not with the siege only being broken. As for the North-East, we must be careful. Whoever this is will anger the Crakehalls too, if they are doing the same to their lands." Loras said, as Arthur nodded.

"Agreed, it is a danger. So, they need to be dealt with too." Arthur added, looking at Belgrave, with a sheer look on his face, one that seemed to not want to be provoked any more than needed. His sons were getting tutored well in swordsmanship, and the fact that they were at Horn Hill, not at home where they were comfortable, did irritate him.
"If as they say, the Crakehalls are watching our armies, then we must be careful. They could easily strike at massed movement....perhaps this is all a ruse. In our lands, we know where they go, but in theirs, they are the controllers of the game." Paxter said, as Loras looked across.
"Yes, that is true in itself. But the Crakehall threat is still an existant one. And as for the fate of Garland and Alerie, we are yet to know when they write back to us. No doubt Garland will be able to make sense of this better than any of us will, but we can only do what we know to hold these Westermen from our lands." Loras said, as Lord Redwyne looked over at Belgrave.
"So, if you suggest action then Lord Belgrave, how do we go about it? And what of the Roseroad, if it is under threat?"

Osmund Rutland cracked his shoulder and spat upon the table, resting an elbow next to where Belgrave was sitting. He leaned into Belgrave and they whispered back and forth. Belgrave finally nodded and Rutland returned, rolling his thin shoulder. "The Roseroad is fine, why should we care as to it's safety, King's Landing is fine, and there's nothing we need that we can't get from our own lands, you're all just being paranoid, Lord Rutland here has a suggestion that he wishes to make, as I've already spoken my piece, do not mind him, he's a peasant by birth, he's smarter than he lets on." Belgrave stood up and motioned for Rutland to step forewards. The man ran a spit-covered hand through his thinning hair, standing before the council with a relaxed smile. "Aye then? I'm good? Alright." He ran his hands together.

"So *Spit* I suggest that we do something brutal, show Tyget what we're made of ah? I'd think we'd do well to do something to scare 'im, maybe take one of the captives we took and hang 'em from the gallows, chop 'em into pieces and send them to him under a peace banner, sure, the folk we send had better be fast runners, but I doubt that Tyget would want a part of Lord Belgrave's justice if we'd got hold of 'im. It's a good idea ah? I'm not no strategist, but I think we'd do well to make their armies dread us, or you all'd just prefer to mumble and moan about the threat." He shrugged.

"I really can just say whatever I want ah?" He asked to Belgrave, who looked directly at Loras and nodded. Osmund spat and chuckled.
"You 'eard about this thing they found in Southoryos? It's called a Slow Loris, kinda accurate ah?" He laughed, and Belgrave joined him.
"You, Lord Redwyne, your sigil's a bunch of grapes innit? Smaller than your naughty bits or same size? You're all lords ah? Good for you, but I can say whatever the hell I want, I can say what Lord Belgrave doesn't want to, and I think you're all a bunch of fools, a whole bunch of fools." He laughed loudly, a cackling and low thing.

Arthur pushed his chair back, and was about to bark, as Loras stood and stopped him, putting his hand on his shoulder, looking sternly at Rutland, then Belgrave.
"Belgrave, this is unacceptable behaviour! What on earth..." Arthur said, staunch, as his words faded into nothing, his quiet anger stopped dead by something not lounder, but far more significant.

"Enough." The words did not come from either of their lungs. It came from Lyanna. She looked at them, shaking her head.
"Look at you. There's good reason Garland keeps this realm together. Bloody bickering." She said, grimacing, as she looked at Belgrave.
"The Yunkish Slavers have stolen and taken many a thing that is not nailed down by Crakehall Keep and further north, and kept their word. The Iron Islanders will want a response after they single-handedly murdered Lord Greyjoy. Our Lord is wounded, and we are on the verge of war. And you fools bicker. Seven Hells." She sighed, looking at the Master at Arms again.
"Tyget knows blood, as do you. Do whatever you think will work. He won't stop if you do that, as he would do the same to us. Not until you destroy everything he has. His pride, his Kingdom, his family, and then him. Only then, do you prove the point. Remove everything he has." She added, sighing.

"Belgrave, do what you have to. Paranoia will save our capital if it has to as well. While my nephew may be good with a sword, it makes sense that we hold the pivot of power before they do. No divisions, but one hard strike. Loras?" Lyanna looked across, weary, almost angered at the fact that these fuckers could not make a decision, and Loras seemed to only be back in control. Lyanna did not like this, but it was clear, very easily so, that she seemd to have a matrilineal abillity to speak and think, not like Loras, but to just speak beyond the lies. It felt like she barely even struck her knowledge out to make her point, and when it happened, the look on Loras did not seem to enjoy being put to such an undermining approach.
"Of course, Lady Tyrell. We would do whatever it took. Lord Belgrave will lead the forces, if and when the Crakehalls invade, and we will do what you say to this 'King'. And I insist, Belgrave ought to have a word with his guard for that behaviour." Loras said, knowing that it was something that had to be said, a gentle murmur from Arthur, Paxter and Davos.

Osmund spat. "That's Lord guard to you, ser, please, show a little respect." Belgrave shook his head.
"Aye milady, I shall do as you ask, I just wonder why Tyget would set upon us knowing the superior power of the Reach. I am also in no place to discipline Lord Rutland, considering he is a lord in his own right, married to Lord Redwyne's daughter."

Arthur barked, there was no other word for it, the Redwyne insulted at the very best.
"LORD BELGRAVE! What is this madness!" He stood again, as Lyanna looked over.
"You don't know power, Belgrave. Even ours." She didn't even give him the title of Lord, well, she hadn't prior, to almost any of them.
"It is belief that you can have something that gives you power. Crakehall wants that, and he things us weak, divided. We want power, and we rely on number, and our beliefs too. Like you demonstrate now. You won't know that belief entirely that he has, that people like Tyget have. But the only thing you can do, is take it from him. Then, he is at your mercy. He would set upon us, or King's Landing, whatever he shall do, he will want Reachmen to bleed. More sons, daughters, farmers, soldiers, to die. Unless you do it to them. Shame really." She added, sighing, looking as Arthur stood, completely bemused, angry, and stolen in his anger.

"I don't think I have a place at this meeting. You men, talking of your marriages, and war. I think Rickard is about to leave, so I will say my goodbyes. I shall let you talk it over. Don't kill each other." She added, standing as she did so at the end. Her handmaiden, Alice took her goblet of water from the table, as Lyanna headed towards the door.
"Lady Tyrell, you don't have to leave just yet..."

"No, suit yourselves. I am sure you know your business." And with that Lyanna was around the corner and out of the hall, leaving Arthur stood and Loras looking at him. Arthur continued.
"Lord Belgrave, you did this without my permission! I did not consent to this!" Lord Redwyne was not pleased, not in the slightest, as he shook his head, looking at the Master at Arms.
"First my children, now my daughter wed? Could you ever think to ever ask?" He added, the Lord of The Arbor clearly a little more than ticked off, at this insult that Belgrave had practically presented him.

Belgrave was very pleased, now that Lyanna had left, with her had left any chance of another dominating the council, now Belgrave could spread his elbows. "I did not ask who my daughter wished to marry, she came to me with swollen belly and a letter of apology from your court, I found it cathartic to return the favor, now just to return the favor to Lord Tyget and I can die with no regrets. Disregarding any prior plans, I believe that we should do as Lord Rutland says, but I also believe that we should occupy Crakehall itself, it may provide a base in the westerlands to hold the enemy against, a siege is harder to win than a battle, but a defender in a siege has more power than a defender in a battle, and holding Tyget's own ancestral home would be cause enough to bring his wrath upon us, while defending Highgarden would only lead to him burning his way around the whole Reach, the third party plans remain as is, and of course, my lords, I have more than prepared for Tyget's captivity once the war is won." Rutland walked up to Lord Redwyne, nearly meeting the man's nose with his own.
"I felt no need to ask, considering she came for her bedding wet and willing, and her time spent around me during our journey to Horn Hill had already spent her virginity ah? You understand, women are lustful as they say, but your daughter was something else, it was impossible to avoid her." He popped at his shoulder and spat upon the ground.
"So I stopped trying."

Arthur did not want to hit Rutland, and held himself back as best as he could, shaking his head.
"You bastard." He simply said, his words coming out as crystal clear as he wanted them to, as Loras simply put a hand on Arthur's shoulder, easing him back.
"Lord Belgrave, Lord Redwyne, we'll discuss this later. This is a council, not a betrothal court. I'd rather be drinking right now, so let's get this sorted." Loras simply said, as he sighed.

"Occupying Crakehall Keep itself would work. Keeping some forces in reserve may be a wise idea, to protect Highgarden. If I count correct, that would safely allocate you 50,000 men." Loras added, as Paxter nodded, looking across to the Castellan.
"Indeed, and against this Thrid Party, it would be a good decision. To keep our capital strongholded, if it is an unknown quantity." Paxter merely stated, as Loras continued, sitting upright, drinking a little more Arbor from his cup.
"Invasion is difficult, even I understand that. But it may come to it. That is something we have to be ready for. I would imagine you would want people by your side, Belgrave. I would be willing, some of this council, I would imagine wouldn't be suitable. You can take your pick, and the camps will be set for the raised forces over the coming days, if you advise that as our action. Even so, we must be ready to fight them if they decide to attack first." Loras said, his oafish mind at least trying to make sense of the situation, knowing that this was probably his best input into this, and Ser Garrett and Lord Paxter seemed broadly agreeable to it. It wasn't stupid, but it wasn't exactly material that Garland would have up his sleeve. He'd have done something far more bold, distinct, and to the point, that didn't bullshit.

Belgrave had decided in an instant, lifting a finger and pointing at Lord Paxter. "My lord, I believe that you are one of the few at this table I have managed to avoid offending, of course, my goodson will be leading the fleets I'll assume, if not, he shall, as to my forces, I will have to marshal them and ride back north, so my ancestor Lord Bryce will be leading my troops." Lord Bryce was old, very much so, and even more of a hellraiser than Lord Rutland, he remembered hearing of a son that Bryce crippled by attempting to force the lad to joust at a very young age, the man ended up spending all his time in the gardens trying to kill dandelions with rocks or something of the sort, he remembered a story where this same lad had flashed Lord Gregor, the lad had grown at this point, and was around sixty years old, Bryce's only comment was that he wished he was there.
"You all have heard of Lord Bryce, he's done a lot, he's a good man, perhaps a little immature, but he's honest, brutally so, he's a good commander too, even as old as he is he can still beat me in a spar, I remember the maester telling me that he's over a century old, if that's not a testament to Tarly constitution I don't know what is." Belgrave knew that Loras was still trying to wrap his head around the situation, so he didn't push the issue, lest he break the oaf's mind.

Paxter nodded, looking to Belgrave.
"Tarly's honour. Wouldn't expect anything less, Lord Belgrave. Lord Bryce would be a good commander indeed. He's mad, but he's fuck off with a sword." He replied, chuckling, smiling. Oh, Belgrave was good old, he had people on side, and considering how militarized they were, it seemed to fit them perfectly. People like Bryce were hardened, and more than used to fighting. Paxter knew that the Tarlys picked more fights than could be counted with the Dornishmen, and had that topic have even been mentioned, no doubt they would never discuss the war with the Crakehalls if Loras had let it up.
"So, we are decided then?" Ser Garratt asked, looking to Loras, as the Castellan nodded half-heartedly.
"To some extent. Once the rest of the levies and the army is formed, Lord Belgrave can march on for Crakehall Keep. By then, Garland will have likely returned, or at least we'll know of what he wants." The Hightower-Tyrell said, as Arthur nodded, looking across.

"And any Crakehalls that take the Oceanroad....your scouts will know before they even see what they walk into." Lord Redwyne simply added, a simple addition, Ser Garratt leaning across the table after taking a gentle swig of wine.
"Isn't that a little simple, my Lords? Do what Garland wants after you do all this? Invoke that wrath? He's already fucking angry enough! We could push on, end this." Ser Garratt asked, as Loras scoffed, at the very thought of that itself.
"Garland wouldn't want us not acting, as Lord Tarly says. But he wouldn't want us invading a whole realm without his say so." The retort was quick from Arthur, as the two looked locked. Loras butted in, before it continued on.
"And that would be the case. We don't want to do anything stupid. We'll hold our soil. And set a little of theirs ablaze. A show of force, on Westerland soil. Enough to give revenge after what the fuckers did to King's Landing, to our Lord!"

"Aye, Loras." Paxter agreed, followed by another aye from across the table, to Loras's conclusion, being a little half-baked but enough. Paxter seemed capable of his own abillity, to make laws and to administer, and in all likelyhood, was probably smarter and better at Loras's job than Loras himself. Yet it seemed like he didn't overexert himself, he just kept to his own matters, not wanting to get tangled into this mess. Following Lyanna's example of only speaking when needed seemed to work.
"What say you, Belgrave?"
"I say aye, it only makes sense that I agree to my own idea, I'm glad that we could work this out. Spare me anything else, I'm leaving now." He stood and left the room without another word, Rutland flashing a mocking grin at Redwyne before following with the personal guard.
Redwyne stared back at Rutland, almost cursing under his breath, as he looked to the rest of the council, clearly not amused with what had happened. As they left, Paxter stood up, and looked to Arthur, nodding, almost agreeingly with Lord Redwyne's anger.
"Leave it be. Belgrave isn't going to kill them. He's going to make fuck-off soldiers out of them though. I wouldn't mind if my Janos was like that." Paxter Peake said, as he took a final swig of Arbor, looking out from the council table, and over at Ser Garratt, who also stood up.
"I would assume that this meeting's at an end. " Ser Garatt looked across to Loras, who nodded in reply.
"I need some bloody cider, not Arbor." Loras said quietly, knowing that all of this shit that he had been thrown could seriously do with Garland to deal with now.

[Bluetommy]

Torwin had a northman's face, in his dead eyes, Belgrave could still see the smiling boy who had asked "Where'd you go?" every time Belgrave left to be with his mistresses. Where was he when Torwin fought? Where was he to save his firstborn? His son and heir? Torwin's black hair and bearded face was lit a pale grey by the entering sunlight, the stones that rested over his eyes trying and failing to resemble actual eyes, but barely so, almost coming close to looking like his son's full blue eyes that had stared him down during their training sessions. Torwin was his son, and he died alone. Talia needed a brother, and her children needed an uncle.

"Father? Are you able to receive me?" Falwell's voice, youthfully respectful, near afraid, not the voice he spoke to "the lads" with for sure. Torwin never spoke to him like that, Belgrave and Torwin were equals, and Torwin let him know it. Belgrave hated his own mourning, Torwin would have been sad for a moment and then gone off to drink, he was a better man, a lord, what was Belgrave? A failed archer who liked to shoot innocent animals, oh, if father could see him now. "Come in, Flowers." Belgrave realized his mistake as he said it, he had legitimized Falwell a few years ago, yet he still called him Flowers from time to time, he assumed that now it was because of his emotions, though it very well could have been his age. Whatever the case, Falwell was his last son left, or at least that he knew of, he had seen a girl once or twice around Highgarden that had his brown curls, though it may have been a coincidence.

Falwell pushed the door open a little too fast, grabbing for it futily and cringing as it slammed into the stone. Belgrave sighed and looked at his dead little boy, unable to look away, it was as if there was something wrong, that his son would just sit up and slap him for daring to think he was dead. Torwin liked to hit him, it was his way of showing affection, he yelled alot too, but never to Belgrave directly, only to his wife, though she never gave him any children, so Belgrave thought it justified, if he had been the victim maybe it would have been less so, but he hadn't been, so he cared not. "Sorry... sorry-uh... father." Belgrave could take this no longer, he snapped at his younger son, his emotions already aflame due to the death of his heir. "Get in the bloody room or leave, I don't care which!" He had no intentions to take it back. Falwell cringed, the growl that lied under his hawk-nose and high cheek-boned frown replaced with fear of his father, odd, considering Falwell was widely considered the scariest man at court, Belgrave was dreaded outside his fief, but his vassals never feared him like they did Falwell, who was an exceptional swordsman and a frightening presence. Falwell moved to apologize, odd seeing a man so... utterly man-like begging for forgiveness. Belgrave frowned, looked one more time at Torwin before turning to speak to his new heir. "You need not fear me Falwell, Torwin never did, I'm not a scary man, I swear to the seven above and the other gods below, I am simply a man, your trainer, your guardian." His attempt at reassurance seemed hollow in his own mind, but then he did tend to undersell himself. Falwell relaxed noticeably, still cringing, but upon seeing his father wasn't going to act, he stooped lower, slowly crawl-walking over to his half-brother's resting form. He looked upon him, frowning almost exactly like Belgrave imagined his own frowns to look. "He was your heir, your favorite?" Belgrave knew the correct answer was "no", but he was out to tell the truth, not to be nice. "Aye, he was, the only one to come close was my daughter." Falwell seemed displeased with this answer, his lips pursing for a moment. "Am I not your son? Am I not worthy of your respect?" Belgrave chuckled at this, but the memory of his son's corpse being in the same room led to the chuckle fading quickly. "I am pleased that you are my son, but I am not proud of you, I am not respectful, my pride and respect are earned, I am the best bowman in the Seven Kingdoms, you are a boy." Falwell sputtered. "How can you make such an outrageous claim?" Belgrave had wanted him to say that. He walked up to his son's face, frowning all the way.

"Prove me wrong." Falwell's eyes rolled as his mind raced, but Belgrave knew that there was nothing he could say. Falwell seemed to know it too, and he backed away, his posture straightening and his face becoming more mouse-like. He had lost his confidence. Belgrave would have been disappointed, but Falwell had said the wrong things, Belgrave had no intention of apologizing. My son is dead, and my bastard is afraid of me, where are my wits? Probably left with my brother.

"Father... I only wished to mourn Torwin-"
"Then mourn, and say no more." Falwell stared for a moment, his fury written in his eyes.
"What? You mean to fight your father? I'll kick your arse, boy, you watch me." Falwell's fists closed and he stared for a moment, but eventually he just turned to Torwin and wwas silent.

Belgrave looked into his son's eyes and tears stung at the edge of his eyes.Oh Torwin, where have you gone? You with your headaches and dry wit, you with your flying fists and hot head, why have you left me? You had the wits I lack, an arrow straighter than my own. Why did you have to leave me, Pylos? I'm no leader, I'm just a lad who grew in body but never in mind. 'Quiver the queer, thick as a tree.' Falwell had moved, he had been further away from his father, but now he was right up near him. The lad cleared his throat, his protruding chin and nose fitting neatly around his fist as he moved it to his mouth. "Father, I simply ask the chance to prove myself." A fool, just like his father. Belgrave coughed, sloshed a strong-tasting glob of phlegm around in his cheeks and then spat it. "You are a fool, you have already proven yourself worthy as my heir, prove yourself worthy to stay that way and leave me." Falwell gritted his teeth behind a smooth-faced scowl. His bowl-cut hair rotating about his head as he stepped away. His footsteps stopped before he reached the door, a new, heavier set meandered it's way into the room as Falwell left.

"Cousin." Belgrave felt soothed by the sound of Bryce's old voice. A competent man had finally entered the room. Belgrave looked over at his older cousin. The son of his ancestor's own cousin, Bryce Tarly was over seventy namedays that he had counted, though the maester stated he was over a century old. He wore a set of wooden teeth that clacked as he talked, always complaining of splinters in his tongue. Age had not diminished his large and bulky frame. Bryce was lord of Youthbrook, a small keep that the Tarlys had built to serve as Lord Randyll's tomb, old bastard was too proud to simply rest in the crypt. The name was ironic, as Youthbrook had served as the home for old men who had no more use for years, and no lord had held it for over five years since Lord Willam "The Wise", who had died childless after holding the bloody thing for twenty of his own namedays. It was a surprise when the young bachelor, Bryce, was given the castle, though Belgrave suggested that it was because Bryce's cousins couldn't stand the man that he was, a drunk with a fondness for whores and wine that got stronger with every turn of the moon. Bryce pissed in his brother's feasts as well by finding a valryian steel sword, taking it off of some mercenary from Qohor after singing "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" loud enough to get himself and the mercenary ejected from Highgarden. The thing looked no bloody different from any other sword, how Bryce had managed to tell it was valyrian steel was still a mystery, and he refused to have it reforged, consistently losing and re-finding it. He refused to name it as well, calling it "The sword" over any pretentious name, calling any named swords "Useless weapons in the hands of useless men." Eventually he did lose it, for good, he didn't miss it. Bryce's son Qarl grew continuously more and more perplexed with his father's refusal to die, until he himself decided to die of a failing heart at the age of eighty. Bryce continued drinking despite the maester's warnings of "Horrible liver damage", outliving all his sons, two daughters, three grandsons, and a stillborn great-great grandchild. His branch of the family was so large, it forced the expansion of Youthbrook itself, what, with Bryce's fifteen living grandchildren, and many more great-grandchildren. Quite a few had moved to Belgrave's court, including his squire "Big" Bryce Tarly, a great-grandchild of Lord Bryce's, and Bryce's former squire "Hairy" Bryce Tarly, a great-great grandchild from his first son's line, who was twenty, and yet further down the family tree than the nine year old "Big" Bryce. The ladies at court had begun to refer to the Youthbrook branch as "House TarlyFrey" due to the sheer size, Bryce himself preferred the men call him "Old Lord Tarly" and the ladies call him "Often", a joke that had managed to bring the humorless Lord Pylos to a snicker. Bryce's sheer age was a result of his already hefty constitution, combined with the peace of the realm, added by the assortment of Arbor grapes he ate, along with the apples from Cider Hall, aye, Lord Bryce was often too impatient to wait for the cider to be made and simply ate the apples, leaving his family crying loudly and often, a sound so loud it could be heard in Horn Hill. Bryce had not entered old age unscathed however, his eyesight was failing and he was much slower with a blade, though it still took much effort for Belgrave to defeat him in a spar, he could only imagine the man in his prime. Bryce had served as Castellan of Horn Hill on and off for decades, though he currently rested as the keep's master-at-arms, arriving every seven days to tutor the youths, eat all the food in the castle, and leave, it was a horrible system, though Bryce was so respected that he simply did what he wanted with no argument from anyone. He was possibly the last living man to have lived during the Second Conquest, he was a babe then, but it still counted, and that earned him a modicum of respect by itself, his legendary skill and achievements notwithstanding, though most knew not to take Bryce's stories too seriously when he had been drinking, which was always.

Bryce's personal arms had become that of his family branch, but he still used them for every of his own actions. They were a reversal of the usual Tarly arms, the orange huntsman turned to the left and changed from orange to blue, the bow in his hand replaced with a cup of wine, the arms were feared even more than the normal Tarly ones, mostly because Bryce Tarly trained his men better in combat than the main branch, but not in discipline, so "Blue Hunters" often burned their way through rebel territory when the peasants dared rebel. A selection of these "Blue Hunters" had retired to Horn Hill, where Belgrave quickly recruited them for his personal use as his last resort troops, sent to burn and salt what the army couldn't take. The most brutal of these was the captain of the Tarly household guard, a thug who went by the name Ser Osmund. It was an open secret that "Ser" Osmund was not a proper knight, though the last man who dared mention it had to pick his own gold tooth from his ruined right eye. Osmund was very loyal, bitterly so, and he respected two men and two men only; Belgrave and Bryce Tarly. Osmund had been the one to escort Lord Redwyne's children and Belgrave's daughter back to Horn Hill, and he was soon betrothed to the Lord's eldest daughter, Harra Redwyne, thus entering both the Redwyne and Tarly families, taking the name "Rutland" as his house name, a red dog's head on a white field as his arms, and "Our bite is worse" as his words, the one problem Belgrave saw in the man was his arbitrary nature... and the fact that he was ugly as sin, a huge nose on a thin face, covered in bulbs that looked like pimples but were not, unable to grow a beard and with a balding head that left a veritable field of vine-like hair curling in the middle of his very visible scalp, whatever the case, there were few in the Tarly household more trusted than Osmund Rutland, who was an unskilled but strong and pragmatic fighter, lifting a lot despite his thin frame, and serving as the newly styled "Lord Protector", giving him a hereditary title for his future children without forcing Belgrave to give up land.

Bryce Tarly crossed his thick and veiny arms, the plain pommel of his valyrian steel blade visible over his right shoulder. His pure white hair was long and unruly, a strand sticking in his mouth and being caught against one of his wooden teeth. "You lost a son?" Belgrave nodded. Bryce grabbed the offending tooth, pulled it out, freeing the hair, before placing it back into his mouth. "Say 'aye' when I's speaking to you." Belgrave sputtered before frowning and replying with a cacaphonic "Aye." Bryce smiled, showing his wooden teeth. "Better, good job lad. Now then, you going to go fight the Crakehalls like I said you would?" Belgrave ayed again. "Good, lad, good." He pulled a large flask of something from behind his back, pouring it not so much in his mouth as all over himself. This man is mad, and he loves every moment of it. The flask went out the closest window. I wish I shared the feeling. "Enough of that, let's go drill the troops, maybe talk to Rutland and try to outdrink 'im, he's good, I still got 'em on the drinking front though." Belgrave agreed near-silently, his voice sounding wrong as he spoke. 'Quiver the queer' indeed.

---

"... And that's how I outdrank Lord Garland, he'll tell you I'm lying, but we know how that goes." Bryce's smile was harsh and mad-looking, his eyes opened too much, and his face already looked like the Blackwater at night. The sunlight pushed Belgrave's head up towards the many soldiers gathered and drilling under the command of a middle aged man with red beard and firey mane, a sun-burned red face that made him look constantly pissed beyond all belief. "Grandson! Lord Tarly's joined us, show him what you've done." Bryce Tarly's 8th grandson, Ser Harys Tarly, named after the kingsguard knight, raised a pale arm, and the movement among the men stopped, a quick turn of his body, and the men all followed. He did this all in a few moments? This one's like his father moreso than any of the other oafs I've seen. "Like what I've done with 'em? Grandfather thinks all my discipline training is a bunch of shit, looks pretty clear of shit from where I'm standing." He was standing on a raised platform from which he could overlook the men, he rested his body on the railing, one leg drifting up onto the rung that crossed the middle of the railing. Bryce snorted. "Bullshit, these men won't do shit on a battlefield unless they can fight." Foul mouthed as well? Oh, Bryce, you're full of surprises. Harys Tarly was not known as a fighting man, quite the opposite in fact, he was called a coward, despite his existing skill at arms, he was known to shy away from sparring, though as Belgrave could clearly see, this was not the full truth. Belgrave frowned at the older Tarly man, crossing his arms and nodding at the younger one, attempting to maintain a facade of control over the situation.

"Where's Lord Dox uh?" A higher voice now, Lord Rutland's odd nasal voice that somehow sounded more man than boy even as his voice drifted closer to that of Belgrave's ex-wife. Belgrave smirked at the man. Ah, just who I had hoped for. "Lord Dox is ruling his lands, he may be castellan, but he's still a lord." Bryce growled at this statement, his distaste of his time as castellan was well known. Rutland's large eyes ruined any chance of a frown, but the rest of his face attempted admirably. He spat and played with his shoulder. "Mmm, 'course he is, too bad too uh? Smart one, that one, old too, whatever, we're having our little... *Spit* our little meet up uh? Good deal, you got something to say uh? My lord I mean."
"Aye, i do, the Old Lord Tarly has distracted me, but I was looking for you, Lord Rutland."
"I's not hard to find uh? How come it took ye' all morning? Busy crying over the dead bloody tosspot your son was uh? I mean, with all due respect, he was an arse, know you think well of 'im, but you're wrong to. You want 'tell me something uh? Hurry up with it... my lord I mean." Belgrave would be insulted if anyone else had said this, but he ignored it coming from Rutland, he was lowborn, it was just his way.
"I mourned my son, you would too..." Bryce cut in, exactly what Belgrave didn't want "Speaking of sons, how's Florian?"
"*Spit* Florian uh? He's annoying, bloody babe never shuts up, my lady wife says it's 'cause I keep yelling at 'im, *Spit* my son's a bloody coward then ah?" Belgrave just wanted to end this bloody conversation and get on to the war plans.
"Good for you Osmund, good for you."
"M'lord *Spit* I think you happen to be ignoring me ah?"
"Aye, but only because I want to be able to fucking speak."
"Ah shut your bloody cock tunnel, I'm not done ah?" Loyal, aye, but very, very, belligerent. Belgrave bemoaned to himself, Osmund and Bryce began speaking about the uselessness of children and their transition to useless adults, they seemed to think very highly of themselves, like the only sane Targaryen in a group of lunatics.
"...fucking things don't learn to ride until they're squires ah? *Spit* Can't they start younger?"
"I tried that, they're too bloody fragile, Gorrister never talked right again after I took him riding." These are my most trusted retainers? Oh Quiver, your brilliance is unending. "How'd that happen ah? He fall?"
"No, he avoided that, when I tried to get him jousting he got knocked of and didn't land right, hit his head, his kids are much smarter, though he spent most his time in the gardens trying to collect all the bees for some plan that nobody could understand. He only stopped when his wife came in to do her duty, then it was back to the bees, my third son was a fucking beekeeper."
"*Spit* Aw gods that's horrible! Dumb bastard probably killed most of the flowers ah? Stupid bloody children."
"Aye, Lord Tyrell tried to get the daft fucker out to get some bloody interaction, came in and Gorrister was naked as his name-day, thought Lord Tyrell was his wife come to give him a suck, needless to say, Lord Tyrell avoided the gardens whenever he came to visit, seeing a naked old man kinda ruins your appetite, Garland never had the same problem, probably because I told 'im... told 'im about the naked old beekeeper that would climb into his bed at night and stick his cock in his face!" Osmund laughed louder and louder with each word, and Bryce's words became less and less controlled with every one until they both simply broke down into hysterical laughter.

"Lord Rutland!" There goes the lord's voice, that's always fun on the throat. The laughter began to slow until it was a chuckle, Rutland wiped his eyes, his now wet fingers a testament to the laughter that he had just gone through. "Aye? *Spit* I mean aye m'lord?" Belgrave milked the invisible cow angrily with his fists, unable to get a comfortable position to display his bubbling frustration. "I was asking to call a war council, as one of my top generals, I beseech you to go get the others and rejoin me in the castle, we're riding to Highgarden shortly." Rutland blinked before nodding half-assedly and stumble-walking off to find the other generals, Bryce Tarly not far behind him.

Belgrave screamed internally.

---

Later that night, Belgrave awoke to the sound of rummaging in the halls, just behind his door, which was the hallway, and across from that... Gods no! Belgrave leapt from the bed, throwing his blanket off his bed. He had no wife to awake, so he cared not about the thrown blanket. The children should have been asleep, there was no way they were still awake, if they were he would have to punish them severely for the heart attack they would give him. Smashing through his door, he proceeded to go right through the door across the hall, knocking it out of it's hinges despite the immense pain it caused his shoulder. The door slammed right into a man clad in black, knocking him to the floor. Move Quiver, move! Belgrave's grandchildren awoke with a scream, all three running to the other side of the room, near leaping up the walls. Belgrave grabbed the man from off the floor and looked into his eyes, he was a bear, the man was a weasel, a weasel in nice garb he had to admit, but a weasel none the less. He threw the would-be assassin out the door and into the hall. The man tried to move to his feet, to which Belgrave responded to with a punch to the man's jaw, sending him sprawling. Belgrave was beyond mad, his head a pounding mess of bloody thoughts and sweat, his breaths came quicker and quicker with ever moment. The assassin stumbled to his feet entertainingly. How dangerous is he now, eh Quiver? What a pitiful excuse for a man. Belgrave grappled with the man, eventually securing his bony arms under Belgrave's own. "Who sent you?" He growled with all the rage he could summon.
"You wasn't supposed to wake up!" Oh bugger me, Quiver, He's just as dull as he is skilled. Belgrave rolled his eyes, pulling his elbows closer and closer together, squeezing tightly at the man's weak arms. The assassin cried out piteously, and Belgrave almost felt for him, before continuing to push.
"You wasn't! You was supposed to die quietly." Belgrave smiled deviously
"You honestly expected Belgrave the Bear to just die without fighting back?"
"Lord North said you was weak, said you hadn't been out of your castle in years."

Lord North, now that's a dangerous bugger, smarter than I could ever imagine to be, but stupid enough to believe that the Tarlys would just keel over and die. Break him Quiver, break him for me. His brother had spoken, Belgrave threw his head back, and then forwards into the man's nose. It was like a hole had just been drilled into his head, but it was fixed by the swiftly cooling blood that now resided on his face. The assassin fell back, sliding on his twisted feet and spindly legs, the air smelled less like the usual sawdust of Horn Hill, and more like the soft rotten smell of a used battlefield. The man's eyes were the color of a dandelion field, his mouth caked with cracking dirt and grime. Belgrave strode over and slapped his left mitt over the assassin's slim face. A few inches and he would have been able to touch his pinkie to his thumb. He pulled the disgusting man close. "Tell your Lord North to spit on his bloody assassins, tell him that the Bear has been awakened, and tell him of how hard it is to stop a charging bear." He roared, his spittle beginning to collect in between the cracks of the man's dirty face.
"Tell him that no-one who faces Lord Belgrave Tarly lives unless he wills it, and tell him that no man dares challenge he who has nothing left to lose. Tell him that and perhaps I will spare your pitiful life, lest I chop your manhood off and feed it to my hounds." The cutpurse's eyes had turned a dirtier shade of yellow just as Belgrave yelled, and what Belgrave thought was tears had begun turning red, the man's face twisted into a smile as he convulsed violently against the Lord, he began to smell of rot and metal. Quickly his ears also began to bleed, and he turned a deathly pale. Belgrave noticed one of the man's teeth had suddenly gone missing. Poison? Seven Hells Lord North wishes you dead. Chop his bloody head from his shoulders Quiver, burn his corpse like a bloody wight. Belgrave threw the dying man off of him before he could bleed upon him. The man's eyes turned jet-black, and his blood twisted from red to a disgusting yellow that spread across his face faster than Belgrave could even imagine.

Belgrave drew his valyrian steel, shining with all it's jewels and gold, carved upon the blade with drawings of battle and Tyrell roses, a soft gold color, exaggerated with the many jewels pushed into the guard. Belgrave pushed the pommel over his left shoulder, gripping it tightly, the grip felt soft on his calloused hands. The man's face had begun to peel, purple skin caked in yellowed blood, his black eyes unmoving, he shook like nothing that Belgrave had ever seen in his entire life. With one step and a swing of his sword, The man's head curved through the air, spilling orange-yellow blood over Belgrave's face, it was already deathly cold when it landed. The mow headless body flopped to the ground, the momentum propelling up its feet for a moment before all rested. Belgrave rested a moment, his sword still in the same position as it had been after he had swung it. Belgrave the bear he had been called, he had been referred to as a bear more than Bryce was referred to as old, but for what? Killing old men and some innocent Dornishmen doing their duty. He had never felt truly like a bear, more like a hyena, feeding on other's kills.

You're never truly a bear until you protect your cubs.

[bloonewb]

Upon hearing the man speak of peace, the rebel bowman began moving to talking range, they were heavily camoflagued, and it was if the trees themselves began to move at first, the mud rolling into human form on the wind. The horsemen rode around the large rock they had taken to for shelter, Ser Bartimus at the head. "I'll agree to a armistice, what are your terms?" The soldiers chuckled to themselves and a few began to raise in cheer due to the news of their victory. But a few loud men began to lead the others in a chant that Bartimus tried to ignore, but found himself unable to.

"Bring us Gris! Bring us Gris!" Bartimus knew what they desired, they seeked a lynching, there would be little remaining of the Lord if they got there way, it was imperative that the negotiations were fast, unless the men moved to attack the castle again.

"Euhhh . . ." the messenger mumbled, at a loss for words. "The lord Gris . . . will not be negotiating in person, but we welcome your leaders and diplomats into the castle to continue the peace talks, if that will suffice?" the messenger smiled, hoping they would accept. No doubt knowledge of Gris's 'condition' doesn't stretch much further than the court.

Bartimus rolled his eyes as the man said "Leaders", plural, and at least the men present would have heard that, meaning that Bartimus wouldn't be able to negotiate himself, a horrible spanner in the works, as the other leaders were much less reasonable than Bartimus, hopefully he and the first "Warden of the Storms" as their leader had called himself, would be able to negotiate safely, though the Warden was in hiding somewhere around Estermont, and it would take at least a week for him to reach the castle, time that the army would not be willing to wait. Bartimus decided to make a move, hopefully it would work.

"We have no need of diplomats or entering your cursed castle, you and I will negotiate, if you wish to have any others, you had better bring them quick, else I lead the men after you." This display worked on multiple levels, it meant that Bartimus would be the only negotiator, it was also a display of arrogance and pride in his men. As proof to it's success, the men raised in a small cheer at his words. Hopefully the negotiations would be fast.

The messenger was most certainly agitated now. He was sweating from his palms, and reached into his pocket to take out a hankerchief for his brow. "I cannot speak on behalf of the Lord of the castle, but I can bring someone who can," he sputtered. Then, he turned and trotted back to the castle, not wanting to be in the presence of the captain and his horde any longer.

The general of the garrison, Wallace, rode up to the forest he was directed to by the returning messenger. Along with him came a retinue on horseback. He rode up to a hundred paces from edge of the forest, and stopped.

"Come out where I can see you! I'm not going to talk to anyone that isn't in plain sight!" Wallace called, not one to be ambushed, least of all by traitors.

Bartimus raised an eyebrow at this statement, considering he was easily visible from the forest, but none-the-less, he called the men out of hiding once more to impatient growls and petulant whispers Bartimus walked forewards slightly, frowning and lifting the visor on his helm, revealing his mustached face and large lower lip. "You speak for Lord Gris Baratheon?" He asked with quiet authority, his lower lip rubbing over his mustache and his finger tapping on his bicep.

Wallace considered the rebel captain for a moment. His eyebrows seemed to raise and lower themselves in a silly dance, and his face expressed some odd mixture of inquiry and contempt.

"More or less" he said, stroking his chin. "Not sure if the peasantry or whatever it is you traitors get your information from have heard, but no one really speaks for Lord Gris." His voice dripped with sarcasm, as if he was goading the other man into attacking him.

Bartimus rolled his eyes at the man, it was obvious that the negotiations would be tiring, though he needed them to end fast, and attacking the man would do the opposite of what he wanted. "My terms are to be stated thusly, Lord Gris Baratheon forfeits all claim to the Stormlands, maintaining a small area of influence in Storm's End, while the new government establishes their own base of operations in Weeping Town, all members of the old regime may be pardoned and continue to serve their lord, and Lord Baratheon shall serve as Master-at-Arms, acting as supreme commander of the military forces. All other duties will be ceremonial. Do you accept to these terms?" Bartimus was impressed at his own ability to recite the terms without a letter in front of him, though he forgot to mention the new form of governing, oh well, it wouldn't be important.

"Oooh, look at that. A peasant standing up straight and talking big fancy words at us. Tell me, peasant," Wallace retorted, spitting out the word 'peasant' as if it tasted bad in his mouth. "Do you even understand what you're saying? Are all the long syllables making your head hurt?" A ripple of laughter came from the back of the retinue. Partly because of the way Wallace said it, in a slurred drawl, as if he couldn't be asked to enunciate his speech.

Bartimus had to show his superiority without drawing his men into a rabid attack, his thought process bringing his face to look like Wallace smelled bad. Smirking slightly as he thought of the answer, but hiding it back under a frown, Bartimus relaxed his posture and placed a hand on his blade, he began to breathe a lot more, and his authoritative voice became bored and breathy. "Listen, Ser, I have served in your lord's army for ten bloody years, I haven't the time for your childish games, answer me or not, do you accept my terms?" A few of the men hooted at this, and Bartimus discreetly patted himself on the back.

Wallace wasn't expecting an ultimatum. He was hoping to dodge the question for a few more minutes, then earn some glory in the name of the Stormlands.

"Let's first see a gesture of goodwill," he began, speaking this time in his normal voice. "I sent one of my most able commanders, and greatest friend, along with a cavalry troop to attack earlier today. I have not heard from him since, and I'm almost sure he's been captured. I request that you return him, and I shall submit your proposal to Lord Gris promptly in a sympathetic light. Norman! You in there!?" he called into the shade of the forest.

Shit the cavalry had been surrounded and destroyed while he had been near the wall, he had no time to attempt to stop his troops, they took no prisoners. What the hell would he do? No use lying, once Wallace found out there'd be hell to pay, perhaps if he told the truth... no, that wouldn't work either, and he doubted Wallace would go back with a promise. He would just appeal to his force, hopefully Wallace would be scared enough to back down. "Norman? I don't know who that is, but if he was with the cavalry, he's already dead, we took no prisoners, we will be willing to give up any number of generals as a hostage, perhaps a gift of what little gold we have? Actually..." He raised his arm slightly and the archers notched their bows. "No, you are at my mercy, you will return with an escort of my men, and you will present Gris Baratheon with the terms. You will not challenge me, ser." He nearly spat with the amount of acidity in that one word, but he was displeased, his men were a word away from attacking, this was not how he intended for this to go.

"You . . . slimy rotten . . ." the vessel on Wallace's bald head began to pulse wildly. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it and avenge his friend. Then, a hand from the guard on his right grabbed his shoulder and whispered into his ear.

"Don't do it, ser. They'll fill you with arrows before you get within spitting range,"

"Did you hear them?" Wallace whispered back. "They killed him! These barbarians gotta learn a lesson on morality!"

"You heard his first offer. You do this, and we may negotiate back Lord Buckler."

Wallace tensed, but relaxed, letting go of his sword.

"Alright, you win. I'll take you to see Gris,"

(the second part of the previous collab, also with @bluetommy2)

[FourtyTwo]

Queenstone

The ship made it to the wooden dock, Garland looking out, standing as he could, the ship slowly drifting in as the oarsmen pulled the ship into place, to where the soldiers awaited. The ship creaked loudly, as it clashed with the wood, being pulled against the wooden dock, as Garland looked across to the soldiers that looked to him.
"I am Lord Garland Tyrell, here to see Rhaenyra Targaryen. Where is she?" Garland asked, as one of the soldiers looked across to Garland, looking at this Lord. The Reachman was taller than some, and apart from the cane that his weak body still needed a little, he seemed to have retained the good looks many thought of Lord Tyrell's curly-haired figure. His face was of a healthy complexion, albeit still relatively white as a sheet, and he seemed to have a particular intrigue, the soldiers aware of what they had to say.

"She's in the Keep....M'Lord, she's quite ill. Most of our Crownlanders have been fighting the remains of Pirates on this island, it is still not safe to be here....I would recomend you turn sails back, I have been told we cannot take an audience of any guests." The guard said, his gruff voice coming through, his orders and knowledge clear, as Garland sighed, irritated.
"Seven Hells, what of Baela Targaryen, her sister?"
"We still haven't heard, last I was told, she was headed to the South Stepstones." The soldier said, his helmet still on, as Garland sighed, looking up at the castle, and the surrounding town that went on beyond the harbour. It was in a terrible state, obviously after what had happened following the Targaryen invasion, was not exactly sunshine and rainbows. It was fire, and blood. The town hadn't been torched, but the people looked like they had been, psychologically, the pirates cleared and their wenches and surrounds left. He didn't want to say it aloud, but this was the "Kingdom of the Stepstones" had to arise from. Sighing, he looked back to the guard, his retinue close by, as Garland looked at the guard attentively.

"Anywhere in particular, lad?"
"Red Mast, M'Lord. All I saw was a dragon going south, that's all, and burning any ship they saw with a pirate flag. We can't take you."
"Fine. We'll keep sailing. Thank you." Garland said, as he turned, stopping midway, as he looked back.
"Can you pass a message on, to Rhaenyra?" He asked, as the guard nodded, as Garland looked to him, nodding back.
"Tell her I'll soon be getting her a gift." Lord Tyrell said, as he then turned, looking to the crew, who were generally waiting on Garland's command, already getting set up to go on shore.
"Men, we sail for Red Mast! We won't be setting ashore!"

Within a couple of minutes, and the information that had been taken on, the ship was leaving, and they were sailing away again. It seemed the pirate fleets were a thing of the past, so they wouldn't pose a threat to their sailing, though Garland knew that the world could very easily change it's ways, and that could most certainly pose a threat to them.

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

The Rosewood, Highgarden

The woods were a nice place to be, the pines, conifers and deciduous trees blooming, the latter being still growing and not very large at all. Even 60 years had been enough to make it grow to the standard that some trees in the Reach were, but the conifers, pines and temperate spruces had all surged ahead of their leafier counterparts, filling the forest floor with needles. The noise was of quietly flowing water, of the trickling streams that had been carved, distant . Many people would settle on a grand garden, and Highgarden was one huge garden castle. Jamie The Green settled on a whole forest, born of his hand, to be his testament, his commitment to gardening. And indeed, wherever you went, you would find his intricacy, his artisanship. There were flowers from as far as the North, Qarth and the Southern Isles, and questions didn't need to be asked on how in seven hells that had happened that they could be fused into one forest, in it's different parts. For a moment, you were in a gorse-filled, pine surrounded wood, the next you were in a mixed conifer and oaken landscape with bluebells and daisies and roses as high as your thighs. The wildlife was as sedate, yet as varied as expected, and it's size allowed a small ecosystem of deer, boar and other animals to thrive, with game hunting an expected pastime for Lords and Merchants with the right permits, gamekeepers dotted throughout and paid for directly by the Reach's coffers. It was impressive, by anyone's regard. This was an enormous pleasure garden, to say the least.

Lyanna looked down at Rickard, smiling, as she sat by his side, on the felled log, overlooking a small stream, a set of rosebushes surrounding it, the smell in the air strong of both forest flowers, fruit and the coniferous odour. It was overpowering, utterly so, and was pleasant indeed, like a perfume only in the very nature. Rickard looked stronger today than usual, but he was still on his cane, and Lyanna had brought him here, just to talk a little. The lad looked up at his aunt, always seeing Auntie Lyanna as a little quiet, a little strange, but always wise. He had been tutored a little by her, and he always recognized her ways, that she was indeed, a real spider, someone who always sat above the stupid men of Highgarden, and she knew Rickard better than he even did, he thought to himself. He was headed to the Citadel after all, to Oldtown to study more. Perhaps he would see brother and sister when they came back from wherever they had gone, Rickard worried for their sake. Lyanna clutched a rose in her hand, resting it on the lap of her dress, as she looked to her younger kin.

"You're not stupid, Rickard. You're a clever lad. The Citadel will do good with you." She said, smiling, looking down at him, as Lyanna looked to the stream, sighing.
"This place we are sitting in itself was the one that Jamie The Green made. I remember him....he was a fine man indeed. Obsessed with his gardens, short-haired, and nothing special, apart from his gardens. I don't blame him, he was bored. His wife, Elena Ambrose, basically ran his Kingdom for him!. He planted those trees when he was as young as you, those bushes next to us before he died....they say he smelt of foxglove, roses and conifer even when he wasn't here." She said, shaking her head, Lyanna looking to Rickard, pointing out the trees as she did.
"He didn't. More like sweat and woodchippings. Gregor always looked up to him, though. He could never match him, so he spent all his time just ruling, or drinking. But I did love him dearly." Lyanna added, sighing, as she knew Rickard was quiet, just listening.
"Those are the realities of this world, my sweet child. It is stories you hear that aren't real, that people want to hurt our family, and all of us so badly. Family is what matters. We grow strong because we serve, and we protect our kin." She said to him, as he nodded, looking out.
"My brother's okay, isn't he?" Rickard asked her, breaking from the topic a little
"Somehow, I think he is....or Seven take us. And even I hate to say it...we could use him over bloody Loras. I'd do a far finer job than his Lordship." She said, chuckling, as Rickard felt a little more reassured, as she looked at him closely, sitting next to him.
"Remember this forest, Rickard. It's a lasting trait of our family. You'll do well. They'll let you read however much you like. If it's what you want."
"It is, auntie!"
"Good to hear of it. I think you have a horse to ride then."

[Bluetommy]

"Big" Bryce Tarly

Bryce hated horse-riding.

He'd not even become a man yet and he was still no stranger to the uncomfort that riding brought to one's lower areas. Every step was nearer and nearer to agony, his thighs themselves also felt as if someone had taken a knife to them, the green armor he had been forced to wear didn't help matters, his head felt like it had been dipped into the Narrow Sea. Apparently he looked exceptional however, bright greens flanked with bright gold at every seam in plate. He couldn't tell, mostly due to the fact that in order to keep control of the horse, he had to keep his hands busy, meaning he was unable to lift the visor on his helmet. The helmet's design looked like a Grumkin, a nose that consumed half the face, with a seam the width of an earthworm to see through. It hadn't been his first time in armor, but it had been his first time in a full suit of plate, he was very much envious of Osmund Rutland, who simply wore chain under the overcoat with his house's sigil upon it.

Sew a bunch of bloody strings onto a flag and you're a vicious animal, bunch of cravens unable to make sense of themselves. He complained silently.

Apparently the armor was because he had yet to finish his training, though he had managed to defeat his cousin Harys, even if all the lords had expected the red-haired man to lose. He was constantly hailed as his great-grandfather's only true heir, as he was already a prodigy at swordplay despite his young age.

And yet, he was forced to wear a ridiculous suit of armor.

And he wasn't allowed to ride with his knight.

And he had to ride with SER BLOODY REDWYNE, the ponciest ponce that ever ponced. Redwyne couldn't fight, couldn't ride, could barely walk. He was worthless, worthless, yet, he was still allowed into Belgrave's war tent to plan with Bryce and the lads. Belgrave said he was a "True friend." and that he was a "Brilliant commander.", why he was friends with such a ponce confused Bryce exponentially.

"Bryce?" Oh toss.
"Aye Lord Redwyne?" Bryce turned to the man, who was fat in face but thin in body. Redwyne's orange eyes didn't even shift with the rest of his head as he tilted it quizzically.
"Lord?" He chuckled warmly, a sickeningly warm thing, too good to be a real chuckle.
"Please lad, I'm just a ser, call me Ser Julian. Now..." He coughed, the clacking of metal on metal continuing as soldiers continued to move and march. Julian walked faster and faster to keep up with Bryce on horseback, not knowing that Bryce was lightly hitting against the horse's sides with his heels.
"Do you mind fetching me my wife? I'd like to discuss something with her." Lady Bella he meant then, the future Lady Redwyne, Belgrave's baby girl, probably his favorite child, what with Torwin's murder and with Falwell... not living up to expectations. Bella was born of a Northern woman, and it was obvious she possessed the wolf's blood that the Starks loved to have. From a young age she had sneaked out of the castle to join the men sparring while still in her dresses. Belgrave had been pleased with this, or so Bryce had heard, and took a hand in training Bella himself. This had been what had caused the divide between Belgrave and his wife, as Lady Jeyne Tarly had been tutored in the south, and despite her Northern nature, she had been brought up to be a proper Southron lady, and seeing her child turn out like a Northern girl was not something that pleased her in the slightest.

Indeed, not many had been in favor of Belgrave's route with his daughter, including Gerris, one of the many castle servants and wannabe soldier. Belgrave had stated that if Gerris could defeat her in a duel that the lady would be sent to the septry to finish her education. Gerris later died of head wounds taken during this fight. Even after this showing, Lady Tarly was still set upon by rapists when visiting King's Landing in her youth. She had taken her brother Torwin with her, and together, they dispatched the poor bastards easily.

This was the moment that Belgrave fell in love with his children, truly.

Bryce nodded to Ser Julian and ayed, turning to go to Lady Bella's section of the column.

"Wait!" More now? Bryce bit his lip and turned to Ser Julian, who stood with his legs further across than before, tapping at his armored long-cloak.
"Wait until we stop for the night, she's probably with her father, and once you do go to get her, ensure you knock before you walk in, she... enjoys herself, sometimes, just something I've learned." How fascinatingly disgusting, another wonderful statement from someone I loathe, hopefully when the battle starts, Belgrave will let me join him, I really hate this.

Bryce nodded, and Julian grinned back, before wandering away towards the right flank. Bryce blew out his lips, the sun glinting off of his helm into his eyes through the tiny hole he had to see through.

---

His hand tapped against the heavy breastplate he wore, sending out a loud metallic clang. Finally, a use for this bloody thing. Bryce doubted she had even heard him. Bryce raised an eyebrow, again pounding gauntlet against chestplate, with no response from Lady Bella, Belgrave however, threw open the door to his tent, fuming, his face a wonderful shade of bright red. The fury was palpable, and the cool air seemed to warm just due to his entering the area. He was huge, larger than even Bryce, though he seemed not to notice, his body covered in a reddish brown pelt that extended from the top of his head to the top of his feet.

Oh and he was shirtless, as all main branch Tarlys seemed to like to sleep, unfortunately, one of his worst trials he faced as Belgrave's squire, was sleeping in the same tent as the lord. Belgrave's hands nearly closed, as if he wanted to collect Bryce's head in his hands, which Bryce didn't doubt he could do. Belgrave's snow-colored eyes shone brightly in the dark, like sapphires rolling in his sockets. His apple tremored slightly in his throat, a sure sign that he was truly infuriated. It was okay though, if anyone could match Belgrave's murderous rage, it was Bryce Tarly.

Bryce swallowed. Too bad he was not the Bryce Tarly he was thinking of.

Bryce feigned a startled shake and fell to one knee,his visor falling back over his face after he had just struggled so hard to put it up. Belgrave gave his helmet a hard clout that caused Bryce to nearly fall to the ground. Seven hells, I really should have just slept. Belgrave snorted with fury, his nostrils flaring with each heavy breath.

"I hope you understand I am just yonside that tent you seem so enamored with!" Belgrave roared, a bodkin flailing off his hip with every exaggerated motion. What in Seven Hells did yonside mean? Bryce decided not to wonder too much about that, shaking his head and pushing his visor back up with much effort. Belgrave gave him a harder lout on the nose. Bryce looked as if he were trying to bite his ear.

"Wake up the whole bloody camp why don't you? We're riding to war tomorrow, I'd prefer to have a well rested army than a loud squire."

"Would you have me killed for being loud?"

"I've done worse for less." Belgrave's tone became much more relaxed, he looked haggard and tired more than angry. He planted himself onto the ground with a loud thump that Bryce worried would knock down the whole camp. He pulled out the bodkin and tested it in his hands, running his plump fingers up and down the edge woodenly, like his fingers were of stone and hard to bend. Bryce rested the skin between his thumb and forefinger on his hip.

"Ser Redwyne wanted me to get his wife."

"Must have taken too long, they talked earlier, just a quick chat about 'er armor, good man that Redwyne, legs built for sailing aye, but his head's built better." Bryce ignored the comment about Lord Redwyne, who Belgrave seemed to love to shill.

"They talked? Bloody hell." Bryce sighed. Belgrave laughed what could have been a booming bellow, but he whispered it solemnly, his face turning sad.

"Something the matter?" Bryce sat down and asked with concern.

"Ah... no." He lied admirably, his shift in tone from solemn to pleased served to make the lie work better, but instead it made him look more suspicious, as his comforting smile failed to carry any true happiness.

"You lie like my father when the roast goes missing." Bryce joked to reduce the tension, Belgrave laughed and smiled truly at the joke for a moment, before shaking his head.

"Aye, I do, it's in the blood I presume... To tell you the truth lad..." He coughed.

"I haven't gotten sleep in days. I hate being alone with my thoughts, It's mad I know... it's..." He stumbled over his words and motioned with his hands.

"Nightmares, about my son, my brother, my father, everyone I ever loved and lost, when I wake I'm in a panic, and no amount of yelling can free me from it. I cry to myself that it's not real and that I'm a strong man..." He was on the edge of tears.

"...Truth is I'm not, I'm the weakest bloody man in Westeros, can't even save my own bloody son." He pouted and his lip quivered, a tear mirroring the torchfire towards Bryce.

"The worst part, the worst bloody part, is that I know that he'd been a... a monster who beat his wife and murdered his own unborn child, a cruel madman, but I'll still love him, I'll still dream of him... him crying out to me as he's cut down. 'Father save me!' And I can't! I can't move all but my bloody eyes! They cut his hands off, they cut my son's hands off and hung them from a banner like some bloody conquest that meant something. He was a ser! He was a boy! He was my son! My only trueborn son! They sent him back, handless and eyeless, I saw him, a-and I remember thinking, 'Where is my son?' Because they'd taken so much from him that I couldn't think it to be my son, a doll, a mummer's puppet, hollow and broken. Where do monsters go, Bryce? Where do monsters go?"

"I don't know son." The voice didn't come from Bryce's mouth, but he knew who had said it. Bryce noticed that he hadn't even looked away from his Lord, captivated and crying from the man's speech. It seemed like the entire court of Horn Hill had come to join them, Maester Lucamore hunching over his younger lord and rubbing his shoulder affectionately, Belgrave was always his son, even if they weren't related, Lucamore had delivered all Belgrave's children, tutored him, he was the closest thing to a father the warrior lord had left.. Lord Bryce clapped a large mitt over Belgrave's other shoulder, reassuringly smiling, the same smile that Bryce associated with his great-grandfather, the gift-giving smile, the smile that marked the point at which he had been awake too long. Bryce felt a hand upon his head, slowly tussling through his hair.

"Father," He finally spoke.

"Where do monsters go?" Bryce's fat father solemnly grasped around his son's shoulders, pulling him into his soft warmth.

"Monsters go wherever Torwin Tarly bloody well tells them to, surprised the bastard didn't kill The Stranger himself." Lord Bryce agreed with his grandson emphatically.

"Torwin saved my life." Remembered Ser Gared loudly.

"As he did mine!" Yelled one of the stable-boys.

"Torwin's gold saved my family, I could never repay him."

"Your son was no monster m'lord." Soon the rest were drowned out in a chorus of Torwin's name and a large amount of "M'lords".

It baffled Bryce, how come these people so adored a lord who ruled with an iron fist and brutally slaughtered any resistance? Why him? Why did they love him?

"Father, why do the people love Belgrave so?" Ser Reynald Tarly turned to his son and smiled.

"How many of these men did Lord Belgrave personally train at arms? How many did he bring with him when he hunted? How many did he mourn alongside when his brother passed? Belgrave is no perfect lord, but he is one of the few who actually care about their smallfolk, sure he killed a few during the rebellion, but if a battle were to come to Horn Hill, you can bet on it that he would give anything to prevent it." Reynalf again messed his son's hair before walking up to join with his family. Bryce was left alone to think.

The Tarlys were vicious beasts, Belgrave was called a bear, the closest thing to a true monster that existed south of the wall. Bryce had done many horrible things while at war, but when it came to it, they loved their people. Torwin was a brat and a ruthless cruel man, but he was loved.

Where do monsters go?

Monsters go where they're loved most.

[bloonewb]

"Please . . ." stuttered a man, or perhaps the right word is boy. The room was cold, what with it being in the cellar. And the North. He was not clothed, and couldn't draw some heat from huddling, for his arms were sloppily nailed to a wooden "X".

"Please what now?" asked another man, also not far from boyhood himself. He sat in an old chair, made by obviously incompetent hands, cleaning a mallet.

"Rimm . . ." whispered the first boy. His skin was beginning to peel from the cold winds. Thus taking away part of the fun.

"Yes, I'm Rimm. However, a lowlife like you would do well for themselves to address me as Lord Bolton of the Dreadfort," said Rimm, with false enthusiasm. "However, you have just earned yourself the privilege to call me whatever you wish. By my decree, that's the right of people nailed to that cross. Don't you feel lucky? It's a great honor, just ask the men before you."

"Water . . ." the man croaked.

"What about water?"

"Drink . . ."

"Yes, people drink water. Congratulations! And they told me bandits don't learn anything. Now, I do have to meet with my maester in the evening. Something about my mental state. Well, you know who your successor is now. So, can you please get to the point. Water, drink, what?" The other man slumped on the cross. He would get nowhere with this madman.

"Kill . . . me . . ." he rasped, for the last time.

"Oh, no no no," Rimm responded, jovially. "We haven't had enough time to get to know each other!" During this, he had picked up a blunt, rusty knife and began inspecting it. "I want to hear about everything in your life. Your heinous acts, your vile misdeeds, did you really kill an old man for the loose pennies in his pocket?" He then jammed the blade into the hanging man's lower abdomen. "See? Look at all the fun we're having. How is your heart? Let's find out!" He then began slowly cutting upwards, peeling into his skin, neatly removing it from his flesh and bone. The screams could be heard all throughout the Dreadfort, and perhaps in the lands beyond.

Soon, the grisly deed was done. The hanging man, thoroughly flayed, was limp on the cross. his organs spilled out of the crevasse in his chest and onto the floor in front of him.

"Udrick! Send in the next one!" Rimm shouted.

[FourtyTwo]

Jadefyre Island

The ship had headed away from home, and the fleets felt distant, albeit the cover that Garland and Alerie wished to keep of this particular voyage had worked well. Garland was looking better by the morn of the next day, and whilst many would still say he wasn't fighting fit, he was beginning to look less and less pale, and even to himself, consider a bit of wine to just ease his mind. His curls of hair blew in the breeze, as the sight of the keep that was visible from the waters a little less impressive than that of the keep on Queenstone, where Rhaenyra's sovereign power base had appeared to establish itself, lest the fact that she was ill and the surrounds were still not entirely secure for a man of Garland's statute. The Reach Lord appeared to take in the sights of the isle, and the distant smoke that seemed to pour from the seas, dim, yet eerie in what Garland could only assume was the work of Jadefyre.

Meanwhile, below deck, Alerie continued, and was still sowing away. Through the thin port glass, she could see the isle, yet stopped for only a second, continuing on. She didn't seem particularly interested in this, not right now. Garland had things to sort, and she wanted to let her mind slip for a moment, knowing that perhaps he would get what he needed. She would only intervene where she had to....and she knew it all too well. A man would do anything for the touch of love that was promised, and Garland did require a woman that would offer him a strong tie to the ruling family, that much was agreeable. A woman like Baela would at least quell him, she thought to herself, Baela Targaryen was not a quiet candle, she was a roaring bonfire in the world of love. Alerie could only guess that the politics that would play from this would be rather interesting, given her last conversations with Garland. They knew what to do.

The ship began to sail into the port, the sky covered in a patching of clouds, the wooden galley once again clanking with the wood, Garland hearing the sailors throw ropes over, and the other groups of mercenaries and Crownlander soldiers . She really had taken her people to here, to this promised land that she had given them. Filled with crooks and criminals no more, it was filled with people who had no longer any land, any opportunities. The piracy had come to a stop, but Garland knew that even the great Damon Targaryen did not fully achieve his goal, and he was one very great man indeed. Two sisters may have begun the process, but Garland didn't know them well enough to judge if they would keep their efforts up. And if Baela was to follow him, if Rhaenyra would be able to deal with it alone. Such a worry did fill Garland, and in such, worried him that he would not be able to convince Baela of the importance of their betrothal. But he had thought a little bit more about the Crown, about his duties, and where the Reach played it's role. The Ravens had been sent home, and would soon enough arrive, with his sigil, the singular golden Rose on a golden-green background would make it's way to the court in Highgarden. No sensitive information indeed, not entirely pertaining to where they were, what they were doing, or what was going to be done. This was a detour that wasn't known.

Stepping off the ship, the Crownlanders looked on at the Reach Lord, a white and green robe over his green and gold tunic, the sight of a longsword with it's Rose at his side, as well as his charming expression rounding his appearance out. He seemed to have a whiff of Roses, and ilk of the poppy, a drink he was only recently recovering from. His guard kept close to him, around eight or so men, wearing full plate, at least half wearing helms that obscured their faces, the others wearing chain mail hoods, all of whom appeared to be wielding longswords. It was not a Kingsguard, but for a personal guard, these were men who would hold their own, most certainly.

He did have much to say to Baela, and as he looked through the crowd of men and sailors getting off, waiting for Garland to get his answer first, he found a senior looking soldier, far better eqipped than the other Crownlander soldiers, potentially a Knight of some kind...yet Garland couldn't seem to be able to identify if it was just a Hedge Knight, or an actual titled Ser.

"I wish to find an audience with Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. I was told I would find her here, on Red Mast Island." Lord Garland Tyrell said to the guardsman, the soldier looking stern, a little unsuprised, aware of who this was he was looking at, a name that had not been exactly incognito in the past few weeks to any of these men.

The grizzled Sergeant stood up from the barrel he'd been sitting on. His half-breastplate had a crack in it, and some dried blood upon it. He beckoned the other gaurds with him to help tie Lord Garland's ship safely to the docks. The ship was definitely not one of theirs, or rather, belonged to the rag tag Targaryen fleet. It was too nice, too well kept. He would personaly help lash the gang plank to the docks, as the crew aboard the ship began to deplane. He smiled at them, showing what was probably either a lord or a dignitary the respect that was due to them. He nodded his head, listening to the man speak, who he would now come to know as Lord by the way he spoke and carried himself. The sergeant bowed his head quickly, before speaking to the lord.

"Aye your lordship, she is at the main hall of the keep. Enjoying her victory. Damn hard fought battle it was. Can you believe it, she defeated the pirate lord here in single combat... single combat I tell you." He smiled widely, clearly proud of his Targaryen Princess. "Come, follow me, I'll take you there meself. Careful though, road is in poor condition... you know how these damned pirate rabble can be, spending all their money on women and booze. Silly fools." The Sergeant set off, making his way past the throng of men and women on the docks, pushing past them along with two other guards.

"Make way you sodding fools... official business, get out of the damned way you louts." He sighed, pushing past a rabble of prisoners that were being loaded onto a barge. He made sure that they were parted before allowing the Lord to pass through. Wouldn't do much good to have this dignitary being accosted. "This way your lordship... prisoners of war. May make good soldiers, or if they are stubborn enough, well, the mines can always use more bodies... eh?" The Sergeant laughed happily. He was a talkative and happy man, no doubt due to the recent victory.

Garland shook his head, chuckling not heartily, but almost a little shocked, looking around at the bodies, the prisoners, the anarchy that was unfolding. Even Queenstone from afar had better paths than this, the cobbles falling apart from the tracks, the hovels and housing looking wretched, and the prisoners and other pirate folk that looked equally as bad. Garland was a pretty face normally, but here, it was like a lion amongst sloths. He didn't even know what to make of it, knowing that it was almost an irony that it had come to this. Rhaenyra and Baela had uprooted a whole people's way of living off of others, by systematically destroying it. It was the only way the Targaryens could do it, he reminded himself. This was the price that was paid. Baela seemed to be rather impressive, as it turned out...how much was a rumor, would be found out shortly.

"Maybe. But until there is more that unites the people than divides them, they won't serve. Not when all they know is rum, Arbor, whores and loot. To be honest....I don't blame them, I like all those things too. Don't tell your Lady about the third one. I'm trying to give that one up." Garland said, quipping a little, looking at the soldier.
"Alas, the world has order for a reason, doesn't it? We serve, we bring order, and that is who we are." He added quietly, knowing the soldier wouldn't make much of it, but wanting to just say it none the less.

The Sergeant nodded, continuing onward. The lord was a nice one to be sure, not the usual stern stodgy type. He made his path along the old worn out road, making sure to carefully point out and step around certain hazards. He even laughed a bit at the lords quips. He was sharp as he was well off. It was refreshing to talk to someone who wasn't all business all the damned time. But alas, with all things, the trip soon came to an end.

There the small party stood, before the relatively unscathed, if not unkempt and in disrepair keep. The Sergeant smiled, bowing before the Lord. "Well, here we are your lordship. It was a nice distraction to escort you here. The higher ups will see to you, and make sure that you get to meet the Princess." He turned, hollering up to the gate guards.

"Hey, you lazy whoresons... we got a delegate here to see the princess. Get off your damned asses and open the gates. Wouldn't be proper to keep the lord waiting, now lets get moving." The Sergeant smiled once more, and then said his goodbyes. "You have fun, the Princess, she is like fire in a human form. Your lordship." With that the Sergeant bowed again, and turned to head back to the docks and his post.

"Well, I tend to find that when you're in this part of the world, you don't have to try so hard to be political. Thank you, soldier." Garland said, knowing full well that he had been a little less high and mighty ever since he had arrived here, yet the fact he had practically charged through the town and up to the keep did still sit in his head.

The gate guards hurried down, yelling back at the sergeant. Clearly they new eachother, and traded a few more insults to one another. With a few grunting noises, straining of some chains, the gates swung open, revealing a much more ordered world. The keep was old, worn out, but was definitely far nice than the dockside town below.

"Hello your lordship... how can we help you?" The guard asked politely.

"I'm told that Princess Baela Targaryen is here, if it is to be believed. I am Lord Garland Tyrell, Lord Paramount of the Reach....and I believe I have a gift to bring to the Princess." Garland said, smirking at the end of his sentence, knowing it was not in a malicious intent whatsoever, but that after much thought, he knew a nice little gift to bring her. The keep was indeed a little nicer than the town, but it was made of but the most basic stone, and was not sizable indeed. Enough for a dragon, just...Garland pondered in his head that it had to be kept somewhere.

The guard nodded, listening carefully to make sure he had it all. High above, a dragon preened in the sun, stretching its wings before fall back to sleep. It had cast a shadow across the courtyard, before letting sunlight beam back down. "Sorry about that, Jadefyre is enjoying her time relaxing. War tires us all out it'd seem." He beckoned Lord Garland into the courtyard, beyond the gates so they could be closed once more.

"So, Lord Garland Tyrell... was it? No, that's right, Lord Tyrell, right this way, the Princess is in the main hall, enjoying her victory. Can you believe it, cut down the pirate lord all by herself. Damned fine woman, a natural born leader. Well, it won't do much to doddle here. I wonder what she has in store for us, hopefully some shore leave and a break." He chuckled, and led Lord Tyrell's party from the courtyard into the keep.

"I expected nothing less of the Princess. Remarkable." Garland quipped, a smirk on his face, the sight of the dragon, the Targaryen sigils in the courtyard all but suggesting what this was indeed. The men perhaps did not entirely understand the strategy, but they knew the tactics, and they knew what had happened here, and who they were being led by.

Like the rest of the island, it was old, weatherworn, but surprisingly cozy. The halls were well stocked with stolen plunder and other things that decades worth of piracy had collected. There was even an old suit of armor that stood before a faded Tyrell banner, along with two other similar effigies, a Lannister Banner, and a Baratheon banner. Perhaps they'd belonged to long dead lords who had been cut down by the pirates who once called this place home. The guard led the party to a set of double doors, guarded by much better equiped men. Royal guards no less, faithfully guarding their Dragon Princess.

The guard saluted the royal guards, and moving out of the way. "Lord Garland of House Tyrell, here to see the princess. I leave him with you lieutenant." The guard bowed, and then made his way back to his post. The royal guards looked at Lord Garland and his party, curious to the nature of their visit. "Well then, your lordship, how can we help you?"

Garland felt a little sick, it was getting bloody difficult to talk to Baela, at this rate that it was going. But needs did must,and it added legitimacy, in these particularly troubled times on these isles. The guards were dressed well, the Royal guards a step above the Sergeant, leaps and bounds further, the Targaryen royal guards as splendid as any Knight of the Reach could look. The banners, the suit of armour were a strange a sight as any, but a stark reminder that the spoils of wars sometimes ended up here, as a crude mantlepiece item for some pirates to have, in their keep to stare at. And now, it reminded who ruled this Keep of it's previous inhabitants, who stole all they had.

"I have a gift for Princess Baela. That, and I wish to speak with her." His own guards began to fan a little from formation, Garland still holding his cane and gently leaning against it, the wound not visible yet the weakness that just lingered still visible, even if the sword in it's hilt said otherwise. Garland appeared to have a pouch around his side, elegantly out of the way from a first glance over the Lord Paramount. He knew this was a shock to some of these men, and indeed, it was. It wasn't announced, nor was it particularly expected. That was something that was relied upon, in these times, nothing could be called to be that exactly. And whilst some would expect Garland to search for Baela, he knew that beyond Alerie and barely a couple of others that knew of his desire, there was little to truly make of it.
"I'd rather disclose it with the Princess privately."

The two royal guards nodded, talking to eachother, before one of them turned to slip into the main hall/throne room of sorts. "It'll be but a moment your lordship. Princess Baela will no doubt see you soon enough. She is convening with her officers right now." He shifted his footing, moving the helmet he wore a bit. Lord Garland Tyrell was standing before him, his luck, right? This powerful lord from the main lands had come all the way here to speak with his Princess, bringing her a gift no less as well. Whatever it was, it was no doubt important for him to come all the way out here.

A short time would pass before the other guard reamerged. He spoke softly to his counterpart, laughing softly at perhaps a joke, before the two bowed before Lord Garland and his retinue, and turning to open the doors that lead into this main hall/throne room of sorts, revealing a very well maintained and appointed living space. All sorts of trophies and other items decorated the room, the center piece being the royal red sail of a stag and lion on their hind legs. Perhaps it was the very sails of a long lost Lannister Royal Capital ship, from many years ago. Sitting at the head of the table, was the Dragon Princess herself, Baela Targaryen.

Her long white hair was braided into a intricate ponytail, held back with a deep purple braid. Her left arm was bandaged, the white linen stained from both poultric and blood. The chest piece from her armor sat at the foot of the table, a stab wound evident on it, and dried blood splattered across it. Her rich purple shirt was stained at her right shoulder, linen bandages showing throw the torn silk. She was sipping on a cup of wine with three of her lords, listening to them as the talked about the new state of affairs for not only this island, but the other sorrounding ones as well.

The royal guards cleared their throats, and spoke out with a commanding voice. "I present you Lord Garland of House Tyrell, Lord Paramount of the Reach, here to treat with you, Princess Baela. He says he bears a gift for you." The guards bowed, and closed the doors, standing guard once more outside. Inside were six other guards, each as well equipped as their counterparts. They all looked at Lord Garland, his party, and then back to Princess Baela. She smiled, setting her glass down, and looked at Lord Garland.

Her voice was like firey honey, sweet and warm, as she called out to Lord Garland. "Well, don't stand there gawking my sweet rose. Surely you have something to say for yourself."

"I do." Garland said, as he let up his stance on his cane a little, the guards looking on at the Lord Tyrell, as he took in Baela once again. Her honeyed voice, the bloodied breastplate, the state of affairs clear here. She did not even try to hide what had happened, and Garland did know indeed, he had a gift. He seemed to speak softly, and while his language was never perfectly to that of a Lord's, it was as charming as he looked. And while he was not in his usual shape, he seemed far better than bedridden.
"It is remarkable, how quickly you seized these islands. Two dragons, and barely one and a half thousand men, and you ended centuries of piracy, perhaps even beyond the legacy of Daemon Targaryen." He said, smiling at her, Baela clearly looking like she truly did sit in this seat of power comfortably, and not without question.

"The armies of House Tarly, Tyrell and Oakheart couldn't even do that, the navies of House Redwyne or Hightower either to help enforce it. We can at least hold the throne, yet never this. I promised you a rose I remember, my dear Princess. A gift. Yet more than that." Garland said, as he smiled, walking forwards up to where she sat, kneeling before her, drawing the rose from the pouch, the white rose tinged with gold on it's petals. It was difficult to tell what hell it was, it did not look like a variety you would find anywhere in a commoner's field, lest in a Lord's plantation. It looked remarkable, even if it was just a mere flower, the golden lining to the petals a real detail, and whilst it was not real gold, it was clear to see that this was not an ornament. This was truly a grown plant, and in whatever variety it existed, it had to be expensive.
"I didn't just come here to give you a flower. Look inside." He added to her, passing the rose to her hand, the petals containing some sort of note, around the size of which a Raven would carry.

"Your people are thankful for what you did, your sister, I didn't see but I know she has her power consolidated, like you have. But you won't rule these islands for long without a presence that protects you from the interests of Myr, Lys, or Tyrosh. They would offer to turn these isles back to the way they were for their interests, as their own little colony for their merchant traders, or worse still, to enslave the Westerosi that ran from the continent. That cannot happen. So I'm offering you that security. 10,000 men, half the Yunkish mercenaries, are about to sail to Storm's End. To put aside the Stormlander revolt. The other half, if you choose to reply to this, sail to Queenstone, and to Red Mast. Or as I am told...Jadefyre Island. A beautiful name, if I must say. It honours your steed well." Garland said to her, his voice sometimes a little simpler than most Lords would have it, but indeed, as it had to be. Of course, he did want something in exchange, but it was an honorable action, given the fact that he knew what he was saying was very possible, and indeed, could occur immediately given the circumstances.

"That, and the fact there is much to talk on regarding King Aerys, Third of his Name. Things that concern us both." Garland added, nodding to her, looking into her purple-coloured eyes, matching to her purple-coloured band around her pony-tailed hair, as suitable as it was in the winds above on a dragon's back, as they were to her pretty nature right here, in her silk garnments.

She smiled, looking at Lord Garland with her deeply purple eyes. He had recoved quite well, not as haggard looking as he was when bedridden. She leaned back in her chair, listening to all that he had to say, his tone, inflection, and so on. He had a melodic and beautiful voice, backed with true power and leadership. She'd cross her legs, softly massaging her right shoulder for a moment while Lord Garland spoke. His first gift was beautiful beyond measure, a gilded rose of sorts, though just as real as her and Lord Garland. She took it ever so gingerly, almost afraid that she might break it. Funny, she faced vile warriors and pirate lords, but it was a rose, and the prospect of dropping or breaking it that scared her most.

She looked up, eyes full of life, fire, and more, staring at Lord Garland as he spoke. He also had far more than this rose, and the underlying meaning within it. She set those thoughts aside, they were set aside for a time being. The next part of Lord Garland's gift began to reveal itself, showing the true extent of perhaps how far Lord Garland was willing to go for Baela. She smiled softly, looking back down at her rose as she listened to him.

He had spoke of their conquest, of the islands, and what that conquest also meant for the state of affairs for the greater world. She moved in her seat, settling to a more comfortable position. It was true, as Garland had said. With the deposing of all the various pirate factions for the most part, the powers that be across the narrow sea would no doubt set their greedy little eyes upon the islands. Nothing would ever be so easy, would it. Time could only tell how long it'd be before their first scouting ships would probably come forward to begin spying and relaying information back to their masters. It was now the true scope of things came to view for Baela.

Garland offered 10,000 soldiers, Yunkish mercenaries, or rather, slave soldiers, to help prop up the fledgling kingdom of the Stepstones that the two Targaryen sisters had recently forged. She pondered this deeply, the thought of invasion ever present, along with other things that floated about in her head. These slaves, the trained soldiers of Slaver's Bay would no doubt serve as a greatly needed boon, one that could bolster greatly the power of for all intents and purposes, the Targaryen Separtists. She rested her right hand across her lap, holding the rose. But all the same, these levy's would be slaves, and not truly beholden to anyone but their true master.

The last bit of Garland's words peaked her interest the second most, behind his rose of course. He spoke of "King" Aerys the III, that little sodding brat monster, who now held the throne in King's Landing. She still could not figure out how the son of a disenherited prince could ascend, let alone one from a monster like his father. The momentary thoughts of hate were quickly pushed aside, her focus shifting back to the rose she held. 'I will not think of such trivial matters for right now.' She thought, focusing back to Garland again. He was so kind and nice, suave to say it nicely. A real lady killer. She smiled, and spoke out in a commanding tone.

"Leave us. All of you. I wish to speak to Lord Garland alone. Go and enjoy some of the food and wine stores in the adjoining dining room. It is the least I can do for our honored guests, and my loyal guards. Lord Buckwell, Lord Hardy, Lord Cave, see to it that they are well entertained." She looked back at Lord Garland, and smiled deeply at him. Without arguement, her lords and guards all bowed, and made their way to the adjoining dining room. Two of the guards waited for Garland's men to follow, while Baela looked at Garland the way a dragon would perhaps look at either prey, or something it deeply valued.

Garland noted his agreement to Baela's words, nodding to the guards to leave the room, as they walked out, following behind the Targaryen guards. The large room was emptied out of everyone apart from Lord Garland Tyrell and Princess Baela Targaryen, as Garland looked back at Baela's eyes. Taking a seat at the side of the table, he sat down, his body creaking a little, as he put the cane against the table edge, the eyes that he stared into knowing their message.
"I've considered my position...and this is something that only you, and Rhaenyra can know of now, on what we are to do. Events occured in King's Landing after you left that nobody could have expected. The King took a blow to the head, and lays unconcious in the Red Keep. Wheather he will wake from his sleep, or not, is any Maester's best guess." He said to her, knowing it was cutting to the point, clear and thin, and while his charisma held well when he was indeed, trying to be charming, right now it had a very different purpose indeed.

"I left a relatively minor Reachman as the Hand of the King in my stead, to quell the capital, and nothing more. The Crakehalls are beaten back entirely, to Harrenhal and to their homes, and it is only a matter of time before they try something desperate, like attacking the Reach or buying back their army with more gold." Garland added, as he brushed hair aside from his side, past his beard, as he looked back into Baela's eyes, his hand on the table, resting down flat against it's semi-smoothed surface.

"You asked me for guidance. Now, I'm asking you, with what I have told you. The King lays asleep with no current sign of wanting to wake up, yet his people know he is still alive, and it keeps the realm from entirely disintergrating. Willas Tyrell is the only Kingsguard member left, and a raven away. We have served as the most loyal House to the Targaryen family in it's history, in it's civil wars, we have opted to stay neutral, madness or none, for the sake of our own realm and it's food. We are stewards....not the destroyers of realms, like the fooking Lannisters or Crakehalls, or the bloody Martells." He gulped, as he shook his head.

"My sweet fire....I suppose this is a matter we don't like to think about at all. I understand you left the Realm to at least provide safety for your people. But I remember what you said about Aerys. A boy cannot rule what a fine Princess such as Rhaenyra has already carved out herself. Not when none of the Houses will listen to Aerys, and one already openly defies anyone, anyway. What would it be, that you want?" Garland sounded sweet in a strangely identifiable manner, yet analytical, and from the face of it, he appeared to really show that he was throwing the option to her, the information as loyal as it would be, and that this was not a change of heart that came without some worries.

Perhaps he'd know a little better what Baela would want, not because he wanted his tongue around hers, but because he knew that ultimately, from what he remembered, from what he heard, saw, and felt right now, with a world on fire like this, it had to have a moment of change, not continuity. And the more Aerys sat in his mind, as a boy with a power he could not control in the form of the enormous dragon he had, a mind he could not retain plausibly suitable for rulership or greatness, nor his frail body, at the Stranger's door, Garland could guess that the picture was becoming more and more complete. From a man who appeared to look like he wouldn't have dared known, it seemed remarkbly clear in places, yet a decision to make that was ultimately not his.

Baela watched Garland closely, listening to his each and every word, watching his movements as he spoke and sat there. His poor body was still recovering, the wounds no longer as bad as they had once been, but he still needed to use a cane to move about with any true mobility. The next few moments were filled with terse information being passed along. Lord Garland spoke in a way few ever could. Baela smiled at him, letting him finish all he had to say before she'd respond. The end result of all he said painted a very dire situation back in Westeros. "King" Aerys III was in a coma, from wounds sustained during the battle of King's Landing. A major region of the seven kingdoms was in open rebellion, along with who knew how many others that plotted to rebel, seeing the weakness of their central government. Furthermore, Garland spoke of his own loyalty, of his house's loyalty to the throne, no matter what situations had arisen in the past.

Yet, this was far different than perhaps anything before, at least for many, many decades. Baela knew first and foremost, that no gift given such as this was free. Garland was playing for something, or that he wished for something that only Baela could grant in return. She would take a moment for herself though, before any and all other matters. Perhaps it was foolish curiosity, or perhaps it was something else, but either way, she'd have a little taste of certain things she'd gone without for some time. Baela would smile softly, leaning in close to Garland, and pressed her lips against his, letting them rest there for a long, lingering kiss, before pulling away. Amused with herself, she smiled, and stood up, walking across the room to a large map that hung on the opposite wall.

"So, before anything else is said, you taste of sweet roses, my pale rose." She winked at him, and then leaned over, looking closely at the map. "Tell me, Lord Tyrell, and speak honestly, how many houses have risen up in rebellion? How many have chosen to follow their own interests, based off of your choice to support Aerys, rather than my sister? How many do you think have died, have lost everything, because you and other men believed that only another male could rule Westeros? The offspring of a mad man, a disinherited prince, whose own legitamacy was completely and wholely revoked? Tell me, what say you now about your own actions?"

She'd point to the Iron Islands now, "Rhaenyra told me that the Iron Islanders were in full rebellion. The Crakehalls in full rebellion, the Stormlands, and the list goes on. And now, you come here, to my home, to my island, my sisters's hard earned kingdom, and ask me what I want?" She smiles, laughing softly, as she saunted back over to Garland. Upon her hip hung one of the ancestral Targaryen blades. Even in its scabbard, the blade was as beautiful as its master. She patted it, before settling herself down upon Garland's lap, her face mere inches from his. Her breath smelled of cinnamon and honey, sweet and aluring. Baela ran her left hand through Garland's beautiful hair, smiling at him with her caring smile, and with eyes that burned deeply with fire at him. "Tell me my lovely rose, what do you want? What is it that you hope to get out of helping my sister and me, when you rebuffed us before?" She moved her hips back and forth, before awaiting Garland's response.

Garland shook his head, smirking however, knowing how close she was, knowing full well it was a worrying statement indeed. Yet she was right. He had wanted Aerys to rule, and yet, the more and more it seemed to appear to him that it wasn't right, he didn't know. And perhaps her asking the question now, it felt visceral. The blade shone bright, reflecting the candle light upwards, as Garland wrapped his arm around Baela, smiling, inhaling her breath, almost afraid that what he was going to say next was going to be something he was going to hate with his head, but only accept in his heart. He had planned for this, and could guess that he was going to have to explain himself, if she was going to understand why he thought it now.

"I want you and me....and someone who knows what they're doing. Not an unconcious boy. That is what I worry about.....I'm a fool to beleive that it is what is best for us now. It bought us time. Time to escape, to think. I only asked for that, and when the time come, we do this right." He said, his face close against hers, his beard gently rubbing against her cheek, letting her lie her head against his neck and shoulder, as she looked into her eyes. He let his hair brush against hers, and while he knew she was using him, in some ways, Garland felt a little obliged by it all. Perhaps she was letting go, letting herself into this, and what they'd do.

"It was time...to do right. To win the war, but to have the Queen we deserve now we have this mess of Aerys, and the Princess, the husband she deserves to have.....you, or Rhaenyra, don't deserve Aerys. Not after....not after what I've seen what he looks like now, or what will be left. The Crakehalls are at war with us, the Baratheons face revolt, and the Iron Islanders will want bloody revenge, they will reave and reave until they are happy. The others are indifferent to the Iron Throne because they are scared of losing....to the Crakehalls no less. Everyone is scared. I'd say you're pretty good at being fearless...given these times." Garland rubbed his hand up to her shoulders, gently caressing her close, knowing she felt so soft, so warm in his touch, far more so than any woman he'd ever met.

"I'd want you and your sister to be safe, for my people to be safe...the wars to end...and honestly, because I think House Tyrell ought to be by your family's side, be it you by mine or mine by Rhaenyra's as Hand....and if Aerys is no longer fit, then Lady Protector, or Queen it must be. I erred caution....and you have an opportunity because we did. That boy I gambled on...even if he returned, he'd never be a good King. It took me a lot to realize that, but our sacrafices were not in vain, I promise you. Those houses, those men that did what they did....we did it for our realm, King or not. Take my word for it this time around...maybe I should have taken yours. But we have time." He said, gently, as he kissed her on the shoulder, Baela's hips moving against his, as he gave a light giggle, knowing she liked it as much as he did, in some particular way.
"Hmmm....you are wonderful, Baela. "

"So much wonder, yet perhaps not nearly as wonderful as you, Lord of Pale Roses." She smiled, pressing her lips softly against his, before extracting herself from his warm embrace, from his lap and chair. She'd slyly smile at him, looking down at his lap, before stalking over to her own chair. Baela slowly eased herself down, taking her glass of spiced wine into her hands, and taking a long draught of it. She stared at Garland as she drank, looking deeply into his eyes. This man was absolutely intoxicating, but the simple fact remained, he came here because he hedged his bets in the wrong pot. Aerys had fallen through, the truth of his blood and nature finally coming apparent to Garland, when Baela herself had told him long ago. But, such things could not be helped, that was the past, and they were dealing with the repercussions of his and others actions.

Baela set her glass down, crossing her legs while she pondered what to do not only with her own percarious situation, but with Lord Garland as well. She began to play with her hair, unbraiding it to let it fall freely about her shoulders. Leaning back in her chair, she stared at the ceiling as she closed her eyes and thought. Garland was a relatively simple man. He wanted a powerful woman to help carry on his legacy, what man didn't? He'd want to have children, for those children to carry the Tyrell name. Nothing that she could object to, but, it was other things beyond the simplistic things that caused caution with Baela.

Her eyes would open after a few moments had passed, raising her head to look at Garland. "Tell me, Lord Hand, the other houses, Stark, Arryn, Tully, Martell... what has caused them to not answer their King's summons, other than they know he is no king." She pulled her hair back into a long elegant ponytail, sitting up straight. "These great houses, put into power by my great family, what would it take to get them to swear fealty to my sister? For these malingering sidelinners to actaully join the fight, and declare for Rhaenyra as Queen. Not regent, protector... no, as Queen, completely and wholey undisputed. Its more than a matter of money, I can put that much together. So, what is it they are waiting for?" She smiled slyly once more, before rising up, lithe like a dragon, and untying the top few strands of her shirt.

"I know what you want, what you desire. I would accept such a union without contestment, but it is not for me to so freely offer myself up. You will have to speak to Rhaenyra, Queen of the Stepstones, and ask her permission to marry me, infront of her." She moved over to Garland once more, standing behind him now as she massaged his shoulders, gently laying kisses atop his head. "Baela Tyrell, the Dragon Rose. We would forever unite our two houses... but you must play your role in all this. My pale rose, my Lord Garland, you are an honorable man, who perhaps did what he thought was best, but it is now for you to convince my sister, the Queen, why she should not banish you from her realm, never to return." She pulled away, letting one last kiss to peck Garland's right cheek, before she walked back over to her chair.

"She trusted that you'd do the right thing, to install a ruler who would set things right, one that was not of blackend vile blood. Instead, you and your compatriots foolishly sought to install Aerys the III to the throne. Instead, you let Aerys bring his mercenaries and thugs into the Red Keep. Instead of protecting people, you and your allies directly, or indirectly caused their deaths. How many people died in the siege? How many have starved to death? How many have been executed for treason, sedition, and the longer lists of reasons to kill." Baela revealed a dagger from her boot, just as beautiful as her, a small dragon its hilt.

"Perhaps I should kill you, and forever wash our hands of the mainland. We could just as easily make peace with the powers in Essos. Perhaps work as sellswords for them. They'd pay handsomely for not one, but two dragon warriors. How many people have sought to ride the dragons, to seek scraps from my family? You Westerosi so quickly play against one another, using my family, our friends, your families, to further rise up the ladder of greatness. So tell me love, what would you have me do? What can you say to me that will make me choose you and the path you wish to walk, and not another one?" She set the dagger down on the table, playing with it, before picking up the rose he had first offered her once again.

Baela inhaled deeply from the rose, wanting more than anything to forget about the world and its problems. It smelled so lovely, so very sweet and pure. It was beautiful beyond comparison. She held it in her hands, and then cupped against her left breast, looking up at Garland, and waiting for him to respond. "Go on, speak my pale rose... let me hear your melodic voice once more."

Garland didn't know what to entirely say. It was indifference, he thought to himself, shaking his head. It was true, and in all the wars of the Kingdoms past, they always took a side. Perhaps it was so confusing, so nihlistic, that they wanted no more part? They wanted to revert to a days gone past that the Kingdoms of the Seven Kingdoms were independent, and loosely associate, perhaps. They stopped caring, their families paying no mind to the Targaryen Kings and Queens that no less, had dragons at their disposal. Garland did not know.

But all he did know, was that venom in her voice was changing, fluctuating. She seemed positive at first, and before Garland was fully aware of what she was doing, the dagger was tight in her hands, then on the table, clearly there. Garland wouldn't be fast enough. He'd be certainly dead. Not the first time in a long time. He knew what to say, however, and his voice held, held well enough.

"Because you're not the first Targaryen that would have put a knife to my throat.....and if you want that future, I can't stop you. I've almost died too many times of late.....so it would be easy to do it, certainly. You're a fighter. You would be a woman without comparison. They'd compare you to Rhaenyra Targaryen, the wife of Aegon the Conqueror in terms of martial skill if you become a sellsword. You could create and destroy the cities at will. You would be ommnipotent to do someone else's bidding, and remembered greatly for it. King's Landing would pale in comparison." Garland said, his voice picking up, as he looked back at her, sighing.

"If you leave, all these dead men, women ,children, from the sieges, from the war, from famine....it will only become worse. And that isn't even it." Garland added, shaking his head, looking at the dagger, then at the rose once more, exhaling.

"Before the Targaryen Invasion, the King of the Reach was Mern Gardener, Ninth of his Name. The Reach was it's own Kingdom, a microcosm of it's own affairs and matters. We ruled ourselves, like all the Kingdoms did. A story we all know, you know this one, but it's worth thinking about. The squabbles and problems, the issues and worries between House and House, unbroken since the fucking Andals arrived, with wars, conflicts over the Rose Throne in Highgarden. That wheel stopped, and you gave us what we have. From mere stewards of the Reach to stewards of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Through generation, after generation, you brought fire, and burned anyone that disagreed with you, for your right to rule, and we accepted it because it was for the common good of everyone. And once fire begins to burn, it takes a lot to put it out. If no Targaryen, Aerys, Rhaenyra or yourself lays claim, it returns to that state. If you think that's better...then I accept your choice. I don't want to be King of the Reach, Baela. I just want to have love that matters, Arbor, tourneys, and a Kingdom that doesn't disintergrate, internally or out. I'm not the fool who will fight dragons again. Not unless they're with me." He sighed, breathing out, looking at the rose, a lot on his mind. He didn't know what to entirely make from this, but he had to put that point across, at the least.

"If you are asking me for councel, and what you should do...what you should do then, is consult Rhaenyra. She was ill, a couple of days ago, when we visited, but I would no doubt imagine she is feeling a little less poorly now. Put her in front of me, and if you're going to kill me on her word, I'd rather you did the honours, or we wed when we can. The Dragon's Rose. There isn't any middle ground, not when I know we both feel like this....because it'll hurt us both. I'd prefer to die in your arms if I'm not going to die impaled on some bloody battlefield. We agree to put the Princess back on the Iron Throne, and Willas will do the honours in King's Landing...which will be the only way it can happen if you want to be Queen. The other houses will bend the knee once the Crakehalls fall. If not....you know the answer, and my councel goes so far."

"I can give you that, but you have to know, it's never the best option, but our only one. Even if you feel like that....there is no going back. You understand, if he is insane or not, if any trace goes back to you, no matter how good any spider is, you will be a Kinslayer. That is the biggest risk we run, Baela. I am scared of little, but if that were to happen...I'd be worried."

Baela smiled warmly at her pale rose. He spoke so passionately, with so much life and love, and far more than many men would speak in their entire lives. He was right to speak as he did, to lay all his cards down on the table, and trust in his princess, and her elder sister, the Queen. Baela set Garland's rose down on the table, and walked back over to him. She moved to sit atop his lap once more, looking him closely in the eye, and speaking softly to him, the way lovers exchange hushed promises in the dark. Her firey purple eyes glowed as she told Garland what she thought.

"My lovely rose, you quiver so quickly at the wrath of the dragon, and I am sorry. I forget my place at times, so my sister tells me. I know well enough that fire can both destroy, and create life... so I will pledge you this, I will champion your cause, your second chance. Garland, love, you have nothing to fear but my wrath at the birthing bed when that time comes. My sister values my counsel, and we will both be of great service to one another. I care not if they call me kinslayer. I too know history, and there have been many who have had to commit a supposed evil against the "gods" for a greater good." She moved her hips back and forth, pressing herself against Garland.

"I find myself falling for you my lord, my sweet pale rose. Ever so enthralling are you, much like your rose you gifted to me, I gift unto you my heart. I will see to it that Queen Rhaenyra allows us to marry. Though, she may ask a boon from you, though, only she will know what she wants." She leaned in passionately kissing Garland for a long time, before pulling away, and smiling at him. She greatly like this man, loved him even. He was a good soul, even if he had a bit of rust here and there. Yet, who didn't? She layed her head on his shoulder, finding herself playing with his hair now.

"Whatever it may be, I wouldn't imagine it would be too tough a demand. I think we know what has to be done. For the greater good now. I'd that second chance I'd take without looking back." He added, kissing her as equally passionately as she did, Baela's body pressing against his on the chair, Baela's youth well formed, and elegant, and even with such a remarkable young age, she seemed to feel very powerful indeed. Not like a male fighter, but like something different, like her dragon was on it's hind legs and spoke the Common Tongue, that wielded steel and felt tough. As tough as, if not more than Garland if he was at his best. He was a good swordsman on a good day, but feeling her close, that fire felt altogether too different, it felt absolutely spellbinding.

The Reach Lord broke a wry smile, looking at her, a lock of his long hair still in her hand, knowing it had been terrifying to say what he had said. A little sweat did run down his back, his hairs were stood, but he knew that it was an intoxicating feeling. He thought to himself he was not prepared to die any longer, but he would have been for this, he said in his mind. Any woman he wanted, and for this love, he would have not been afraid to let her take him there and then. And he put his case well. He had come in after speaking to Alerie, knowing it was something that had to be talked about, the possibility. Yet in Garland's mind, he had began to resolve it, understand it, and see what had been true all along. He would keep his family safe, the realm safe, and for what in his heart he felt was right, he was doing what he finally wished to pursue.

"We can travel either by boat, or by dragon to see my sister... the choice is yours to make. Or... we can daly? For a time, a day or two, and let you see what the world can be... that much I know, from speaking with my sister." She sighed, inhaling deeply of Garland. "What will it be, my pale rose?"

"You can't be serious....." He looked into her eyes, and quickly realized, nope, this wasn't a joke, this was not a dream.
"Well.....I can't turn it down. One day I'll show you the Rosewood, the pines, conifers and berries of the forest, the roebucks you'd love to hunt all day long. But I think the skies seem more wonderful right now."

"Then we shall relax for a day, enjoying the time we have to spend with one another while can enjoy such carefree moments, between the daily grind of the world and duty. So come, let us have dinner, and enjoy the sunset. That is one thing that the pirates could never ever tarnish, is the beauty of the ocean, and they way the sun plays off its waves. Come love, my Pale Rose, and lets enjoy this respite, before the comming storm." Baela smiled, leaning in to kiss Garland passionately, before pulling away, standing up to smile at her Pale Rose, then turning to tie her shirt back up, grabbing her dagger and placing it back in her boot, and turning to offer her right hand to Garland... "Shall we?"

Garland chuckled, leaning in, kissing her passionately, the Reachman's kiss one that had the charm and luster of the chivalry that came with it, the Rose that smelled of flowers and Poppy flower, with the Dragon that could have easily snatched the life from his lungs yet was the only person he wanted to be with. He wiped his hair to the side, his long brown locks and brown eyes as different as anyone could imagine as they were to the white haired, purple-eyed Targaryen that he had fallen head-over-heels for.

Taking her hand, the Lord Tyrell knew that it sounded like the only way to spend an evening, and that Alerie would no doubt understand that there was more than just the politics to this, as he gently held his cane in his right, and began to accompany her out of the throne room, words no longer needed.

(If @Abefroeman did collabs, they'd be the best collabs in the world. See the above. :D )

[Abefroeman]

Queenstone Island (Formerly Bloodstone Island)

Rhaenyra stirred from her bed, stretching generously. She had finally recovered from the sickness that had washed over Queenstone Island. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she was breathing softly, happy to be alive. The floor had been covered with fresh rushes, giving her chambers a fresh clean air to the room, something that helped clear and block out the memories of the past few weeks. Rhaenyra ran her fingers through her hair, playing with it for a little, before deciding to tie it back into a loose bun. She needed to get out of bed, and get back to running her new kingdom.

First order of business was to get washed up and clean off the collected filth and other vile things from her body. She stood up, feeling her joints and body creaking, as she slowly moved across her room. The shutters were still drawn, causing the room to be shrouded in darkness. The candles were low, meaning her guards had not changed them since last night. Sinking into a cushioned chair by her wash basin, she called out, loudly to the guards stationed at her door. "Guards.... guards!" She sighed again, still tired and drained. A bath would do wonders for her.

The four guards came dashing into the room, weapons drawn, scared that their Queen was in danger. The officer spoke for all of them, sheathing his sword once he saw that nothing was wrong. "Your grace, you are awake, and on your feet. How can we help you? Is there something you need?" He spoke in a concerned tone. The other guards had sheathed their blades as well, moving to open the room's shutters.

"I am direly in need of a fresh bath. A hot bath with lots of soap and perfume. I hope you can understand, I certainly feel filthy. And send for Ser Trevan... I have questions for him." She was already moving to pick out a new set of clothes, from stockings to undergarments, dress and blouse... she wanted to look and feel renewed. The guards fumbled over one another, darting out of the room, no doubt shouting for faithful servants to fetch hot water and trying to figure out where Ser Trevan was. She was ready to enjoy a new day, and a new fresh set of clothes and bedding.

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Jadefyre Island, Chambers of Princess Baela

Baela stirred in the bed, still enjoying the past two days she'd spent with Lord Garland. Somewhere between awake and asleep, she curled up between the sheets and covers, hugging a pillow close to her naked body. A smile crept onto her face, as she recalled the face Garland made when she had dragged him into the shallow waters of the private beach the two had enjoyed the day before. Both of them were fully clothed, and she laughed happily as the two swam about like two foolish children. She splashed water at him, and even tackled him a few times. By days end, the two were intertwined on the beach, enjoying another beautiful sunset.

Tired and hungry, she remembered leading Garland back to the keep, washing up for dinner that night, and enjoying the romantic dinner that they did share. But, that was many hours ago, and it was now, the night leading them from the dinner table to her room, and to her bed. He was so gentle, so romantic, and it was nice to fall asleep being held, cradled in his protecting arms. Which reminded her now... where was he? She yawned, slowly stretching in her bed, and looking around for her Pale Rose. Where did he wander off to?

Garland had gone in the morning, and it had been a short experience of conciousness, walking out Baela's room, past a guard towards the throne room...or rather, the other throne room for other buisness. It was there he was to find Lady Alerie, his sister, and someone who he had almost forgotten about. He swallowed the lump in his throat, as she chuckled.
"You'd go in and negociate you said...stay on the ship, Alerie. Oh, did your Longthorn do some work?" She giggled like a girl, Alerie the same age as Baela yet a little different, her head as eager to take the opportunity to undermine Garland a little as she could, reaching up and kissing him on the cheek.
"I'd suppose it did. Sorry about that." He said a little naiively, as she shook her head, chuckling.

"Oh, don't you worry. I spent enough time in the keep, out of your way, watching...and working on a few other things. A few ravens, a few things to keep the Yunkish busy, both on the Stepstones and in the Stormlands, at Cape Wrath. A beautiful girl like me can hide too amongst this crowd....I've worked while you enjoyed your fair time." Alerie added, her dress a little toned back, stripped down, for such a warmer clime like this, she did bare a little more skin, the green and gold of the dress not cumbersome and overbearing as she would have it for formality, but restrained for a place like this, albeit revealing in places.

Alerie's red hair poured down, her scent of roses, of some perfume or perhaps a garden, one could not tell. With her hair the most likely explaination had to come from her Ashford mother, perhaps, though there was other explainations, her strong red hair against her dress and her sharp brown eyes catching beautifully.
"I need to speak to Baela too, if you don't mind me. You look like...."
"I need a shit, Alerie." Garland was straight with the point, knowing that between him and his sister, they were brutally frank, and at that level. They were close, in that respect, and did enjoy that jest, valuing each other closely.
"That you do. Go to that throne of yours, I need to talk." The Lady Tyrell kissed him once more, walking past, letting Garland get on with other buisness, as she approached the guard near to Baela's chambers.

"I am Lady Alerie Tyrell, sister of Lord Garland.....I wish to see the Princess and talk in private." She asked the guard, appraoching humbly, Alerie's demeanour polite, her face beaming, her skin soft and beautiful to the light. Garland did look attractive to the fairer sex, but Alerie's youth and supple body, her gentle face was one that was not touched by even a wrinkle of age, as pristine as the glaciers of the Torrentine.

The guard nodded, turning to call into Baela's room. "My lady, you have a visitor, Lady Alerie of House Tyrell. She wishes to speak with you privately." He spoke a politely, courteous tone. From inside, a voice called out, though not able to be made out from outside of the guard who's head stuck into the room. He nodded, stepping fully back out into the hallway. "Princess Baela will speak with you. She asks if you would like anything to drink whilest you two converse." The guard then moved to fully open the door, while he waited for Lady Alerie to respond to his question.

Alerie ndoded, looking to the guard.
"Some water would do, if we could." She simply replied, following the guard inside, the guard courteous indeed, his plate and his sword fine indeed. The minor Targaryens did not have much money, but they did look fine indeed, and their household guard followed suit.

The guard nodded, turning to his compatriot, and relaying Lady Alerie's drink request for retrieval. The younger guard hurried away, while the more senior one bowed after escorting Lady Alerie in, and then taking his leave, closing the door behind him.

Baela smiled at Lady Alerie, herself seated at a small personnal table. So, this was the sister of her Pale Rose... a rather firey rose in stark contrast of her brother. She was beautiful beyond comparison, perhaps even more lovely than her elder sister Rhaenyra. She looked at Alerie for a little while longer, before rising up to meet her hopefully soon to be sister-in-law. She moved to embrace Alerie in a sisterly hug, speaking warmly to her. "Lady Tyrell, it is so nice to finally meet you, to have you here in my room, you do me such a great honor. Please, let us sit, it is so very nice today, the breeze feels amazing across your skin." Baela beckoned Alerie over to sit with her, smiling brightly as she did.

"So, Lady Alerie, what brings you to my humble chambers. I hear you wish to speak with me privately." Her voice was sweet and happy, truly joyful to have Alerie in her company.

Alerie did smile, her face lit up, as she embraced Baela, seated at the table, this Rose with Thorns appaearing polite and charming...perhaps like her brother, yet something seemed a little more sharpened about her thorns, the wind gently taking a strand of her loose hair.

"I do, I thought I would make the chance to properly talk to the woman who Garland is falling head over heels for. You know the stories, don't you?" She added, smiling, a slight chuckle as she sighed, looking out at the door, before back at the Princess, adjusting her dress a little.

"I suppose he has been young, much like I have...but alas, we must grow up in this world of ours, what with all these wars, him too. I would imagine you're rather enjoying this climate, Princess?" Alerie added, smiling gently, her voice carrying a certain mixture of both gravitas and calm, and perhaps more so than even Garland, she seemed to be at ease with how she presented herself to Baela.

"Of course, of course, it'd be a shame for me to deny you an audience with me. And yes, you are quite astute in the fact that Garland, my Pale Rose, has fallen for me, and I too, have fallen for him. But, I digress from why you have come here, to speak with me. Lady Alerie, I welcome you humbly to my sister's Kingdom." She smiled, her rich purple eyes shining brightly as she spoke in a caring tone. Her hair was tied back in a stylish braid, purple silk interwoven with her hair.

"As to the climate, I'd be lying if I said that I didn't find it far more agreeable than back in my neck of the woods of Westeros." She smiled again, sipping from a glass of what appeared to be lemonade.

Alerie smiled, her brown eyes for a moment locking into Baela's purple coloured pair, as she brushed her own hair aside, sighing, sipping from her glass.
"Yes, it is rather nice indeed. Reminds me of home." She simply said, as she sipped down some more water, clearing her throat for a second, leaning up in her chair.

"And thank you, Baela. I do rather like it. It'll only be a matter of time before your sister has a rather nice Kingdom indeed, with all the ships and men she requires from these isles, indigenously. Within her lifetime, no doubt." Alerie added, nodding, as she sighed again, her soft complexion.

"Hmm....it's good to hear that you find him rather dashing. I've never really seen it about him. He enjoys being scared by people, I think. As brave and dashing as he is, I think you terrify him. And he loves it." She chuckled lightly, putting her hand on the table, her soft hand on the brimstone, her fingers formed well, her nails coloured gently in a shade of whitened amber.

"Such is the nature of our family.....as good a Lord as he can be, I think he needs a woman in his life to remember how to do right. We are such good mothers for our people and family, Princess. I think us women know that deep down about our favourite men...so we play our part so well." Alerie's voice seemed to hold a caliber of weight that would have come from a woman such as Lyanna Tyrell, an insightful comment, knowing that Baela could recieve that well.

Baela smiled, listening at Alerie spoke. At the very forefront, she could tell that Alerie was different from her brother, not in a bad way, but rather, in a way that gave a feeling of deep understanding and intelligence. She was cultured and respectful, and chose her words carefully. Alerie would be a good ally in the years to come, someone that could be trusted for all intents and purposes.

"I hope I don't scare him too much, I wouldn't want him to become too pale, less I will have to call him the White Rose." She smiled, and sighed, looking out over the ocean, the sun still making its way up into the sky. "I am honored that he would choose me, but I understand what you are saying Lady Alerie. A good man needs a woman just as strong and powerful to help guide him down the right path. A gentler edge to the rough and tough nature so many men wish to project outwards." She chuckled, setting her glass down on the table. "We play a part to ensure that all that is good in the world is not snuffed out like a candle in a drafty room. Still, there has to be another reason why you have come, other than to conversate about your beloved brother. Speak what is truly on your mind Alerie, tell me what you would like, for I would greatly enjoy being able to spend more time with you, and enjoying great conversations as this."

She smiled, leaning back into her chair. "Garland is a good man, perhaps even a great one, but he as you say, only a man, and he will need help for the times to come."

Alerie nodded, chuckling just a little, knowing it was oh so true, but there was a little more that she knew of her House's ways than Baela would entirely yet understand, barely even conveying it.
"Oh, he's brave, he knows how to lead, and he can do a good job at being a complete bastard sometimes. And, he was never expected to be a Lord after all. But he is my brother. And my House is going to need him in the line to come, and someone strong like you by his side will retain our House's unfathoming loyalty and allegiance to one another. There are many, many Tyrells. Yet ours is the line that holds the Golden Rose at it's heart." Alerie began, tilting her head against her hand, leaning into the chair a little.

"And well...you'd bear heirs to the family if you were to wed. Of course. Blood of the Rose, and the Dragon. Not of another Reachwoman's, or someone from the realm. His love is real...but I don't think it should be merely for apperances. We know where this will go." She sipped some more of the water, barely pausing.

"I'm not like Garland. I don't want what he wants....some of it I do, yet I think I would leave the Tourneys to you, Princess. You know full well I don't see this game as being one of soldiers and war alone, or the innards of diplomacy. I think Rhaenyra doesn't either, that is, if you don't mind me saying that the Queen, like Garland, doesn't understand the games that the spiders play. And their role to come." Alerie continued, smiling.

"All I will say now is, I believe you to be a brave, strong woman. Capable of carving Kingdoms for yourself, with your sister, and with two dragons, who can stop you? Nobody. But I thought I'd let you know, outside of your guards, outside of your court, that your role is still to be played, and it isn't just for your House if you are going to go with Garland. What I want is the best for my house, that and the fact that the pieces will be played gently...to give both you and I, exactly what we want, for the people we love. The things we would do for family are more than just in swords."

"So if you want Rhaenyra to take her rightful seat, then I can do a great deal to help. Things Garland would never risk on his honour, nor on yours...not even mine, my dear. That I think you should be aware of...the Ladies of the Reach do not just swoon for their lovers. That was why I came...because you'll need more than men." Alerie concluded with a very sharp and pronged tongue, her voice crystal clear, like a sharp cut through the air. She had not minced words, Alerie had said exactly what she had said, and knew full well that it did not need to be cut down. They knew both what was going on, and Alerie did not mind if that thorn had cut the tension.

Listened all the while Alerie spoke, nodding in agreement, as she carefully thought of how best to respond to the context and nature of what Alerie had said. She was right to broach the subject, and it was something that would indeed affect the greater part of a nation, and the world far beyond it. "We all have roles yet to be played yet, actions that can only unfold in the passage of time. I can't say that I know everything that will need to be done, or even asked, but perhaps it is good that I have you to confide in, and to rely upon. My sister is a good woman, fit to be Queen. What you say brings many things into play, no doubt beyond mere politics and plays for power. You are right to say I do not understand the game a spider plays, the games it enjoys with its prey." She paused, choosing to stand up, and stand at the doors to her balcony.

"A dragon could burn a city full of spiders, yet all it would take is a single one to bite, and even a mighty creature like a dragon falls prey to its poison. Even we Targaryen's are not immune to the vile and poisonous venom of the spider. Though tales sure love to make joke of some supposed immunity." She looked back at Alerie. Lady Tyrell held the true strings of power in her home, and Baela was sure that she'd have to accept a few concessions should she become Garland's wife. Yet, even a king or a queen has their bindings, duties and tasks that hold sway over them.

"Rhaenyra and I, we are but outsiders to all this. We know fire and blood, not just an amusing motto, but what they truly mean. You are right, and so is your brother. I could burn every castle from the tip of Dorne to the North, but without a trustworthy ally, a spider who hunts other spiders, there will always be broods that reawaken, refusing to be snuffed out. Lady Alerie, family is of the greatest importance to me. I will not press you for what needs to be done, or will ask too much for now. Rhaenyra will certainly ask, for she is a righteous woman, one who would want to know everything, even if it hurts her."

She came back to sit directly next to Alerie, and looked into her eyes, "Lady Tyrell, shall we continue being friends then? I'd certainly enjoy the benefits of having you as my ally, and I as yours. Family has to stick together, and I am certain that you are a truly priceless individual who has much to offer, far more than swords and gold."

Alerie nodded, knowing certainly what she was doing, following to the balcony, as she stood up.
"Oh, definitely. I am not some spymaster, or some sort of witch with an army of birds. But I know who really plays this game, and how they get what they want, when they would like it. Any Lady of the Reach has that. You will too." She quipped, her barbs sharp, as she smiled at Baela, nodding.

"I would certainly help you however I could. But I have a feeling that there are wars at home to be won as well, and while I am no expert on military affairs, I feel that if Rhaenyra were to rule from the Iron Throne, it would need one that had legitimate backing That is only the start." She added, as she sighed, looking out on the wide expanses of the ocean, her hair blown in the gentle breeze, as she looked back at Baela once again.

"So....this seems to be mutual then." She giggled a little, as she brushed her hair away from her face, her sigh as gentle and lady-like as one could imagine. Baela was impressive, but Alerie knew that these were truths, lady to lady, that had to be said, known in private outside of the the bigger council meetings or debates.

Baela looked at Alerie, and knew deep down, she'd would not want to have her as an enemy. This Tyrell Matriarch would be a force to be reckoned with, and one that would serve far better as a friend and ally, then as a foe. She smiled, and decided to embrace Alerie, and whispered softly into her ear, "I will do all I can to ensure that you brother is taken care of, and that no harm comes of him. I promise you this and more. You are my sister now, and our family is all that can be trusted." She hugged Alerie tighter, before pulling away, smiling a warm and loving smile.

"I suppose we best start getting ready to travel to the capital, my sister Rhaenyra probably is wondering what sort of trouble I have gotten myself into now." She laughed happily, covering her face, as she turned to sit back down into her chair.

Alerie shook her head, chuckling lightly, nodding.
"Aye, I think that would be a good idea. But I won't be able to come, sadly. I think you only need to take my brother. I need to go home. There hasn't been a Tyrell in Highgarden, apart from my Aunt, and Lord Hightower-Tyrell." She replied, as she looked abck at Baela, knowing it wasn't going to be the best response for her to hear, but a truthful one.

"But you need Garland. Take him to Rhaenyra. I am glad to trust in you, like you trust in us. You need to teach him to fight again, I expect he'll ask it of you, knowing your prowess. And once you have a plan, follow him home, or do what you must. I'll leave you with some help that you'll like. But I need to go home, before anyone does anything silly." She paused momentarily, looking out of the window, smiling at Baela with a warm embrace, her lips matching her green and golden dress, the two women both the same age, yet with such different fires that propelled them.

"Whatever trouble she thinks you've gotten into, it is the fact that the Ravens have arrived at home that quells any problems there. I'm going to write something down, so that you can pass it to Rhaenyra. I trust you with words, but this is a message I want you to give on my behalf. Another I need to write too." Alerie added, as she stood.
"You have got a quill and parchment, haven't you my dear?"

"Of course, a moment sister." Baela got up, walking over to a small writing desk, retrieving paper and quill, along with some ink. She hurried back over to Alerie, setting them down at the table they sat at. A short courteous nod later, Baela was sitting back in her chair, enjoying the cool breeze that now decided to blow through the room. Her hair moved gently in the breeze, the wind like a cool kiss upon her cheek. She looked at Alerie, truly overjoyed to have another sister now, a new family member to add to the small family she had.

Alerie smiled, nodding approvingly. Oh, if Garland hadn't bought her heart, then she had, she thought to herself quietly, taking the parchment and the quill, smiling back at her. Baela understood Garland, and Garland understood her, they had that mutually working out. But Alerie always understood that whilst women could broadly get on, she had to make absolutely certain that she would not steal her brother for the wrong intents, for her own drives and desires.

Not entirely, at least. Socially engineering the situation was not a negative thing, she had no ill will to Baela, no, she did like her back, respected her, rather much liked her fire, she only knew that in order to have what Baela wanted, it was what House Tyrell did too. No need to betray, it was merely the fact that charisma and knowing the situation, her thorns and beauty would point in the direction of what was going to be yielded from all this for herself, and her own brother. Baela was good, she gave her that, asking all the questions. Yet Alerie knew all of what Baela wanted too, and it seemed remarkable how quickly she had come to ease with the Lady Tyrell, which she assumed had not been so fast with the current Lord Paramount who was wooing her affections. It was the best way to make people do what you wanted, not by command, but by co-operation. One that seemed to work with her, certainly.

With a rapid hand, she began to write, at first knowing that this was Rhaenyra's. It would send her exact regards, and her intents, or what she wanted to send to the other Targaryen Princess, or rather, the Queen of these Stepstones, that Alerie had in mind. The exact nature of the way this would be, and she would explain it fully to Baela shortly here. She then took the second paper, and began writing another message, this one, going to someone different, namely back to Ser Willas, her uncle. She wrote quickly, the message short, the message very clear indeed. One that would be followed up fast by Rhaenyra's actions, and would make few but him truly understand the intents of the coming times. Rolling them both up, she passed the parchment to Baela, the one that was for her sister. The look in her eyes had changed a little. The beautiful facade had dropped. This was a woman who looked stern, not pretty. She looked like she had a brew on her mind.

"What we are going to do, my sweet dragon, is give your sister, the Throne that she craves. You're going to give Garland the wife he desires. And most importantly, it's going to all be without Kinslaying. Aerys will not be a problem. I hear that Slaver's Bay would do well for a boy such as Aerys to...vanish. All so easily. It will take time, but it will be so perfect." She smiled deeply, putting her hand out, standing up, the other parchment in her hand, not shown to Baela, the handwriting not clear enough from the distances they were at, as she reached in to Baela, hugging her close, her mouth close to her "sister's" ear, smiling.

"And my family..they are by your side, as loyal as ever, our houses linked in blood, fire and flowers." She giggled, kissing her on the cheek, her red locks brushing alongside Baela's face, as she held her close.

"Oh, Baela. Do treat him carefully, he is still such a delicate flower sometimes. I think he looked happy when I saw him going to the shitter, so you are rather good at pleasing him." She giggled profusely, shaking her head as she heard knocking, and without a moment's notice, Garland come in, his long brown hair flowing as per usual, a little taken by the breeze,

"Oh, Baela, you had the chance to meet my sister?" Garland asked, as Alerie gave a simple nod, as he walked in, from his leather boots to his darkened green shirt, decorated in colorful golden roses, the linen clearly of a very expensive taste.

"I did. The Princess is rather charming. And we had so much to talk about. So, so much." Alerie smirked, as Garland took a seat, wrapping an arm by Baela, letting her sink her head into his shoulder, as he looked over at Baela.

"Anyway, Baela, you were saying about Rhaenyra? I hear you were headed off...I do wish I could join you, but I shall leave the dragons to another day. The salt in my lips is where I feel like staying for now." She chuckled, Alerie looking at the couple, smiling. The look on Garland's slightly paled face said it all, the brown locks on white, the manner in which he sat with Baela just suggesting that over the last couple of days, they had rather enjoyed themselves, with each other's presence. Alerie had seen moments of it, they appeared to very much so be content with themselves. All this, while his own fucking Kingdom appeared to be readying for war, Alerie reminded herself. He had to go home soon, or at least sort this out quickly, and she knew Garland understood full well from the slight glance she gave.

"Yes, I suppose your loving brother and I should get geared up. I think it'd be best if we traveled by dragon. A ship is a bit too slow for my tastes, and the sooner I can get to my Queen, the sooner the future can get here. I look forward to visiting with you again once we get a chance to see your beautiful home Lord Garland is so fond of speaking about." She smiled, looking up at Garland to plant a small kiss on his cheek. Baela turned to look at Alerie once more. "Take on all the supplies you will need to make it to your destination with all due haste. I am sure that you have your own business to take care of, and I do not want to keep you waiting any longer sister."

Baela placed the scroll that was meant for her into her right boot, tucking it away safely. Untangling herself from Garland, she rose up, and rearanged her hair to better accomadate a swift flight atop the back of a dragon. She smiled at Alerie, moving back over to her writing desk. She fished around inside of it for a few moments, before finding what she was looking for. It was a small box, old carved wood. "Alerie, I think you'd like these greatly. I can only assume they belonged to your family, or perhaps someone from the Reach. These pirates love to horde things. Their old, but, I think it'd be best for you to have them." Baela passed the small wooden box across the table, letting Alerie have it.

"They're earings... and a pair of matching rings. We are still finding all sorts of interesting things here." She smiled, and moved to her bedside to continue getting dressed.

Alerie smiled, looking at the box, and pulling out the earings, noticed the motif, the design. It was a Rose, with numerous flowers, of various kinds emboldened into their surface, behind them. They were only of one person that Alerie knew, and she shook her head, smiling.
"These were destined for Elena Tyrell...nee Ambrose, the wife of Jamie the Green....wow." She smiled, looking at the dusty earrings, blowing the dust away, the gold and silver inlay into them highly detailed.

"It's Essossi made, I bet Jamie had it made in Volantis. A gift, that never made it." She said, her knowledge of the family history, and of the sigil of Jamie "The Green" Tyrell, one that did not exactly remain forgettable in the recent Tyrell family history.

"Thank you." She simply replied, as Garland looked at them, nodding, as Alerie passed them across. The singular Rose, with numerous flowers behind it, replacing the green background. Jamie was such a gardener, he added it to his own coat of arms, the flowers incredibly difficult to copy onto a shield, because it was such a complicated deisgn, each differently coloured, each differently shaped. Only a man as obsessively keen with gardening and engineering a wood for his own hunting and pleasure, to kill his time would have done such a thing. He hadn't even been on a Small Council as a result, while at least Gregor and Gregor's uncle, Harlan, had.

"You ought to wear them, sister. They would go so well with your dress." Garland smiled at his sister, as she smiled back, nodding.
"Yes....maybe they do." She giggled gently, as she stood slowly, looking across.

"Well, I'll be headed off now. I'll save you waiting." Alerie walked around the table, and taking Garland in her arms, Alerie holding her, clearly far taller, they hugged, a family one, something that appeared so close, so nice in an embrace. Alerie stood on her tip toes, and kissed her brother on the lips, stepping back down, as she released, then approaching Baela. She kissed her and hugged her new sister to be, and that alone felt like it said a thousand words, as she headed to the door.
"I would imagine we will meet again soon, my Princess." She said, looking back at Baela and Garland, smiling keenly.

Finishing lacing a leather riding jacket, Baela bowed deeply before Lady Alerie, "You are most welcome sister, it is but a token of my affection and loyalty to my new family." She looked over to Garland, and laughed. "You might want to get some thicker pants on, Jadefyre will shred those to bits with her scales. And a warm coat too... the wind has a way of biting at you." Smiling, Baela walked back to the table, buckling her sword belt tightly about her waist. "Take care Alerie, and don't have too much fun without me." She winked, before focusing back at Garland.

"Today my Pale Rose... you sitting there will not get you dressed any faster." Smiling, she kissed him, and then helped him up. "Now go... fetch yourself what I suggested." Baela moved away, setting to finish picking up the last minute items, and getting her chambers in order. She'd be gone for a while, and perhaps might not exactly be coming back any time soon. Her motions were methodically, calculating as she sought to ensure that the ride to Queenstone would be perfect and swift, with nothing being left behind.

"Will plate do?" Garland asked, a little aware that yes, this was a bit of a new experience, but in his mind, he realized that perhaps he hadn't exactly thought about this prospect as of yet, as he stood by the table, watching Baela head off. It was a good point that she made, and everything would have to be taken on the dragon, or sent home.

Rolling her eyes, she walked back over to Garland, smiling at him. He was utterly amazing, and adorable. "Fine, armor will do. It would do us both good I suppose to transport our armor with us... though mine will need to be repair before worn again. My Pale Rose, shall we meet on the roof in a half hour? Should allow you plenty of time to get your armor together for the flight... and any other things you wish to bring along with us." She stood up on her tippy toes, the leather outfit she was wearing tightening against her form, giving Garland a passionate kiss. "I know you will enjoy flying... there is nothing like it in the world."

"I can't wait." Garland kissed her back, her leather flying tunic tightly gripping her body, the soft and supple leather fitting her form beautifully. She knew the skies, and he did not, and he could barely hide his exitement, as he kissed her profusely, before nodding.

"I shall. I'll need to get my armourer to help you repair yours...he can work miracles, add a few details which I think you'd love." And with that, Garland smiled, headed to the door, knowing he had a little time to take his belongings and preapre for this. He still held his cane, yet looked more and more like he didn't need it, the Tyrell Lord walking out of the room, a distinct grin that stood out from his lion's mane of a beard as he headed into the hallway.

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Thirty minutes later, and the sound, the heat that came from the roof was astounding, Garland's guards all but gone, all gone onto Alerie's ship, which was sailing under a Redwyne flag, into the Stepstone Sea, in the far distance, headed for Dorne, and for home. They'd be back in a week's time, with their sails and light cargo. And now, it was only him left, as he headed up the stairs, the keep's gatehoue the highest point, and a place where Garland would have expected Baela to met.

Garland's armour was repaired after the Battle of the Kingswood, his intricate helm and heater shield on his back, his rose-inscribed hilt and sheath hiding a longsword, the one that he carried. Yet his armour seemed as beautiful as ever, the plate a colour of silver, with it's etchings of roses, vines and flowers across it's striking surface, some embalmed in gold and silver, interlocking and woven. A green cloak was wrapped tightly around his right shoulder, with the Tyrell sigil on it.....if the other fucking Roses didn't prove the point, he said to himself! His chestplate had a green and golden accent to it with the theme continued, the curves of the shoulderplates to the vambraces, the mail undershirt, to the sheer volume of money it appeared to speak of quite remarkable. His thickened leather gloves, woven into chainmail, his plate extending to his legs, wrapping around into mail. Each little cutting looked like it was an artisan's craftmanship, and Garland never forgot this. For all appearances, it was practical as anything, as well crafted as could be expected. Yet it was beautiful, and against Garland's good looks, it really did seem to bring out the best in his particular charisma.

As he climbed the last steps, he saw Baela, and the sight of Jadefyre, all of his belongings in a large sack over his shoulder, held close, as he looked at her, smiling, his brown curly locks of hair blowing in the wind, his green-coloured linen neckwarmer, extending from the mail on his neck to the lower reaches of his beard, also golden and green coloured. The dragon turned, and he saw the Targaryen Princess, at ease by the green dragon's side. He couldn't help but feel a little fear, couldn't help but feel a little worried by the huge beast, because it could literally turn him into a cinder if it felt hungry right now. Yet he had to keep his resolve, as he smiled at Baela.
"My sister tells me I spend too much of my mind on fashions." He chuckled, shaking his head.
"But I like armour. Tis a measure of a man's fibers, in metal artisanry." The Lord Tyrell added, as he walked up to her, feeling Jadefyre track his movement forwards, like a hawk watching it's prey. In Garland's mind, he could guess that Jadefyre didn't particularly sit at ease with a new companion to her rider, not yet.
"So, shall we depart?"

Baela laughed softly, seeing Garland swagger up to the rooftop. He made a dashing figure, a noble knight in the finest of armor. It was both cute and stoic, though perhaps that was because she was in love with the man. But either way, she was ready to go, her gear already fastend to the saddle, her leathers fitted tightly against her body as she slid of Jadefyre's back and landed softly onto the ground like a cat. Her sword dangled from her left hip, the smile playing softly across her face. "My, don't we look like a noble knight ready to rescue a maiden from an evil grumpkin?" She teased at Garland, moving over to take his bag that was slung over his shoulder.

"Jadefyre is a good and noble dragon, she wouldn't dare hurt you, unless I were to command it. You have nothing to fear from her." Baela said aloud as a matter of fact. Garland's belongings, while in a large sack, hardly seemed to weigh anything to Baela as she carried them and began to lash them to the other side of Jadefyre's saddle. She looked over, and blew a kiss to Garland. He was going to either enjoy the flight, and hug her tighter than a scared baby. She laughed softly to herself as she finished lashing the rucksack to the saddle. Baela moved back around Jadefyre, walking over to take Garland's hands and lead him over to Jadefyre.

Garland followed closely, taking Baela's soft and supple hands, his leather gloves poking out of his vambraces, as he smiled at her, the white-haired Targaryen leading him to Jadefyre, something that made his heart pound, his head feel like it could hear the white noise. This wasn't normal. This wasn't anything real, it was something he saw, something he accepted, but never, ever something he had even dreamed of doing. As a child, perhaps he wanted a dragon of his own, for a minute, it would have been a wonderful thing to have. No, this was literally happening, his mind absent, his head only perhaps getting an understanding of this.

He zoned back into reality, and looked at Baela, smiling, looking at the warm beast again, nodding.
"I suppose this isn't something that happens often....if they do not fear me, then perhaps I shouldn't fear either." With it, he gripped her hand tight, smiling, the wind blowing hair over his left eye, as he grinned like a Cheshire Cat, ready to follow Baela onto the mighty Jadefyre's back, the dragon's heat radiating from where he stood, and punching into his skin.

Baela tightly held onto Garland's outstretched hand, and limber as a cat, she climbed up into her saddle, pulling Garland up with her. She situated herself comfortably into the saddle, leaning over to gently pat Jadefyre, speaking to her dragon affectionately. The words were foreign, unknown to anyone by those of the old world, and a few more cultured maesters back in Westeros. Satisfied that Jadefyre was content, and more excited than anything as well to fly was more, she leaned back into Garland, to look up at him once more, smiling, before taking the reigns tightly in her hands.

"Hold on tight my Pale Rose, I wouldn't want you to fly away. I certainly need you... you bring beauty to my life and soul." Laughing, she waited for Garland to situate himself, gripping the saddle loops by him tightly, and then with a flick of her writs, Jadefyre's wings began to beat methodically, flapping up and down, the heat of the dragon, the ambient air temperature, the massive gusts of wind swirling around them. Baela's hair moved about her wildly, her laughter and joy able to be heard only by her and Garland. Within a few seconds, Jadefyre leapt into the air, the dragon letting out a powerful roar as she soared through the air and into the sky.

Baela took the reigns in one hand, reaching back to grip Garland's right hand for a moment, before she returned back to her duty of flying Jadefyre. "Having fun back there my Pale Rose?" She called out in a loving tone.

Garland didn't know how to truly explain it, as he held on, the words she spoke foreign and strange to the dragon.....Valyrian? He didn't know, he had no idea, as he felt it leap, and suddenly, the keep and the ground below feel distant. And for a second, Garland couldn't even take it into his own perspective, Baela's hair blowing in the breeze, as did Garland's curls, taken up by the speed and the winds, blowing them backwards, his forehead as visible as never before, and Baela's utter joy compared to Garland's wonder at it all.

The first time he had seen a dragon, he had been spellbound. This, this felt like something else, as he struggled to take it in, struggled to take what was going on. They were soaring, like the birds he handled, and he could see the distant keep below, the very distant ship with Alerie on board, and the other Stepstones visible clearly, the tufts of clouds closer, and closer, as Garland gripped her hand, momentarily letting go of the saddle loop, his palms sweat-bound, himself completely unaware of the smirking grin he had. He could barely find the air in his lungs to reply, he was utterly overtaken by all of it, he still could not fully explain anything.

"Certainly!" He yelled, his feet tight against the loop, one hand tight around Baela's waist, his mind utterly at a point of incomprehension. He was the first Tyrell to see this, the first to even comprehend it and to share it with a Targaryen. The seas below, the islands dotting the landscape, the clouds coming closer and closer, their silver appearance no longer the case, as they appared to be like the steam that rose from trees the closer they came. Jadefyre felt truly at ease in the skies, with Lord Garland Tyrell knowing that the skies had been seen only exclusively by few, and all those without dragons had been madmen. Yet here he was, and he was riding with his love, his heart's desire, in a moment of complete ecstasy and wonder, the look on his face of purely taking it all in. It felt remarkable, it felt incredible to even see the world put before him, the wind gusting his curly hair past his plate, his vision fixed on the splendour of it all. He could have died a happy man here, he thought to himself, he could have lost his life and he'd have been happy enough now.

The two would set forth across the open skies. The sun was still not at its zenith, as the Targaryen and Tyrell lovers floated atop the world, astride a dragon. The world was so very tiny below them. Ships, islands, people, even whales, all appeared as small models of what they truly were. Baela laughed and smiled, Jadefyre knowing the way back to Queenstone, she was able to clasp her hand with that of Garland's which lay across her waist. The flight would take the better part of a few hours, three at most, but this would be a perfect time to enjoy one anothers time with her lover. Funny, how a creature only ever known for war and destruction would now be a spot for a picturesque lover's date.

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Queenstone Island

Rhaenyra was enjoying her bath, rather her second one. She'd scrubbed herself clean, and after seeing just how filthy the water was, politely asked for another, thanking the servants for their hard work. So diligent, never complaigning, or at least to her face. She reminded herself to give them all a day off, to enjoy themselves. Running her fingers through the water, Rhaenyra closed her eyes, and dunked her head under the water, holding her breath as she enjoyed the sensation of being underwater. Just as she felt she could no longer hold her breath, Rhaenyra rose up above the surface of the water.

Taking in a deep breath of fresh air, she rested herself back on the lip of the tub. It was such a wonderful experience, to revel in the light of the rising sun, and to be enjoying a bath that was long, long overdue. Her eyes scanned the room, looking at Ser Trevan quietly sitting in a chair, still awaiting for her to address him. She sighed, knowing that she did summon him, but wishing he had taken a bit longer to arrive. She noticed that he was staring at her naked form, rolling her eyes as she moved to hide most her form with the contour of tub.

"I'd ask how long you have been there, but, I guess I can figure that you will say 'Not Long'. You could have said something to me... rather than gawking at me like some slackjawed fool." Rhaenyra was a bit pertrubed that one of her faithful knights was stealing glances at her.

To his indignation, he bowed deeply, offering his apologies, and responded in kind. "Your grace, I came in whilst you were enjoying diving under the water. I know that it would be dishonorable for me to lie to you, my Queen, but I found myself overcome with the sheer beauty that is you. I humbly beg your forgiveness and allow me to find some way to regain the honor I so foolishly lost." He stilled remained bowing before the Queen, hoping that he had not foolishly stumbled into the maw of an angry dragon.

Rhaenyra shook her head, knowing that at least a few good men remained that would tell the truth, even when they had done something foolish or wrong. Plus, the lingering question remained as to who exactly he was, and why he seemed so strikingly familiar. But, that was for another time, another place. She guessed that it was time for her to get dressed, and to get on with the duties of running her realm. "I trust you Ser Trevan... you can start by fetching me my robe, and meeting me at my table once I am dressed." She could not help but smile, shaking her head as he nodded, running over to grab a soft silk and cotton robe.

"Yes your grace, right away your grace. Thank you for being so kind and forgiving." He drapped her robe over her form, taking care to look away and not stare her naked form. She thanked him softly, tying her robe about her body, before moving away to get dressed and ready for the day. Ser Trevan bowed once more, and then made his way over to her table, sitting down and awaiting her return. What a nice way to start off one's day.

A few minutes would pass, as Ser Trevan sat at Rhaenyra's table. He lightly tapped the top of the table, finding himself playing with a chess piece on her table. Ser Trevan was curious as to why he had been summoned, and greater still, why him as opposed to any of her Lords or other higher ranking officers. Her rooms were nicely appointed, and light spilled into the rooms in a serenly beautiful way. The view as well, was amazing. He was enjoying the sights, when Queen Rhaenyra came back into the room.

She was stunning. Rhaenyra had choosen a dazzling emerald colored dress, richly inlaid with red and gold thread, finally finished off with touches of deep purple to bring it all together. The dress fit perfectly against the Queen's supple form, as she slowly made her way to sit down in her own chair. The fabric was beautiful to behold, and it held an air of authority and power to it, given Rhaenyra the trademark Targaryen aura to her, if her eyes and hair didn't already do so.

Rhaenyra looked back up at Ser Trevan now, thinking of how best to bring about what she was thinking about. She was a Queen now, the ruler of the Stepstones, no easy feat to boot, though she had her sister to thank for that. Baela was instrumental in subjegating the Stepstones, in removing the wretched pirates and lecherous scum. Together, the two Targaryen sisters had brought "Fire and Blood" to their new kingdom, the shattered memory of Daemon Targaryen's dream from long ago. Which reminded her from her thoughts, where was Baela. She was supposed to have been back at least a day ago, if not more.

"Ser Trevan, tell me something. Who were your parents? I am curious, as you look strikingly different from many, if not all the people that roamed our lands back in the Crownlands." She looked at her knight, the one who she had brought up from nothing. He had been a simple soldier, but more than that, he was an honest man who chose to do the right thing, even when he was outnumbered. "Speak to me truly. We have business to take care of, you and I, Ser Trevan Waters."

She watched as Ser Trevan grew decidely quiet. His cool eyes looked from his Queen, to looking out at the crashing waves. Odd, she thought, as nothing really ever seem to pertrub the man, and yet this was something that he seemed to struggle with, something that he was hesitant to speak openly.

"Your grace... I, may I ask why you wish to know, I mean, really, what matter does it make who my parents were?" He looked back at Rhaenyra finally, a pained look on his face. He stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the doorway that led out onto the balcony.

Rhaenyra steepled her fingers, the two rings she wore gleaming brightly in the incomming sunlight. "Ser Trevan, you are not who you were born to be. There is no doubt in that. I look at you, and see something that is not normal, something that screams you are not some common born man as you claim to be, or have been told. You know something, don't you? You know more about who you are, and yet you say nothing." She layed her hands flat on the table, looking at Ser Trevan very intently now.

The knight sighed, turning to walk out onto the balcony, breathing softly as he gripped the balcony's edge tightly. He looked at the ocean below, and then turned to look at Queen Rhaenyra. "I am a bastard, there is no disputing that my Queen, but... I must ask that you understand something first. I... my mother and I, we were sworn to silence, to never speak what we are about to tell you." He grew quiet, walking back into the room where Rhaenyra sat.

"Promise me... promise me that you will forgive me for breaking my vows to not speak." He seemed pained that he was going to talk any further.

"My mother is the daughter of your Lord Rykker, well, one of his three daughters at least." He paused, sitting down to continue, "He cast both of us out, forsaking my mother, and me, as sinners. My father... the man you are so interested in, he beheaded, as a warning to all who would dare lie with his daughters." He stopped speaking, looking down at the table. "My father was a bastard too, like I was. He was what you'd call a great bastard." Ser Trevan stood back up, remembering things he had long since pushed away, wanting to not remember.

"Who was your father, Ser Trevan? What was his name." Rhaenyra only knew of a few great bastards, and the list was very small, and very close. Was he implying what she thought odd all along? This man, this knight, he was royalty. Perhaps a bit removed from the royal apple tree, so to speak, but either way, he had king's blood flowing through him. "Tell me your father's name Ser Trevan... speak it, and know that you have nothing to fear or worry about. I give you my word as Queen to protect you. To pardon you of any perceived sin or slight."

"My father's name was Haegon Blackfyre II, son of Aerion Targaryen II. My Grandfather was one of your family your Grace, he was Aegon the VIII's younger brother. I am a Blackfyre, a bastard of a bastard." He said angrily, swatting away the candlestick that stood on the table. He stood up, clearly irritated by having to even talk about it.

Rhaenyra stood up, crossing the room to stand by Ser Trevan Waters... or rather, Ser Trevan Blackfyre. He was of ancient Targaryen blood, of Valaryia. She laid her right hand upon the man's left shoulder. "Ser Trevan... I am... I am sorry, I didn't wish to hurt you, nor anger you." She paused, moving to stand before him. "Ser Trevan Blackfyre... you can not run from who you are... I know that you must have so much hatred towards so many things right now, but..." She paused, turning away from Ser Trevan. "Your eyes hold the same fire that all of your kin do, that I do. Please, forgive me... " She smiled, and then looked up at the sky high above.

Ser Trevan called it out first. "Your sister... she has returned. There, high above... " He was quick to change the subject, moving back to the edge of the balcony. Looking back at Queen Rhaenyra, he nodded to her, before looking back at the coming princess. "Can we speak about all this later. When the time is right?" He forced a pained smile, before leaning down, to relax for a moment.

"Fair enough... I will address this later, you have my word though, all the same, that you will be protected. Ser Trevan, you are a good man, no matter what anyone says. Remember that, and know that your Grandfather, and Father, no matter what you think of them, they were good men too." She turned, heading back into her room, and towards the main hall. "Come along, we will meet my sister atop the main keep. Wouldn't want to keep her waiting, like she did with me." Rhaenyra smiled softly, keeping the door open for Ser Trevan to follow her.

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Atop Daemon's Keep, Queenstone Island

Rhaenyra impatiently waited for her sister to land, she leaned against a fortification atop the tower. Her own dragon was off hunting at the moment, Visaxes wouldn't have to move over to allow Jadefyre room to land. She straightened her dress, fixing the long flowing fabric for the coming storm, knowing all too well the wind sheer that a landing dragon created. With her stood Ser Trevan Blackfyre, and ten royal guards, all eager to help Baela Targaryen land, and help unpack whatever she may have brought with her.

Rhaenyra looked over at Ser Trevan as he quietly kept off to the side. He was no doubt lost in his own thoughts, dealing with his own demons at the moment. She focused back to her sister, who was now mere minutes away, and the obvious excuses she'd make about her absence. No doubt it would be something trivial, like she was hunting a treasure ship, or got lost enjoying the skys... the usual foolish joyful distractions that she'd become accustomed to with her sister. Baela Targaryen, she was her little sister, and she was a handful, but Rhaenyra loved her all the same.

High above, Baela drew closer to the island, Jadefyre letting out a roar of delight as she would soon be able to land, and get something to eat. Baela gripped the reigns tightly, getting herself ready to decend from the clouds and skies above. She was smiling from ear to ear, having enjoyed the past two hours with Lord Garland. It was nice, the flight was leisurely, and it was perhaps one of the most enjoyable times she had spent thus far with Lord Garland.

"Get ready my Pale Rose, we are going to be landing soon. It may get a little bumpy." She smiled, leaning back to give Lord Garland a quick peck on his cheek. She turned back, focusing on flying once more. It would be fun, just like the last time they had landed atop this castle. Baela gripped the reigns tightly, and beckoned Jadefyre to go in for a landing.

Garland smirked, kissing her back, feeling Baela focus, the sight of the sky past mid-day grip nicely, the ride one that he would never forget. It felt etched into his memory, and whilst he felt cold, he knew that he felt alive, awake, alert, and simply mindblown. This was in Targaryen blood, to fly, to rise, to be used to riding a dragon, and it had been such for centuries. Right here, Garland Tyrell was not of that blood. He was used to his feet being planted on the ground, and the mere idea was one that did not still make sense. Yet it had grown on him, and nothing could deny, that the two of them looked impressive, the Tyrell Rose and the Targaryen Dragon, atop Jadefyre, were both as remarkable as they could be acknowledged to be.

"Thanks for the warning...I won't forget this...I can't even explain it entirely....." His voice was utterly taken still with the moment, as he let her steer Jadefyre down, the sight of Queenstone's significant keep, that of Queen's Rest. It was a significant keep, and most likely, was the Pirate King's former dwelling, before he met an unfortunate demise. The building wasn't scorched to the ground it appeared, and the rest of the isle seemed dense, hiving with activty, and ships that had come in.

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, watching as Baela made a quick decent from the height she was at. Typical, the show-off she was, but it did make for some show for the guards with her. Rhaenyra shielded her eyes, getting ready for the initial storm of dust and dirt that would be kicked up, followed by the wind. She smiled, and brought her head down, knowing it was mere moments away.

Ser Trevan saw what Queen Rhaenyra had done, quickly doing the same. He figured that it'd be smart to keep his eye sight, and Rhaenyra clearly knew what she was doing. He felt the wind begining to pick up, the rush of heat and air, followed by dust and small gravel being kicked up. It'd pelt off of his body, before being pushed off the top of the keep and onto the ground far below. Holding onto the ramparts, he steadied himself for the final thud and landing of Baela's dragon.

Baela laughed, bracing herself for the final drop onto the roof. She smiled, gripped the saddle tightly, and then kicked her feet against Jadefyre's sides, signalling the dragon to furl her wings in and land. With a quick skidding thud, all three were landed and safely on the ground. Laughing loudly, she quickly vaulted off the saddle and her dragon, landing solidly on the stone roof. Looking up, she looked at her sister, and did a mocking bow mixed with a formal curtsy. "Your Grace, Princess Baela Targaryen at your command." She smiled, letting out a peel of laughter, before rushing forward to share a sisterly embrace with her elder sister.

Rhaenyra smiled, letting her sister jump up into her arms. The embrace was tight and lasting, as though the two sisters had been away for far too long. Rhaenyra looked at her sister, all the irritation and annoyance gone and forgotten. "Sister, it's good to have you back. You free-spirited little dragon. Well, you enjoy your vacation you little sluggard?" She playfully quipped with her sister, finally ending the embrace. She sighed, still smiling, when Baela pulled back, smiling too and holding up her hands.

"Don't be too mad sister. I couldn't help but enjoy the nice sandy beaches. Well, and a few other things as well. But, to the biggest thing, I bring you a gift sister. A beautiful boquet of roses, all for you." She giggled, moving out of the way to let Rhaenyra now see that Lord Garland Tyrell was upon Jadefyre's back. Baela turned back to Garland, smiling and waving for him to finally come over.

Garland smiled, stepping off, albeit not as catlike, but a little more like someone wearing plate would step off a horse, not entirely fumbling but a little disorientated. His feet made contact with the ground, and he almost tripped over, a little bemused, totally shocked, as he stood tall again, looking at them both as he got to his senses, back on the firm ground.

"That, she did." Garland Tyrell said behind Baela, the Reachman with an characteristic grin on his face, standing as well as he could, his hair still a bit of a mess and the wind still blowing in his locks, as he brushed as much hair as he could from over his face, walking forwards before dropping onto one knee, before Rhaenyra, his hands rested on his other one.
"I am humbled to meet you again, Queen Rhaenyra." Garland said, looking up, smiling, as he looked into Rhaenyra's purple eyes.

"And certainly, I am the Young Rose. Your sister prefers that I am called the Pale one." He chuckled lightly, knowing that he was adressing the Queen of the Stepstones, but that they had kept a certain degree of friendship, and that hopefully, she would recognize that, as she looked to them both.

Queen Rhaenyra sighed, not expecting to see Lord Garland Tyrell so soon again. The look on her face was a mixture of surprise, curiosity, and rebuffed anger. She took a moment to compose herself, before looking back to her sister. "I suppose you had good reason from bringing the Lord Hand of..." She spoke the next words with a certain amount of practiced calm, "King Aerys III." Rhaenyra looked down at Lord Tyrell, sizing him up. She clasped her hands infront of her, and spoke softly, though in a tone that edge on a certain level of irritation. "Arise, Lord Hand of the Seven Kingdoms. I welcome you to my realm, the Kingdom of the Stepstones. Surely you have business that you wish to conduct with me. Let us convene in my council chambers. It would be reprehensible of me to refuse such an honored guest."

"I do, Queen Rhaenyra. I can say that of certain."

Ser Trevan looked on, as the other guards hurried to unpack and move whatever gear and luggage was on the dragon, along with unsaddling her, as their Queen exchanged formalities with the Hand of the King from Westeros. A strong gust of wind was followed by Jadefyre flying away, off to hunt as was promised by Baela. Ser Trevan shielded his eyes, before looking back to Rhaenyra. He could tell from an outward glance that she was not exactly thrilled to have Lord Garland here, but, who could blame her. She was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, and the truer Targaryen between her and Aerys the Monster. And rather than suffer the insult of being passed over for an illegitamate child, she chose to carve her own kingdom, with fire and blood.

Funny, he felt bad for her, when he himself was much like Aerys to a lesser degree. An illegitamate child, one who was not supposed to exist, or thought to exist. He shook his head, heading over to Queen Rhaenyra's side as she called him over. He quickly trotted over, and bowed before his Queen and distant kin. "Your Grace, how can I help?"

"You will escort Lord Tyrell to the council chamber immediately. My dear sister will accompany you as well. I will summon the council to convene with all due haste. Lord Tyrell is our honored guest, see to it that he is well looked after. I do not wish to stir the wrath of... King Aerys, it would do us no good to rebuff his envoy." With that, Queen Rhaenyra spun about on her heel, making her way down the steps back into Daemon's Keep, to the bowels below, the gears in her head turning at the new revelation of Lord Garland Tyrell being here.

Garland only looked stern shaking his head, knowing that she didn't know just as of yet.
"Oh, the world has changed a little. I am not an envoy any longer...I come bearing information and . I agree, let us head to the chamber." He simply said back to Rhaenyra, knowing that all would be explained soon, and that Baela, as well as himself, would tell the truth as to what was going to happen next.

"Of course your Grace, as you command." Ser Trevan bowed as the Queen left, before turning to Lord Tyrell. "Lord Hand, an honor to serve you. Shall we make our way to the council chamber? Its a bit of a walk, but it is thankfully all downhill from here." He smiled politely, and stepped out of the way to allow Baela Targaryen escort Lord Tyrell.

Baela looked at Garland, and smiled, speaking in a hushed tone to him, "Its alright, just give her some time. Alot on her mind, and well, you know, you picked a little bastard over her. So, just give it a little time. She will listen to what you have to say at least. And don't forget, you still need to ask her for my hand, my Pale Rose." She pulled away, looking around for a little, before offering her hand out to Garland. "Shall we?" She asked in a warm tone.

Garland smiled at Baela, nodding, the Lord in his armour knowing that it was an impressive way to make an entrance, but there was still a lot of negociating to do.
"Of course. I couldn't forget." He said to her, a little louder than she had, but still relatively quiet, nodding.
"I don't regret it. It was the right choice at the time. But like I told you, and like perhaps I realize now. That isn't what this Realm deserves. Nor your sister. A cheated throne...and I must begin my path to fix what was wrong somewhere." He replied to her, knowing that Baela was taking his side, and that indeed, Rhaenyra would have a good reason to think the way she did. Much had to be resolved, and he was sure they would get to the bottom of it.

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Council Chambers, Daemon's Keep, Queenstone Island

Baela sat next to Lord Garland. She was comfortably relaxing in her chair, exchanging small talk with a guard and a servant, getting caught up on everything she had missed the past few days. She had retied her hair into a more elegant and regal style, to show off both her trademark Targaryen hair, and her beauty. Her left hand would gently squeeze Lord Garland's for a moment, before letting go as she stood up. The rest of the room rose or formally stood at attention as Queen Rhaenyra and her councilors came into the room.

Garland squeezed back, quiet for the moment being, focussing on the other people in this room, the Lords casting their gaze on the Young Rose, and on Baela, her regal hair and beauty on display here, Garland's hair corrected a little, from the winds that had blown them.

Rhaenyra strode through the double doors, quickly taking her seat at the head of the table. She now sat opposite of Lord Tyrell, looking at him intently, as she waited for the rest of her faithful lords to follow suit. The chairs clattered and skidded as they were moved into position, the great lords of the Crownlands looking from their Queen to Lord Tyrell. The men looked at him hesitantly, curious as to why the Hand of the King would have chosen to come here. They looked back to their Queen, as she cleared her throat, and smiled whilst calling this council session into order.

"Gentlemen, esteemed Lord of the Stepstones, we have the honor of treating with Lord Garland Tyrell, Lord Hand of King Aerys the III, the King of the Seven Kingdoms. I call this session of my council to order, and bring the question everyone is asking to the forefront." She paused as the doors behind her were closed. Ser Trevan was now standing off to her immediate right, overwatching the entire event.

"Lord Hand, we welcome you with all due customs and courtesies to my Kingdom. Tell us, all of us who have lost our homes, our lands, everything, why you have come here, to treat with us?" Her tone came out harsher than she had meant it, but there was little Rhaenyra could do now, all she could do was wait, and hear what Garland had to say.

As the council was settling itself, and her elder sister was speaking, Baela removed the letter Alerie had written for her, and brought it up into her hands. She'd wait for Garland to speak first, before bringing to attention whatever Alerie had written.

Garland sat up, looking across at Rhaneyra, nodding.
"I come with information. an ask of your forgiveness, and an opportunity, Queen Rhaenyra." Garland began, as he looked at all the council members, before back at Rhae.

"King Aerys III has passed into a coma, into a deep sleep many do not think he will recover from. And even if he does, he will not be capable of rulership, given the nature of his wounds. He is incapable." Garland said, knowing that it would set some of the council into talk, as he knew he was widening this whole affair to everyone here. It wasn't the best he could do, but he had to do it, and he knew that it would cement his chances with Baela.

"And right now, I expect some of you to suggest why this is of relevance to any of you. The answer is simple. The Iron Throne has no ruler upon it, none that can truly rule, other than Rhaenyra Targaryen, Queen of the Stepstones. Succession is clear." His words were clear, his voice breaking the tension like a knife, being aware of what it all had meant.

"I ask of you, Queen Rhaenyra, that you permit marriage between myself, and Baela Targaryen, your beloved sister. She will become the Lady Paramount of the Reach, the Wardeness of the South, the wife of the Lord Hand. And in return, the forces of the Reach shall restore you to become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Aerys would be forced to abdicate his rule, and his dragon would have to be exiled to Valyria. I understand that I backed the young King. I was wrong to think we could ever control him." Lord Garland spoke with fervour, shaking his head.

"I believed he would grow to at least understand, that he would return what was owed to our Noble House. He didn't. Not in any marriage, in any respect, in any acknoweldgement. Everything we staked, everything we sacraficed, everything, we did it because we wanted what was right." Garland said, shaking his head.

"And I am asking of a second chance. To put you there. Because whatever we are to believe, there will not be a better Queen than you in Westeros, which needs unification, not division. And my sister is willing to provide you with the means to an end that avoids any drop of blood to be spilt in your name. You can rule in King's Landing, by the end of the week. The Kingdom of the Stepstones, a vassal much like the Kingdom of the Reach in that case." Garland was crystal clear with his words, as he looked at all of the Lords, then distinctly at Rhae, after a short glance at Baela.

"I can't understand what losing your homes, losing your Lordships, losing your part of the realm would feel like. I do not know that loss. But I know the loss of thousands of Tyrell soldiers, for the cause of the King...and now that King is no longer one that can rule. Trust me, I know that it is easy to accept that it was all for nothing. I am asking you now, Rhaenyra Targaryen, that if it is what you want...that I am willing to not let that sacrafice be in vain."

The council broke out into a cacophony of arguing voices. The Lords all speaking to be heard, saying their input on the matter. Baela was even joining in, trying to speak for Lord Garland. The noise rose to a roar, all the while Rhaenyra looked steadily at Lord Tyrell. Her normal lady like demeanor gone, replaced with a fierce, angry dragoness. Her eyes burned deeply, the purple akin to a fierce uncut gemstone being dipped into lava. She clasped her hands together, shaking her head with all the underlying fury and emotions that raged within her.

Of course, she could tell Lord Tyrell to bugger off, the bastard did choose Aerys over her. Chose a little boy who was exactly like his monster of a father in every way. He cared more about his own damned family, and had foolishly believed that Aerys would be able to be contained, that he could be groomed and manipulated into being a good little boy, a good King. How quickly everyone forgets the very same happened with Aerys the II. People tried to use him for their own gain, tried to fix slights, gain honor, the list went on. Yet how did that turn out for the realm? How did that play out for all those that died?

Pride and ego told her to just forget that god forsaken realm of beggars and fools, of people who cared more about their own personal wealth, gains, honors, the same old song and dance. Let the Seven Kingdoms devour themselves, let the Crakehalls fight the Tyrells, let the world devolve into a chaotic civil war, a war that'd make all the wars in the past pale in comparison. She smiled at that thought, even entertaining it for a while. But deep down, she was no Aerys, no Viserys, no foul and vile ruler. Deep down, or at least she believed, she was a good person.

Placing her hands down flat on the table, Rhaenyra stood up, looking at Lord Tyrell, with a mixture of anger and remorse, and she cleared her throat. The table took a few roudy moments to calm down. Rhaenyra looked at everyone at the table, making sure each and every one of them were completely attentive. She took a deep breath, before finally speaking.

"Lord Tyrell... long ago, your family and the Martell's were called together. You wanted to make the world a better place. To remove the Lannisters and right all the wrongs that had been done to your family. You were promised Fire and Blood. These were promised by who? It was not a man, it wasn't a boy... no, it was one of the greatest women ever to live. Danaerys Targaryen. A woman. A female. Your great matriach, Lady Olenna Tyrell, a woman. And yet you, much like so many other men, ignore all reason, forgoe logic, and chose a fucking monster." She kicked her chair back, letting it skid along the floor.

"I will offer you the same. Fire and Blood. I offer this because it is clear that you are a blinded fool who thought wrong. That, and my sister will make you into a great man. She will make sure you, and the children you bear will never be idotic fools like you. She will also kill you if you ever pull a stunt like that again. Welcome to the family, Lord Garland Tyrell... welcome to the great game." She finished, pushing herself away from the table, and walking out of the room. She'd speak no more on the matter for the time being. Right now, Rhaenyra thought, she needed to fly atop her dragon, she needed to soar high above the world, and remember what it meant to be a true Targaryen.

[Bluetommy]

"Stop! Please stop this!" North cried out piteously, his voice cracking humorously. Every word dragging on as the knife pushed up his cheek almost gently, a fresh cut opening behind the shining knife, sun bouncing off of it and beading off into the air. North's eyes looked ripe to be plucked, Daenys thought, delicious though they were, eyes were peasant food, Daenys was more interested in what lied within those glimmering spheres, North's prodigious mind, how ripe it would be to feast upon that night, a dragon must feast, and Daenys was getting dangerously hungry.

Perfection, a powerful man brought down to his knees, crying and begging for mercy, crying for The Stranger, crying for me.

Daenys smiled and pulled the knife away, relishing the man's hopeful confusion, before driving the blade into his wet eye with a smooth movement and a grunt. North wept and screamed, Daenys swore he heard "Mercy" fifteen times, but he was not in the "Mercy" mood, the blood on his lips tasting of cloves and sweet wine.
soon he transitioned to bashing, the sunlight illuminating every bruise, every opening and every fracture as the knife's hilt came down again and again, warm blood resting on his face and staining his hand.

Oh lovely blood, how I missed you, there is truly no fluid so sweet as a man's lifeblood, no doubt, how I love your blood, North, how I love your pain, you son of a bitch, you seven hells-loving- *THWACK* -Shitmongering- *THWACK* -Daft fucking- *THWACK*

CUNT! *THWACK* CUNT! *THWACK*

"CUNT!" He screamed until his throat ran hoarse and his arm went tired, North's pleas stopped, replaced with a dripping of blood and a soft splatting as his ruined face fell off in chunks, but Daenys continued, bashing again and again until he felt his hand swing through air and heard the snapping of North's spine.

How bloody soft, wake up!

He bashed at the destroyed head one last time as it dangled off of North's neck, the final squish sounding as the remains of North's prestigious brain burst like a pox sore, his head a light meat sack bleeding onto the grass below.

"God, no." The prince wept beautifully as Daenys turned to his tree.

Gerald Crakehall, in all his nakedness, Tyget misses you, so I've heard, he'll get you back, don't you worry.

"Lord of Light protect me, Lord of Light protect me..." He madly stammered to himself, bearded face crusted with dirt and body a painting of red and purple, some of Daenys' best work, he had to admit, the prince looked no more royal than a coalboy, despite his truly incredible physique, a small blue jewel hung from his neck, light pulsating from it at a rhythm that matched Gerald's own heightened, rat-like heartbeat.

How did I miss that? No matter, all that's yours is now mine, as my brother liked to say.

Daenys stumbled over to the man, nearly falling but pushing himself back up to his feet, drunk, Daenys realized, blood-drunk, drunk on the wails of his hated enemies and former friends, however many he had killed in this forest he had neglected to remember, but their bodies would adorn this place, a work of art, Daenys' finest. If only his brother could have seen him now, how afraid he would be.

Daenys rubbed a hand up the prince's chest, smearing beautiful lifeblood up his side, he circled his hand on Gerald's chest for a while, allowing the man to cringe in fear and gasp for air as he worried for what came next. Suddenly, Daenys flicked his hand over to Gerald's jewel, gripping it at the string and pulling it to his eye.

"Men don't wear jewelry, shouldn't a prince know that." Gerald's head shook and his eyes widened even further as Daenys spoke, fondling the jewel in his hand and smiling giddily as he wondered how much the jewel meant to him, how wonderful it would be to smash it and watch him kneel at it's remains, crying tears of pain before Daenys grabbed his bearded chin and slowly slit his throat, spending his time as the boar prince wailed to the sky, until he could wail no longer.

"Don't! It's my wife's, I need to bring it to her, I need to, she trusted m-" Daenys ripped it from his neck, violently pulling Gerald's head forwards and down and leaving an imprint on his neck.

"All the better to shatter then, I was hoping it was a family member's, if only to see you squeal as your last memory of them is broken to dust before your eyes." Daenys sighed gaily, dropping the jewel and raising a boot over it. He looked over at Gerald to see him push against the tree, to see him cry out for him to stop, to watch his eyes as the jewel was crushed like an insect. Gerald did all these things, wide mouthed and tearing, grimacing and groaning as he tried to reach Daenys, but, it was all for naught. Daenys smiled contentedly, and pushed down with his foot, the jewel popping under his foot in a way more satisfying than could be described with words.

Immediately after the jewel popped, a great fiery light emerged from Gerald, consuming the forest in it's horrid splendor, blinding Daenys and burning at his eyes. A cacophony of deafening screams emerged from Gerald as the world became a sea of orange and red. Daenys planted his feet and shielded his eyes with a cringe. What could create something of this brightness? Certainly not anything from the known world, was this his lord of light? Was this godly power in effect?

Daenys growled and stomped forth through the brightness, swinging wildly with his bloodied knife, hoping to end the painful light wherever it came from, his eyes burning and his face warmer than anything he's ever seen before. Soon it turned to pain, and his cheeks began to burn as if he had been lit aflame, a horrid pain that he'd not wish on any other person, his body shook and he felt himself be thrown backwards.

"Gods be damned! I am the dragon reborn! I am a god of mortal creation, I am the Stranger, and I will take you too, Lord of Fools!" He screamed, denying the god's existence and fighting it at every step, he growled what came to be more of a scream before tossing himself forwards and throwing himself at the source of the light, his skin near boiling off his face and liquefying his eyes.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come, it was gone. Daenys' eyes opened finally, the only light coming from the sun above. Some of the nearest trees burned furiously, a wave of orange fire blown by the wind to consume them slowly. Daenys was past infuriated, his eyes danced a mad purple and his body shook with purposeful fury.

But he had done it, he had survived the wrath of a god, he was more than a god, he was an immortal, he was invincible. Daenys was pleased, more pleased than he had ever been, he cackled wildly, furious euphoria overtaking him and throwing away his posture, leaving him madly laughing, half falling to the ground. He laughed again and again, his body shaking in happy sobs and his eyes wetly running out of tears. He gave all of himself to his laughter, his mind stopped and all that was left was his throat, bellowing a laugh that shook his body. He laughed until it was overtaken by a cough, and then that cough was overtaken by silence.

I am like no man on this world, the Seven Kingdoms should bend their knees at the sight of me, they should bask in my power before I take their admiration and turn it to tears.

"*Cough* God forgive you Daenys Targaryen, *Wheeze* for you are truly mad."

Gerald had changed.

He was skeletal, to the point where it seemed he was only alive through sheer willpower, his body hung loose on prominent ribs, his arms thin as the twigs that hung above him. His cheeks sunken and face white, purple bags hanging from bug-eyes. Daenys was disgusted, his mind racing and filled with thoughts of seeing what rested within that white skin.

"I am The Stranger himself, though you look to already have met me."

"*Cough* I met no-one, and it was only through R'hllor that I saw the truth, that there was no-one to take me after death, and that life was the only truth in our world."

"Your faith blinds you to the truth, look at me, Gerald, I have become something more, I am the dragon himself, can't you see that?"

"I see only a mad traitor, *Cough* I burned an innocent man so that you could live, and for what? You swore to serve King Tyget, you swore to me."

"I swore only to The Father above, and The Father no longer has power over me."

"I curse your name, Daenys Targaryen, I curse you from your loins to your broken mind, My family will piss on your grave and feast on your bones, and I will watch as the crows pick at you until there is nothing left for the hounds. I dare you, strike me down, for I will only become stronger, and you will lose yourself."

"Fine." Daenys smiled widely, a ringing cry from a mad beast rang out over the trees, and Daenys had never heard anything so beautiful, Gerald's smug frown quickly was replaced by a terror that no man could match, he struggled against his confinement as the beast's cries grew closer and closer.

How beautiful, to be stricken down by the same fire that you once turned to for power. I will enjoy this more than I can say.

Bloodfyre's shadow covered Daenys and his quarry, darkening Gerald's terrified face as he struggled to see more of the beast. The creature let out one last cry that shook the ground beneath Daenys' feet. Daenys grinned as his beast slashed at the air above him, his finger rising in one deadly gesture, his mouth slowly forming one deadly word.

"Dracarys."