Fandom A Game Of Thrones : THE EXALTED COUNCIL - RP

[TheFool]

IN STORM'S END ...



Joy Baratheon
NPC


​

“I remember it well,”
Joy began.

She thought back to the brisk Winter’s morning. She was huddled around a hearth in The Great Hall. Playing with a doe-eyed doll, that she could not remember the name for. Rachel? Rosie? Alexander entered the hall rubbing his hands together.
“We’re expecting.”
He said.
Joy hugged him as a congratulations.

“I was ecstatic.” She continued. “Seeing you so elegant. Thinking that I could not wait ‘til I conceived mine own.” Joy let out a laugh before saying,
“Donnel and I can’t-”
“Blackhaven has fallen!” A voice called out. Joy and Lilith looked to their left to see Donnel riding in with his companions, all wearing the colours of House Caron. Except a boy with a crossbow’s bolt in his shoulder. His sigil was a streak of lavender lightning.
“Blackhaven has fallen!” The boy repeated before he, himself, fell from his horse. His face hitting against the gravel of the yard.

Joy rushed over to him. Kneeling down. “It’s alright.” She said to him as he squirmed. The bolt in him had been snapped in half by his landing. As Joy cradled him, she looked at Donnel who dismounted his own horse,
“We found him near Grandview. Screaming bloody murder.”
“Is there truth to his words?” Joy asked.
Donnel shrugged.
“There is.” The boy said, “Blackhaven has fallen by the hands of Baelor Tyrell. We’ve got to go. We’re… not safe.”
Ronnet Penrose appeared, his face wroth with worry. “Get Maester Bryce.” He said to a soldier who was travelling with Donnel. The soldier nodded and went off in search. Joy stood up and wrapped her arms around her husband.
They embraced.

“Did you see-” Ronnet began, but he was interrupted by Donnel.
“Nothing.” He said as he let go of his her. “We saw nothing.”
“We’re not safe.” The boy repeated.
She clutched her babe.

An hour passed,
Joy sat in the yard with Lilith and her children. She’d yet to come to terms with what the boy had said. Donnel was off with Ronnet, discussing things. Joy had one hand on her stomach and the other on Lilith’s.
“We’ll be alright.” She said.
Ronnet appeared with a sword at his hip, “Bryce has sent a raven to King’s Landing.”
Joy sighed a sigh of relief.
“Do not worry, my ladies.” Ronnet continued. “Baelor Tyrell would be an absolute idiot to march this way and lay siege to Storm’s End.”
“Then let us hope that his reputation precedes him.”
Joy said,
Still clinging to Lilith’s hand. Besides Donnel, she was the closest thing Joy had to family at this moment in time and she needed her family so that she could stand strong and stand tall.

Spoiler: MENTIONS

ailurophile

 

[Hypnos]

“Baelor Tyrell would be an absolute idiot to march this way and lay siege to Storm’s End.”
- Ronnet Penrose

Manfred Beesbury
Knight of the Reach​

A hard trek had ensued following the surrender of Blackhaven, though the longest journeys oft led to the most rewarding destinations. Morale was at an all time high. Despite the many casualties that had been suffered in the initial assault of the Stormlands, those who had not perished upon the walls of castle Blackhaven had been enjoying all of the boons that came with victory. They had feasted within Blackhaven for only a single night, when Lord Baelor Tyrell had treated his vassals and knights to the contents of Lord Dondarrion’s pantry. Of course, the general foot soldiers had not been forgotten. Outside of the castle itself, tents had been set up and filled with a general assortment of foods and beverages, with bards serenading the men as they ate, and local whores creeping around to make sure that no man went to sleep unsatisfied. Lord Dondarrion had truly spared no expenses for his new guests. When the morning had come, spirits had still been high, and the overwhelming thoughts of distress that had been present prior to the assault on the keep had soon be forgotten. It appeared that war was not so bad afterall. There would be little time to enjoy their victory however, there were still more battles to be fought, more victories to be claimed.

Blackhaven had only been the first stepping stone on their way to a greater prize: King’s Landing. The next stone, as Manfred had discovered when a second Reach army had joined forces with their own under the command of Lord Addam Osgrey, had been Harvest Hall, which had fallen concurrently with Blackhaven. Two great keeps had fallen after only a few days time, it seemed that the men of the Reach would make quick work of the Stormlords.

The two armies had met near the walls of Summerhall, which had been left almost abandoned following the fleeing of Daeron the bastard. Summerhall was the seat of many Targaryen princes, and it would be a great symbol if the Reach were to claim the summer palace of house Targaryen for themselves. But Baelor Tyrell was not fighting a war for his grandson to be Prince of Summerhall. The castle was barely given a second glance, for it would not be worth the effort of taking. Lord Tyrell had different plans. If you wished to kill a snake, then you best aim for its head.

STORM’S END​

Storm’s End was an imposing Keep. Storm’s End was one of the most imposing keeps in all of Westeros. The castle had a reputation for being nigh impregnable with even the full force of the gods had not being enough to topple the mighty keep. Today the armies of the Reach would prove beyond a doubt that these claims were not true. The ancient castle of the Storm King’s would fall.

There would be no tricks employed today, no clever ruses or elaborate schemes, Storm’s End would fall fairly and honourably, as honourably as one could fall in a battle, and the Reach would hopefully win a victory which would see the Stormlands knocked clean out of the war. With Elaena’s biggest supporters gone, her demise would only be a matter of time. Perhaps the war would be won before Melessa Tyrell’s little boy had even shown his face.

“Stormlords!” With the general importance of the day, it was Baelor Tyrell himself who stood at the head of the united army of the Reach, to his left Lord Addam Osgrey, the Hero of Harvest Hall, and to his right Lord Garlan Florent, who had valiantly led the vanguard during the assault of Blackhaven. Together they were a force to be reckoned with. “I am sure you have heard by now that Blackhaven has fallen. I am sure that you have also heard that Harvest Hall was quick to follow. Whilst you sit in this castle, the Stormlands bleeds. Whilst you wage this war, the Stormlands dies. Surrender now and receive the mercy of King Jaehaerys Targaryen, no man has to die here today!”

They would not surrender, Manfred was not foolish enough to believe that Storm’s End would fall without a fight, but Baelor Tyrell liked to think of himself as a man of mercy, and so an offer had to be made.

Storm’s End would fall by tomorrow’s first light.

TheFool ailurophile Mion Braddington

 

[TheFool]

COLLAB W/ ailurophile



Lilith Baratheon
Lady Of Storm's End


​

Lilith clung to her sister in law’s hand as she stared into space, gaze glassy, unreadable. It was unclear who she was comforting, Joy or herself. Whichever it was, her grip was tight. As if she felt loosening it would make everything fall apart.
Ronnet snapped her from her daze, and she couldn't help but join Joy in her relief. King’s Landing. Alexander. Perhaps he was right; laying siege to Storm’s End was ridiculous. The castle was impregnable, or so they said. Let them come. Let them try. Let them fail.
But maybe they wouldn't fail.
Joy, Ethan, Eleanor, Donnel, Ronnet. And a baby not yet born. All in danger, all under her protection. It was all well and good feigning complete confidence, convincing herself that the siege would never succeed, but if it did… Well, she didn't even want to consider that possibility.

Surrender. It was an option. No man had to die, that was the offer. Appealing as it was, Lilith knew she couldn't take the attack lying down, couldn't be weak, couldn't give up everything without a fight. And yet…

“You must tell me, all of you. Tell me what you think is the best path to follow.” It was then she realised she was chewing her lip, a habit she'd lost long ago, before her children were even born. Her children. Her children.

-

Joy Baratheon
NPC


​

She could not believe it.
Baelor Tyrell was outside their walls, begging that they give up peacefully. Or else. King Jaehaerys Targaryen he said.
“King Jaehaerys Targaryen has been dead for half a year.” Ronnet spat.
Donnel was like stone, “He obviously means that child that clings to his daughter’s womb.”
Joy didn’t know what to do.
She was… frightened. But she thought of Jocelyn, who was always so full of poise. She thought of Alexander who would never back down, not even when he was bested whilst sparring. And she thought of Jon who was so invigorating in his way. Neither of them would have let their home slip into the hands of a man from Highgarden.

Donnel, Joy, and Ronnet all looked at Lilith as she spoke. When her words were done, there was a silence. A silence that was almost deafening. Joy couldn’t think. She just could not. It was too much. She felt a stir in her stomach and clung to the bump.
Donnel saw her do this and then placed his hand over hers. “It’ll be alright, my wife.” He told her. She wanted to believe him but his words did not bring caution.

“The best path here is evident, Lady Lilith.” Ronnet began, placing his hands on his hips. “We sit tight. Let them try to siege this castle. I’d like to see them try and do so. Their failure would delight me.”
Donnel’s eyes widened,
“You’re a mad man, Penrose.” He looked at Lilith as he still held Joy’s stomach. “We give up. No one needs to die and I think Baelor is a man of honour.
“If he was an honourable man he wouldn’t be sitting out there threatening us all.” Ronnet shot back.
“He’s giving us options.” Donnel spoke. “And one of those options will keep us all alive.”
“Horseshit.”
“Listen, Penrose, I-
“I don’t care, my lord. I am castellan of Storm’s End and I won’t give this castle to those fuckin’ daisies.”
“Stop. Both of you. Please.” Joy said, her voice was edged with sternness.
She thought for a moment before looking at Lilith,
“Don’t surrender.”
“What?” Donnel was bewildered.
Joy put her hand to her husband’s mouth as so to shush him. “We cannot surrender, Lilith. We our House Baratheon. And ours is the fury. We do not lie down in a fight.”

-

Lilith Baratheon
Lady Of Storm's End


​

As the three of them laid out their opinions before her, Lilith was silent. Her lip would surely begin to bleed if she kept her bubbling up much longer. Of course, they were right. Couldn't give everything up, couldn't ruin things, couldn't drop to her knees at the first sign of conflict. Her eyes fluttered closed as she took a shaky breath, then snapped open when she exhaled.

“Thankyou. Of course. Of course.” As she got to her feet, Lady Lilith didn't seem entirely present. She squeezed Joy’s hand before releasing it. “Watch the children for a moment, would you, sweet sister? I need to clear my head. The worry has made me feel quite unwell.”

Before they could say anything, she was gone. Her mind was a mess. Their opinions ricocheted around her brain, over and over and over.
Joy, Ethan, Eleanor, Donnel, Ronnet.
Alexander.
What she wouldn't give to have him at her side. To have him come stalking down the corridor and sweep her up in his arms and tell her everything would be alright. That he had it handled. That she needn't worry.

But he was far away. And she was alone.
Lilith leaned against the wall of the corridor, squeezing her eyes shut tight as she tried in vain to collect her thoughts. Couldn't break down. The lady of Storm’s End couldn't look so weak.

-

Joy Baratheon
NPC


​

Joy smiled a sad smile as her sister-in-law left.

“What do we do?” She asked, once Lilith was gone.
“We surrender.” Donnel said, his voice calming and sweet.
“We’ll surrender when I’m fucking dead.” Ronnet said.
Donnel scoffed, “Then you better get to it-”
“I never liked you, my lord.”
“I never cared.”
“You prick-”
“Gentlemen!” Joy snapped. “Stop this. We should not have quarrel with one another. Not when The Reach waits to… to kills us.”
“They won’t kill us, Joy.” Donnel said. She wanted to put her trust in him. She wanted to have him cradle her and tell her that no harm would come to them and their unborn child. But-
She couldn’t.
Ronnet spoke up, “You are your mother’s daughter, my lady. She wouldn’t not let those gates be opened. She would not let those lassies march in here and take what’s ours.”
“Baelor won’t kill us, but Penrose will.” Donnel said.

As Ronnet and Donnel bickered, Joy’s eyes wandered around the yard. People were in a panic. Soldiers were preparing for what wars would come. Small children were crying out for their mothers. She thought of Ethan,
Her nephew.
“We need to get Ethan out of here.” Joy said. “Siege or surrender, we cannot have him here. He is heir to Storm’s End. And his storm will not be ending soon. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
Ronnet nodded his head,
“I agree. I- What is she doing!?”
Joy’s look shot across the yard like a bow’s arrow. She saw it. She saw Lilith heading towards the gates. Ready to surrender...

“Lady Baratheon!” Ronnet called out.
“Lilith, no!” Joy joined in.
“Stop her. Stop her!” Ronnet shouted at his soldiers. But before they could even do anything, Donnel shouted the opposite-
“She is your liege lord’s wife. Let her do as she pleases. She will save us in doing so.”
Ronnet made a noise, like some sort of angry sigh. “You fucking idiots.”

He broke out into a sprint and caught up to Lilith. He placed his hand on her shoulder and pulled her towards him. Joy was taken aback by how he did it.
“I’m not letting you surrender this castle, my lady. Your children will die.” He said to her. A determination in his voice.

Joy looked at him, and then at Lilith, and then at Donnel. Her stomach stirred. She thought of Ethan. She had to get him out.
Lest his mother do something foolish.

-

Lilith Baratheon
Lady Of Storm's End


​

“Get your hands off of me.”
The venom in Lilith’s voice was completely new. Never, in all her time at Storm’s End, had the woman snapped, raised her voice, been even the slightest bit confrontational. Could the change be a sign that she wasn't quite herself?

“You are castellan of Storm’s End. I am Lady.”

The emphasis put on her words seemed to fill her with some new optimism, some new confidence. Meeting Ronnet’s gaze with her own, filled with fire, she shook her head.

“I am doing this to save them, to save us all. My sister in law is with child. Blackhaven and Harvest Hall have both fallen. Don't you see? Doing nothing can't guarantee the safety of the people in this castle, of my people. Call me a coward.”

Her mind had been made up from the second Donnel had piped up. In truth, she'd already been basically settled on the idea, but she'd just needed to hear somebody else say it, to validate her. And yet suddenly she was wavering again.

“Oh, Ronnet. Am I a coward?”

-

Ronnet Penrose
NPC


​

“With all due respect, Lady Baratheon.” Ronnet started, “You are.”

A soldier came up from behind Ronnet and pointed his sword at him. “Let her go, m’lord.” Ronnet almost laughed as he looked at the skinny boy who was threatening him.
“Do you take me for Baelor Tyrell, boy? I won’t hurt her. I am just making sure she does not do something stu-”
“Let her go. Or I will drive this sword through your heart.”
Ronnet was furious, “Do you know who I am, boy? I am Ronnet Penrose. And in all my forty fuckin’ years of being the man I am- I have never hurt a woman. Whom I have hurt, however, is countless amounts of cocky little shits that have forgotten their place.”

He looked over at Donnel and Joy only to see that the latter was gone.

“Do you know who will hurt our women? Those dainty flowery fucks outside the walls. They will hurt the women. They will hurt the children. They will hurt you. Maybe not more than I will, if you don’t get that sword out of my fucking face, but they’ll hurt you still.”

The soldier shivered for a few seconds before lowering his sword.

“Let go of her, Penrose.” Donnel said from the spot in which he hadn’t moved from. Ronnet looked at him with disgust, before looking back at Lilith.
“Do not do it, my lady.”
They stared at each other. The courtyard was tense. No one moved a muscle. “We will die.” Ronnet said. His voice as sincere as it had ever been.
“And I won’t be the one to let such an atrocity happen.”
Donnel began to walk over,
“Do it. Go out and surrender. You know it’s our only option, my lady. Surrender! Think of your kids. If we don’t give up… then they won’t have a chance to grow up.”
Ronnet shook his head. “They will. A letter has been sent to King’s Landing. Alexander and his army will come to us. All we need to do is survive a few-”
“We won’t!” Donnel yelled. “Lady Lilith, we won’t survive unless you let Baelor in.”
“Horseshit!” Ronnel said.
Donnel and he were close to strangling one another.

-

Lilith Baratheon
Lady Of Storm's End


​

For a moment, Lilith looked pained, lost, childlike. Then her gaze became glassy once more.

“Then so be it.”

She was quick to defend the boy, the way he'd defended her. Eyes narrowed, she kept her gaze fixed on Ronnet, challenging, daring.

“Do not threaten him. He is merely showing his loyalty. Perhaps, in all your forty years, you should have learnt to do that as well.” Lilith looked down at the floor, breaking her ferocity, almost as though she'd suddenly remembered who she was. When she looked up again she wasn't meeting Ronnet’s eyes, instead focusing on a spot on the wall over his shoulder. “No man has to die.” She repeated, then smiled, sadly. “Don't you understand? It is truly the only way to keep everyone safe.”

The two men argued, and she let them. Her mind wandered. Then, suddenly, she cut in.

“Enough. Quiet, both of you. I have made up my mind. Do not get in my way.” She pushed a lock of red hair from her face, and restarted the assault on her lower lip. “I am Lady of Storm’s End. I will protect the people in this castle.”

-

Ronnet Penrose
NPC


​

Lilith Baratheon began walking towards the gate. Ronnet’s thoughts were telling him to do one thing and then do another. He had to act fast. He unsheathed his sword,
“Do not do it,”
He said. His voice was dipped in desperation.
As the soldier had done to him- Ronnet pointed his sword at Lilith Baratheon. He wouldn’t of harmed her. Of course he wouldn’t. But, he had to do something. He had to swing his sword in hopes that she would be scared.
So scared that she would not take one step further towards that fucking gate.
“You are Lady of Storm’s End,” He said. “But if you go out those gates and let him in here- you’ll be bringing the storm. Not ending it.”

“I won’t allow-”
Several soldiers drew their swords on him. He was surrounded. “You’re all cowards. And you will all die cowards.”
One soldier lunged his sword and it stabbed Ronnet in his arm. He stumbled back into Donnel, who had drawn his own sword. With his sword’s pommel, Donnel hit Ronnet against the head. Sending him falling to the ground.
Half unconscious.

-

Joy Baratheon
NPC


​

Joy ran through the halls.
As fast as a woman in her condition could run. She ran. She ran. She ran. Calling out for Ethan, whom she had last seen in the courtyard. Though he was no longer there. As she turned a corner, her foot twisted and she fell face first onto the floor.

Her stomach stirred. “No,” She managed to say as she lay there. She clutched the child within her and then pulled herself back up using the frame of a portrait that hung on the wall to her right.
“Ethan…” She called out once more.
She could not afford to run now. Not after falling. Her ankle hurt and the child inside her danced around. Joy did not feel good whatsoever.
But still-
She had to find Ethan.

And she did.
In one of the gardens. The same garden that she built that stag in the snow all those years ago. “What’s the matter?” The boy asked. His face was filled with fright. She grabbed him by his collar and pulled him with her.
It was too late to stop moving.
“Aunt Joy, what’s wrong? You’re hurting me.”
“We have to go.”
“What is going on?” He asked, his voice whiny.
She had to get him out.
As they hurried down flights and flights of stairs, she saw that Storm’s End was almost empty. Everyone had gathered outside or hid behind all the locked doors along the hallways.

She couldn’t go with Ethan.
But she could not send him on his own.
There was, however, no one around. She called and she called but no one came. As they stood by the doorway that led to the little dock they had outside on Shipbreaker Bay, Joy called out continuously. Hoping that someone would come and help.

And someone did.

The boy from Blackhaven, a bandage around his shoulder- where the bolt had been. “What is wrong, m’lady?” He asked. He looked almost as scared as Ethan did.
“Do you know how to row a boat?” She asked.
“Uh… no, I don’t-”
“Do you know which way is King’s Landing?”
“I think so.”
She let out a sigh, “Take him. The Tyrells are at our gates.”
The Blackhaven boy’s face dropped.
Now he was even more scared.
“Take Ethan and row…”
Joy said.
“Get him to King’s Landing. Else he will die.”

-

Lilith Baratheon
Lady Of Storm's End


​

Lilith held her breath, refusing to take her eyes off of Ronnet’s sword. He wouldn't hurt her. She knew that. She had faith. But still she froze, rooted to the spot, afraid. It was only natural-- she was unarmed, she was defenceless, she was weak.

Not weak.

Somehow she kept her face unreadable as the sword was buried into Ronnet’s arm. Unreadable as he fell back. Unreadable as he was knocked unconscious. It would be easier this way, without him voicing the contradictory thoughts that she was trying so hard to push to the very back of her mind. There was only one option.

“Thankyou, you are good men. I will not forget this.” Her promise was followed with a smile and a nod, mostly directed at Donnel, before she silently excused herself. Turned around. Started for the gates.

As she walked, so many things flashed through her head. The birth of her children. Her wedding, and the night that followed. Her first arrival at Storm’s End. Oh, how nervous she had been that very first day, more nervous maybe than she was as she drew nearer to the gates. She had to smile at the memory. She remembered being smitten with Alexander from the moment he'd first smiled at her, and she'd known instantly that everything was going to be alright.

Alexander.
My love, forgive me.

“Baelor Tyrell.”
The woman drew herself up as tall as she could make herself, pushed out her chest, lifted her chin. Everything she could do to hide her fear. Her hands shook, and she clasped them together at her waist to hide her quaking fear.
“No man, woman, or child inside this castle will be harmed. That is the term of my surrender. If I can have your word, on your honour…” She trailed off. Could she bring herself to..?

Joy, Ethan, Eleanor, Donnel, Ronnet.
Alexander.
My love, forgive me.

“If I can have your word, I will open these gates. There will be no siege. I, Lilith Baratheon, Lady of Storm’s End, surrender.”

Spoiler: MENTIONS

Braddington
Hypnos
Mion

 

[Nightblade]

Jon Baratheon
The Silent Stag
​

It had been a rough few days, Fighting had broken out between The Reach and The Stormlands. Jon knew what prize those F***ing Roses were going for, Storms End. It was an obvious move seeing as a lot of Baratheon strength lay in Kings Landing. Leaving shortly after the news was spread, Jon left the city in a rage.

He had made his way to one of the ships he had called from the East which arrived 2 days after the first small council meeting. He had personally made sure Alexander knew of the developments and Jons suspicion Before he left.

Jon remembered vaguely climbing on the flagship of his little fleet of 5 ships and telling it to turn starboard and leave, to plot a swift course south to Tarth before making for Storms End. Hopefully if time was on their side they would make it. Sitting in a large room below deck, Jon looked to the pair that made up half of his crew.

"We make for Tarth, then on to Storms End, The roses think to take my home, they will know fury"

That had been roughly 4 days ago. He arrived in Tarth, resting and re-supply as he saw the Tarth men armed and ready. He left the gathering of supplies and readying of the men to the others while he sat thinking.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Brielle
The Fallen Flame
​

Brielle had been giving council to Jon for years, going back to their time in Essos. A fallen Priestess of Rhllor, Brielle grew up in Volantis joining Jons small mercenary group as a spy originally. Strange how she found herself now mixed up in a westerosi war.

"Do you believe you will make it to your home in time?, from the sounds of it this Baelor has a large army and his intentions seem clear, there may not be much home left to go home too"

Brielle was all for war but it needed to be done cleverly. This was not Essos where blind charges were considered good strategy.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Leyana Snow
The White Fox
​

Leyanna scoffed at Brielle's thoughts, fighting was the same everywhere. You just stuck your blade in your opponent nothing more about it. Folding her arms she scoffed again and rolled her eyes. She was not Foreign to Westeros as the fire priestess was so she knew a fair amount of the politics of the kingdoms.

"He may have a large army, but the Tyrells are known for being as thick as Pig Shite, and a lot of the men are fat as sows. They survive on the fact that they can call the largest army in westeros to war, but even that takes time."

Running a whetting stone along her blade, she rolled her eyes as she sharpened the sword. The sooner they left this island the better so she could finally get her blade wet instead of standing around swirling wine like some high born lady.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

[Little-Fox]

Willow Stark
Winter's Blossom in Bloom​

As Lady Manderly came up to offer her support, a twinge of panic started in Willow's heart. Oh no... what have I done? Surely she doesn't expect... That is my father's job... yes he left but I'm sure he'll return soon. What would mother do? She thought of her mother and how bold she was that fiery spirit always seemed ready and capable, at least in Willow's eyes. "Ah, thank you La-" Soft spoken as she was, it was quite likely no one except those closest to the pair could even hear her and so it wasn't surprising when Lord Umber interrupted. She looked almost startled at first as he began to speak, her fire-touched brows knitting with that very first sentence. "You'll forgive me, my lady, but I grow tired of this charade." She listened, quiet and lady-like as ever, she listened. Patience was something she'd likely inherited from her father along with his anxiety. So that's it then? The Umbers are running home with their tails tucked so their kin can die on the battlefield? Or are they hoping for some sort of rebellion here... Father needs to know, but I can't guarantee Lord Umber will remain before I would get back. If he is too much a coward to fight, then I don't know that he's not too much a coward to stay to discuss things with the Liege Lord he's intending on turning his back on.

Eyes the color of stormy seas drifted from the older man to those around him, trying to gauge whether or not there were more who shared his view. But as he finished, another stepped forward to speak and she turned her attention to him. He was younger, likely close to her own age and yet as he spoke, directly to her and to the rebellious Lord, she couldn't help but smile. There were people coming to raze his homeland and yet he was here to warn them. Sure, it was also because he sought help, but that was part of how Vassals and their Lords worked. In a sense, they helped one another in a sort of symbiotic relationship albeit most would agree that the Lords tended to have the better end of that deal, a thought that made her flinch slightly.

She offered one last look to Lady Manderly, offering her a faint nod and a soft smile as well before stepping over to the Crannogman. "Thank you, Lord Reed. You have brought something precious and useful... something I hope all here will see for what it is. You have brought a warning, information necessary for the survival of our people, a gift that I hope no one here forgets." Her gaze flicked to Lord Umber briefly before she looked to Lady Manderly and then back up to the taller Reed with a genuine but pained smile. War wasn't just approaching, it was here an on their doorstep. Harrenhal wasn't far behind them and yet already there was smoke on the horizon. "I am not a war leader." She admitted quietly, her voice softer than it had been as if it was only for those still standing close to her. And as Lord Umber has so readily shown, I am not someone they would respect anyhow. "But I think that it's time we begin determining who would be best suited to lead that front, someone capable who lacks cowardice but not experience..." She turned once more to Lady Manderly and smiled as she realized something, she'd already been given a list of names, those she at least felt comfortable trusting with such things. "Lady Manderly... I think you are correct, though. We do need to call a proper Council, and with Lord Reed's news, it needs to happen now. May I suggest that the Lords you mentioned come forth so that this can begin? Those who are not directly involved are more than welcome to stay in the guest quarters as there should be plenty of room for everyone and I am certain that a hearty meal could be put together for when the meeting is finished. As it is already midday, I would suggest that those leaving Winterfell would wait till first light before doing so to ensure proper rest and supply." Not to mention that my father could be made aware of what is happening...

Whisker Braddington winterfell

 

[TheFool]

IN ESSOS ...



Quhuru
Lieutenant


​

Just because his manhood was no more did not mean that Quhuru Of The Summer Isles was less of a man.
If anything, he was more than one.
A simple man would not have been able to hack off the limbs of six Lorathian assassins, sent to kill a merchant from Ibben.
A simple man would not have been able to withstand ten dozen whacks to the head with one of said assassin’s helms.
A simple man would not have been able to hold off heave those same six assassins’ corpses into a burning pit outside of Myr.
But,
He did. Quhuru was no simple man. He was more. Manhood or no.

Quhuru stood outside Myr, by one of the burning pits they had dug.
The merchant that hired him and his ‘friends’ stood beside him, counting coins that he obtained from a tangerine coloured pouch.
“It’s done then?” The merchant asked.
Quhuru looked at him.
I’ve never seen a man so small that wasn’t in the middle of some mummer’s show.
“It is.” He said.
The merchant spat into the pit, “Good. I’m glad to be done with it all.”
“Can we head back now, boss?” Rags said as he climbed out of the pit. His armour bloodied. The rag around his eye was enveloped in dirt.
“Yes. I tired.” Jaq said, climbing out behind him.
Hmm.
Quhuru looked at the merchant,
“We’ll head back when we have our coin.”
The merchant and Quhuru stared at one another for a moment before the small man begrudgingly placed the pouch in the hand of Quhuru that was specked with remnants of greyscale.
My wyrm hand.
“It was a pleasure.” Quhuru said with a sly smile.
The merchant growled, “Now fuck off. I don’t want to do dirtied deals with you thugs again.”

Quhuru raised his right brow in amusement,
“Whatever you said, dwarf.”
The merchant from Ibben’s face became flustered with red. Jaq and Rags mounted their horses, as did Quhuru.
But before they began their ride, Quhuru looked at the merchant-
“And we’re not thugs. We’re Golden Company.”
Quhuru spat onto the ground and then grabbed the reins of his horse. The steed started into a gallop. And Quhuru and his companions left the merchant and the smell of singed bodies behind...

It was hours before they got home,
And by home-
The Golden Company’s encampment. It wasn’t a luxurious place to lay your head to sleep at night, but it was something at the least.
A home is a home.
Quhuru brought his horse to a stop.
And I definitely do not mind having one.
“You gonna get some rest, boss?” Rags asked as the rode their horses to the tents where they’d hitch the beasts up to some big stake buried in the grass. Quhuru was first to dismount. He tied up his horse and then put his hands on his hips,
Mala.

“I’m going to go see Mal-”
“Quhuru?” A voice spoke.
He turned to see a man standing by a tent, behind the hitching stake.
“Costayne.” Quhuru greeted him.
The Westerosi was like stone, “Captain wants to see you.”
“What for?”
“I’ll take you to her and then you’ll find out what for.” He said.
Quhuru looked at Jaq and Rags who still stood by their horses. “Go get something to drink lads.” He commanded them. They did as he said.
They always did.
“Then take me to her, Westerosi.” Quhuru said, glaring at Dickon Costayne. He’s some exiled noble or shit. He looked the man up and down. All Westerosi looked almost lame to Quhuru. They were frail and pale.
I could pick my tooth with the lot of them.
“I’m waiting.”
Especially Dickon Costayne.

They started walking.
The Captain’s tent was the biggest one in the camp, of course. I’ll have to see Mala later, Quhuru thought as he followed the Westerosi. Dickon raised the tent’s flap that led into The Captain’s quarters.
“Here he is.” Dickon said.
Quhuru put on his biggest smile and did a dramatic bow,
“You called for me, Captain Rhaenyra?”

Spoiler: MENTIONS

GOLDEN COMPANY FAM,

ailurophile
TheAncientCelt
Little-Fox
Whisker

 

[Nightblade]

Selene Mallister
The Watcher of the Sea
​

Selene's idea had worked far better than she imagined, men and boys came from all over Mallister lands. With them came Women, Children and the elderly. Seagard saw a massive influx of people. Training was going on in earnest while women did what they could. Selene swirled her goblet of wine, thinking. The reports of Ironborn raiding was bad news indeed. for now it was merchant ships but the issue was Seagard depended on those ships to keep trade flowing. Her grandmother had been no help at all. Setting out the idea that she should marry the Tully heir, but that was hitching House Mallister to a horse Selene was not completely backing yet.

So Selene had men watch the water, any sign of strange activity was to be reported straight to her. Selene still had not chosen a side, her sister was in Eleanas corner while her cousin was in Daerons. Sighing and pressing her palm against her head, she knew she was stuck. choose a side and lose one of them or follow the Tullys and lose them both. Of course then the news spread like Wildfire that the Reach had attacked the Stormlands, led by the Bloated Lord himself. The man was a walking liability and anyone who had the brains could see the man was simple in the mind.

Selene had gotten the main access to the harbors closed off, she could not risk the Ironborn attacking the city with its main gate open. This was why a two sided war was easier, 1 enemy camp. The Riverlands were stuck on a knife edge and anything could tip them over. She wondered to herself what the Tullys planned to do to hold support from their own lords. Looking at her map of the Riverlands, Selene frowned, if the Tullys could not marshall the lords in time they all risked seeing the Riverlands bleed.

Mentions:
TheFool - Eleana
diwa - Cyrenna
TheAncientCelt - Edmure
Akio - Urrigon

​

 

[Hypnos]

Manfred Beesbury
Knight of the Reach​

The gods truly smiled upon Baelor Tyrell, there was no other way to explain the blessing that they had granted to the Reach upon this day. The men gathered had been expecting a conflict, they had been expecting a brutal and bloody battle that would see many of their lives lost. Some had been excited: they had wanted to storm the walls and prove once and for all that even the mightiest castle was no match for the valour of the Reach. Many more were relieved to still be breathing. Manfred himself stood somewhere in the middle of this issue. He was young, too young to have experienced anything but the peace brought about by the reign of King Aegon VI. He had seen combat at Blackhaven, but that had been minimal. It had not been him that had climbed the ladders to open the gates, nor had it been him who had ridden with the vanguard under the command of Lord Florent to cut down the last resistance of the lighting lords. He was happy to be alive, and he did not envy those whom had to sacrifice everything for an unborn child, however a tiny part of him still longed for glory, glory that he would not achieve today.

“By my honour as Warden of the South!” Baelor Tyrell looked happier than any man had ever been before. He was wearing a helmet, an ornately forged piece which looked like it cost more than Manfred’s entire suit of armour, yet that was still not enough to obstruct the view of Baelor’s massive grin. “By my honour as Lord of Highgarden! By my honour as a father and my honour as a loyal servant of the true king! If these gates are opened, then no man inside these walls will be harmed. You and your children will be treated with all the respect you are due as members of House Baratheon. You will be guests” prisoners and hostages “at Highgarden with my own daughter, and once the war is won, I give my word that yourself and your husband will be granted royal pardons by his grace King Jaehaerys II for the lives that you have helped save here today.”

Baelor Tyrell looked very pleased with himself. It was not every day that a meal such as this served itself to you upon a silver platter, and there was nothing that Lord Tyrell loved more than food. Manfred didn’t know whether Lady Baratheon was very smart or very stupid. Baelor Tyrell was many things, but a monster was not one of them, if the day had been won, there was very little chance that Lilith Baratheon, or her son would have been at risk of being tortured or put to the sword. That being said, it was hard to control an army as large as this one, and there were always knights and soldiers that had dreamed of having their way with a noble lady. Lilith Baratheon was a very beautiful woman. Even Manfred, who had always looked up to the code of chivalry as the most important thing for a knight, had to admit that giving her a ride didn’t sound like an unappealing prospect. But he was a man of honour, such thought were beneath him.

From the corner of his eye, Manfred could see Lord Baelor whisper something to Lords Osgrey and Florent. What was going through Baelor’s mind, Manfred couldn’t hope to guess, but he knew that the day was no over yet. He had heard tales of Harvest Hall from his brother Perwyn who had fought there. He knew that the Selmys had agreed to surrender upon the defeat of Lord Symon Selmy in a duel. They had gone back upon their word almost immediately. Did House Baratheon have more honour? Would this woman let their army into her halls without a fight? Manfred was only slightly worried. If they could topple Selmy, if they could topple Dondarrion, then what chance did this woman have against them?

“You are a brave woman Lady Baratheon. The Stormlands have fought valiantly, but it is time for their fight to end. Do not let your children die for a lost cause. Dondarrion stood with honour and Dondarrion fell. Selmy stood with dishonour and Selmy fell. My grandson, King Jaehaerys II will be Alexander’s great nephew, do not fight kin!”

ailurophile TheFool Braddington Mion

 

[Hypnos]

Melessa Tyrell
Widow​

Wincing slightly as Maester Perceon ran a single large hand along her stomach, Mel stood to attention, trying to remain as dignified as was possible when an old man was touching her bare flesh. It was just a routine checkup, an examination to make sure that her baby was still alive and well, but that didn’t make it any less demeaning. Under normal circumstances she would not mind allowing the maester to do his job, he was after all, a trained professional and her knew what he was doing. Under normal circumstances however there wouldn’t be a theatre full of different guardsmen gathered around to watch. Mel’s face was perpetually tinted with a violent shade of red. Even now she could not be alone.

Were her father still here, she might have been able to reason with him, Baelor Tyrell was bullheaded, but at least he cared. He would not allow all of these men to eye up his daughter whilst she was most vulnerable. Alas, Baelor Tyrell had marched to war, and with him was the last chance Mel had of freedom. The majority of the familiar faces within Highgarden had marched off, as if overnight: her father, her brother, Lord Addam, they had all been caught up in the storm of war, and left Mel to fend for herself. In their place was merely a group of strangers, men who neither knew her, nor particularly cared to know her. In the absence of her Lord father, her nuncle Tommen had been left in charge of the keep, though he offered her little comfort, and enjoyed playing at being her father a little bit too much for comfort. Mel had to spend her time sowing, weaving and generally occupying herself with other mundane activities on a day to day basis just to retain her santiy.

She had attempted to send a letter to her father, but her nuncle was unwilling to spare a single man to serve as a runner. She had attempted to send a raven to her brother Mern at the citadel, but Ser Tommen had insisted that all birds be kept in Highgarden lest they were needed for more important matters. Mel did not like her nuncle Tommen very much. It was his fault that she was here, being looked over like a breeding mare. Every day he insisted that the maester should look over her, and every day nothing new developed. “You’re not eating enough, Lady Melessa.” Maester Perceon would say with a voice as rough as sand, “and all of this stress is not good for the baby.” Everyday she would simply smile and promise to try to rectify things, but everyday her words were empty. How could she not be stressed? Her entire family was marching to war for this child, there was a lot riding on a smooth delivery. There was a lot riding on her.

“Lady Melessa, you should really be eating more food if you want your son to be big and strong.” Right now she would settle for having any kind of son at all. The maester’s flesh felt cold against her own, and Mel shivered slightly as he continued to poke and prod her. “And you need to rest more, for the baby’s sake.” Rest was the only thing that she could do right now, it was not as if adventure was throwing itself her way.

“Of course Maester Perceon, I will try.” The old man gave her a crooked smile, his teeth stained red from chewing too much sour leaf.

“We’re all counting on you my Lady. Your father especially.” As if she needed reminding.

“I know maester.”

“I will see you the same time tomorrow?”

Mel nodded as the old man helped her to do back up her gown and once again cover herself, from the prying eyes of those watching. It was going to be a long month until this baby was born.

Sighing as she dusted herself off, Mel thanked the maester once again before making her exit, perhaps today she would finish her needlework or go for another walk around the gardens. More of the same.

 

[Nightblade]

Artys Hunter
The Huntsman
​

As he did every day since he was a lad, Artys broke his fast early and spent the early morning sparring with some of his men. A tradition he kept as a lad, it was now an ideal way for him to interact with the men who served him. He typically bathed afterwards and then read through letters. As he swung against his opponent, his mind went back to the last few weeks. The King passed away leaving 3 claimants to the throne. Like other houses of the Vale, Artys threw his lot in with his Good-Sister and backed her nephew Daeron to take the throne.

The lords declarant followed Astora to Harrenhal. Artys himself had remained in Longbow Hall, sending out for the men to assemble. Knowing that the council would serve little to no purpose. The subsequent events and the formal call to arms of the Vale proved Artys right. He managed to gather his full strength of 3,000 men.

Artys left 500 men behind to defend Longbow Hall and he led the rest of his men towards the Eyrie. It was there that Artys learnt of the letter read by Rosby and the coward Gawen's slaughter of the man. Artys had joined the other lords marching and joined up with the main host from the Vale. After Formally renewing his oath to Astora, his troops merged with the Vale host.

Taking a deep drink of water, he clapped the lad he had been sparring with on the back. Deciding to clean up, he headed for a river that went adjacent to the camp and after shedding his clothes, began to wash himself in the River.

​

 

[Little-Fox]

Lady Nissa Morrigen
Little Crow​

​

It had taken a few days at least, but as the men's horses came to a halt at the thinnest stretch of the bay she frowned. Glints of silver danced across the broken surface of Shipbreaker Bay, the Isle of her mother's people lay across the strait, the lights of their destination dimly shining in the distance. "We could camp here, my Lady." A tall tow-headed man suggested. "I know we could, Will. But we need to be quick in crossing. Do you think we could manage it in the dark?" She turned to look up at him, dark brown eyes like her father's greeting the man with quiet confidence.

"We could, but the risk is far higher." He replied, sensing her urgency. "Will... we have to cross before the Reach's Bastards catch up to us. If they corner us here we are as good as dead, or they take us as prisoners. I'll be damned if that's going to happen, alright? See if we can't get a signal fire up for Evenfall Hall or perhaps even their Mariner's hands or guards. Surely someone will see it and give a response. If we can establish something while the boat is being checked over and tested, then perhaps they can guide us in without too much of a hassle."

Lord Penrose's home of Parchments lay in the background, a blessed blessed thing in Nissa's mind as it had been their boat they'd acquired through a small pouch of gold. The only concern now was navigating the strait and making safe harbour on the other side. Down on the beach below she could see the fire, the modest stone wall helping to keep it hidden from the mainland as she watched across the water for any sign of reciprocation, her heart in her throat. A few of the men worked in tandem, using brush to keep it going while another used waxen tarp to cover the flames from sea's sight only to reveal it again, trying to show that it was in fact a signal, not a simple fire. If this does not work soon... we may very well have to go in blind. She detested the idea. The danger was far too great... then again, they could simply get close and man it overnight till first light, use the dawn to get them safely to port.

Nightblade

 

[TheAncientCelt]

Steffon Dayne
The Sword of the Morning

Maerie's Brothel - King's Landing


Without fail, Shiv abandoned her priests room once Lord Dayne entered. The Dornish peasant was embarrassed, Steffon imagined. 'Or maybe she wants me out faster, so they can return to their activities uninterrupted.' He almost laughed at the thought. Despite the ulterior motives, Steffon was happy to see Shiv go. Not that he didn't like the hot pepper of a woman, but a brothel wasn't a place Steffon wanted to linger at. 'I'll need to talk with prince Qoren, find an appropriate room for Matthos in the Red Keep.' That might be a hard sell, considering their estranged relationship after Harrenhal, but Dayne would find a way to convince his liege lord. It would be a servants quarters, nothing as fanciful as Maerie's Brothel. 'I doubt he'll mind. He may complain, but I won't listen to it.' When Steffon needed council, someone to clear his mind, he could only trust Matthos. Steffon took another sip of his wine once he saw Matthos drain more of his, The Sword of the Morning was never one to be outdone.

'Not unless it's by Jon Corbray.' The name stung. As did his nose.

At the invitation to sit close to Matthos, the Lord paused. Confident no one would see them, he nodded, joining the Red Priest in the booth. More wine fell into Dayne's mouth. "A fine city, if you enjoy cities. I've always been fond of castles." He began. Dayne looked at Matthos, the red robes he wore, that hair of his, and shook his head. "I am." He admitted. "We're in a war, is it unusual for me to be tense?" An excuse. He wasn't tense due to the political climate. At least, not wholly. It was Prince Qoren. It was an oath sworn to that lizard. A disgrace handed to him by a man who was on the verge of his final winter. It was everything. Lord Dayne smiled, then he drank. "And you? How can you appear so calm? Between Daeron Targaryen in the North, amassing an army to smash into King's Landing, and the Reach directly south of us, we've been made into the meat for a filling sandwich." He smiled, pitifully and without truth behind his words. There was little fear in the advancing forces. Lord Dayne was an honorable man, he would fight to the last. There wasn't much else in this world that Dayne could look forward to but that.

Pia Tully
Riverrun

Sitting in the solar at Riverrun, three women were having afternoon tea and various snacks, mostly in the form of fried pastries. Bread with jam splattered over the top of it, honey fresh from the Reach, powder cake and an assortment of berries. Of the three women, only two were engaging in discussion, the wife of Edmure Tully, Lysa Darry and Meera Tully. Pia refuses to comment, chewing slowly on a blue colored berry with a particular sweet flavor to it, something she despised, but refused to spit out. As the younger women (barely, in the case of Lysa Darry) discussed one dull topic to another, Pia's mind was preoccupied with her husband and Maester Karl. The two had spent so much time together, before Karl convinced her husband to go. She hated that maester, for all his words, he chose a few to inspire some stupidity in Lord Ryman. 'And my sons.' He took both Edmure and Ryman with him, outfitting them in proud colors befitting the young guppies of House Tully, and marching off towards Lysa's home. 'If that bastard touches a hair on my sons head, I will ride East and split open his throat.' She promised herself that, finally swallowing the berry.

"And that's why you must always dirty him first, Meera. Otherwise he won't bother to wash himself before joining you." Lysa Darry said with a crooked grin, her knees bent as she spoke to the second youngest of the Tully's.

"You mean," The squeeky voice of the thirteen year old was gasping, shock filled her, eyes twinkling with mischief and thoughts no pure maiden should have. "Even his. . Dangle?" A playful word for cock, Pia would never tolerate her youngest saying such a thing.

"No, Meera." Lysa's lips were sealed shut, as if a lemon half as tart as the Darry girl was between her lips. "Never the dongle. Not unless you spill wine on him. How ever do you think I sleep with your brother?"

The young Meera giggled relentlessly. "I don't think I'd want to think about Edmure's doogle." Her lips were parted in a wide smile, teeth flashing to her 'older sister'. Their relationship was special, as Meera grew up with two older brothers and only Pia as a female figure in her life. When Lysa married Edmure, the older woman was all too happy to play that role for little Meera.

"As you shouldn't. His Dimple is always dirty." Lysa's pursed lips broke for a moment, her smile invigorating Meera. "You should spill wine on him next time, for me. I can play the klutz only so much."

Nodding, the young teenager pressed the topic. "If Father will let me have wine."

"Oh, I will let you sip from mine. Then you spill it on his crotch and thighs." Devilishly, the Darry woman recruited her young sister in law in the scheme of the century. "He'll clean his dandle that very night, and I'll approach him!"

"Shut it with his Dangle. His dimple, dongle, dandle, and little doodle." Pia spoke up, looking at both her 'daughters' with thinning eyes and closed lips. "Don't you have anything better to do, daughters? Maybe pray to the Seven that brothers and husbands are not lost? Inspire the guards? Work on your sewing?" Her eyes fell heavy on Meera, who naturally shrunk at her mothers brazen attitude.

Lysa did not, for better or worse, she arched her head high and crunched on a berry. "Mother, we've prayed this morning. We'll pray this evening too, as we've done every day since father and Edmure left."

"Ryman too!" Meera piped in, believing she was helping.

"Ryman too." Lysa corrected herself, resisting the urge to smile, understanding exactly how worked up Pia could get at times.

An awful, cruel smile fell onto her face. One that was not natural, least not to anyone but herself and Richard Piper. Pia rose from her seat, grabbing another berry. She swallowed it whole, not letting the awful flavor ruin the snack. "Maybe pray harder, daughters. Lest something bad happen. The Gods are fickle, in how they test us." Pia let a hand rest at her hip, arcing it to the side as she looked to Lysa, then Meera. "We would not want to hear of any tragedies abroad. I hear horrible stories about the Water King." Without saying anything more, she had the attention of Meera. A girl who loved to talk, who loved to be told stories, would no doubt enjoy war. War and its greatest of friends. The noble lie. Something Pia practiced quite well. A noble lie hurt no one, in fact it protected families, defended castles, and cast off suspicion from one self. The noble lie gave Pia three wonderful children and a man who she loved with all her heart. "He eats the flesh of his enemies. Why do you think the Hill Tribes have cowered in fear since his arrival? Worse yet, to the dogs do the noble ladies go, he treats no one with respect. His own mother is afraid to anger him."

Lysa remained silent. Meera's eyes were wide. "And father. . .Ryman, Edmure. They're going to fight that?" Her voice was low. Pia smiled.

"Do you see why you should pray now, my daughter? No more of these little games."

"Yes mommy."

"Go and pray. I'll find you when it's time to eat."

Scurrying off, Meera made haste for the door. She did not finish her tea nor did she clear her plate. What a mess she left behind! What a mess. Pia rolled her eyes, falling back in her chair. Lysa was glaring at her mother. 'Of course she is.' Normally, the two women were close, they got along well and had a similar sense of humor. Ever since Ryman left, a lizard lion was preferable company to the Lady of House Tully. "Well? Is there a lecture coming, dear daughter? Have I stepped over my feet and lied to my daughter? Should I go pray too?" A pregnant pause, Lysa remained still, her eyes hard on her mother. "Out with it, if you have something to say. If not, go and find me Karl. I need someone to yell at."

Standing, Lysa Tully turned from her mother. Anything became of greater interest. Pia would have it no other way. "And tell him to bring wine. I am thirsty."

As Lysa neared the exit, she turned. Her lips, beautiful and cherry colored, were dipped downward. "I am sorry for your strain of heart, mother. I assure you though, Lord Ryman will be safe." She made her leave, feet clacking on the ground quicker now, avoiding the wrath of Riverrun's matriarch.

"Ryman." She spat the name. "I worry not for my oaf of a husband. It's my boys." She glared where Lysa was. What did that woman know? Barely younger than Pia, yet marrying her eldest son. A shrew herself, unable to find a marriage for over ten years before Lord Darry tricked Ryman into their pact. Sitting alone, Pia picked up another berry, biting hard on it as it passed over her molars. The taste was not so bitter as before, she decided, and had another.

Lord Balthazar Darklyn
Hand of the Queen

King's Landing

Balthazar Darklyn never underestimated Symond. Keeping the peace for over thirty years was nothing short of spectacular. The man was smart, quick to solutions and familiar with every lord of Westeros, even some of knights of great fame. Rosby was born to be the Hand. Balthazar? He was born to be a finger, he learned that after Queen Elaena named him hand. The golden badge weighed heavy on his chest every day since, the weight only growing as news reached them. Two castles in the Stormlands conquered, both belonging to Marcher lords. Days later, Storm's End had fallen. In what way? Balthazar Darklyn had no idea, his old friend may have convinced Lilith Baratheon to surrender, or did the impossible. Regardless of what Baelor Tyrell did, the rumors sparked fear in the populace, the reputation of the great Baratheon castle known to all. And that man had taken it not a month into this conflict.

Darklyn was not spared this dread either.

The Hand of the Queen was no Symond Rosby. He was no Baelor Tyrell either, considering the man's recent success. But, the stuttering whoremonger would not surrender King's Landing without a fight. The Tower of the Hand was flooded with passerby's, not once under Rosby did Darklyn recall the private quarters of the Hand being so busy. Goldcloaks and servants from the Red Keep were being ordered about by Balthazar constantly, the lord who vaguely resembled a ship's anchor demanding food or sending a messenger out into the city, collecting superfluous metal adornments. Any spare chest in the Red Keep, a door knob unneeded and hinges going to waste were collected in the courtyard. Of the things they needed, Balthazar decided metal for arrow heads was at the top of that list. Five messengers and counting were sent to Coppersmith’s Wynd in an effort to hire out their services when it came to making use of the metal they'd been collecting. They wouldn't be quality arrows, the city didn't need to piece plate armor. Just enough to shower on every son of a bitch who couldn't afford a shield or shiny metal. A sigh escaped Balthazar. It was only an hour after noon, yet he was ready to sleep. Sweaty, hungry despite his regular (or constant) meals, thirsty yet near drowned in goblets of wine. His body, withered by time, wanted to rest. His mind told him to stand, to take a walk, then return to his work. 'So much to do.' Balthazar had messages heading for half a dozen men in the city, requests or orders, depending on the person. Already, fifteen youths were paid to head south of the Blackwater Rush, axes in hand and orders to bring back the timber they collected. They, like many others, carried the Hand's seal. Removing the trees was only the first step of his "plan" to defend the city, even this opening procedure was barely started. In his dreams, Balthazar saw the entire landscape free from thick foliage. Give Baelor no quarter when it came to making use of their materials. And he was behind. 'I'll need to borrow some of Commander Brune's men.' Balthazar hadn't yet spoken to the man. All things considered, he was low on the list. A replaceable figure, even if Darklyn didn't want to remove the Commander. Other matters demanded his attention.

Two desks pushed together demanded Balthazar's attention. On it, a map of King's landing lay, ink not yet dried dotted around it, with minor notes written on the side. Balthazar had been looking at the map pensively, studying it in an attempt to formalize a plan. In his liberal estimates, the city may have over ten thousand men to defend its walls. Baelor Tyrell had several times that amount. 'I cannot do this alone.' As much as Balthazar adored Jocelyn Baratheon, one of his oldest friends left (certainly his oldest friend he wasn't fighting against), she wasn't a woman of war. She would have no mind for it. Not that Darklyn was any seasoned soldier either. Elaena Targaryen was much the same, only younger and with less experience with the world. With Alexander Baratheon gone, Lord Darklyn had few choices to turn to. 'Gawen and Qoren.' The names hung heavy over the Lord of Duskendale. Qoren Martell was a stranger, who might know little or be an expert. Gawen Tyrell? 'He will know much.' The Lord Commander would aid Balthazar greatly when it came to devising a strategy but. . .

'He killed Rosby.'

No, he would not ask for Gawen's assistance. If the Lord Commander came of his own volition, Darklyn would not clog his ears like a child. But there would be no call for Gawen Tyrell. That left only one man. 'Seven save us, if Qoren Martell cannot help us I may go mad.'

"R-rrr-rorge." The squat man called past his wooden door.

"Lord Hand," A voice responded. Tall, blond and handsome, Rorge belonged to Duskendale, his father the kennel master. When Balthazar ventured to King's Landing, he took Rorge and several others with him, smart men he could trust. "How can I help you, Lord Balthazar?" His eyes were on the mess of a room that Darklyn inhabited. Food crumbs everywhere, a spilled chalice of wine that Balthazar ignored, and an assortment of maps, books and notes hiding on Darklyn's bed.

"I-I nee-neee-edd you to find Prince Martell, the elder Prince." He corrected himself. "L-Lord Qoren. I need to speak with him immediately."

Rorge nodded, his feet moving faster than his brain. "The Dornish man?" He asked for confirmation.

"The very same." Balthazar sat back in his chair, watching as the blond exited the room, his foot falls loud as he clacked down the steps.

The Hand of the Queen fell forward, hands catching his head as the old man shut his eyes. Until Martell arrived, he could afford himself a little break. Rest, to clear his mind of everything else going on. The slaying of Rosby, the battles in the Stormlands. The war against a friend. 'Forsaking my king.' His eyes clamped down harder, blocking off all light in the room.

'Oh Daeron. .'​

 

[Lingua Frankly Not]

King Daeron Targaryen III
& Ser Joron Corbray
The Riverlands
​

After a few days full march the men of the Vale had finally made their way through the Bloody Gate and into the Riverlands proper. To say villagers were confused as to why forty thousand men had passed their homes was an understatement. The small folk still had no idea what was about to happen, that their sons would lie dead upon on a green field in some distant Kingdom and their husbands would be washed away along a river with no name. It was still tranquil, a reminder of the days before King Aegon’s death but also an eerie reminder of things to come. Now here they were in an unassuming patch of land in a Kingdom about to be engulfed in fire and blood. Daeron grew more guilty with each village they passed, his mind taking him back to the dream he had on the morning of the Council at Harrenhal. It was almost prophetic, Westeros burning in fire, 3 banners flying in the wind before it all ended with the mountain like it always did and, of course, a Dragon. A frequent figure in his mind. Now what he saw was coming true and he couldn't help but feel he had helped cause it, yet underneath was something more. The guilt was balanced by something in his mind screaming “duty", that he had no choice and sacrifices had to be made for the good of the realm. It was almost as if an internal battle was taking place in him, the old Daeron vs the new Daeron. Still, whatever his internal feelings there was no going back now.

As the evening was winding down in the war camp after a long march, a brisk breeze sweeping through his tent as his personal banners could be heard flapping in the wind outside, Daeron sat writing. Of all his coping mechanisms it seemed writing was the only one which still counted for something, all others incapable of handling his current situation. He doubted they were ever intended for Kings in a three sided civil war. He had kept a diary for many years now and he found it funny in a way, everything before his brothers death was so sweet and innocent, dangerous if it got in the wrong hands but sweet nonetheless. Now the tone had shifted completely, instead of infatuations and sketches of mountains there were military tactics and a cold distance to his words. Still it gave him comfort, an outlet for his emotions and a convenient distraction. As he finished he decided he needed fresh air and a walk before sleep so he slipped on the nearest pile of clothing he could find, placed his “crown" upon his head, attached his sword and opened the flap to his tent before stepping through.

There guarding him was Ser Joron Corbray, a knight of his Kingsguard and his sworn protector for life. Daeron regarded the man, it brought back memories of happier times. They had both squired together for a time under the Lord Commander and he would be lying if he didn't say the man before him wasn't his first true infatuation with another man. Daeron had always held him in high regard but he imagined they both would not have believed all those years ago the situation they are in now. Daeron looked to the knight in his perfectly polished suit of armour and pristine white cloak and smiled widely. “Ser Joron, I wish to go for a walk. Would you mind coming with me? To keep me company? Only if you don't mind.” Daeron didn't know why he phrased it as an awkward question, obviously he would, he didn't have a choice in the matter and it was job to protect him at all times. He awaited a response, still, and stood back trying not to make his smile seem out of place and wrong.


Tonight had been Kingsguard Joron Corbray’s drawing of the short stick so to speak, though no methods so crude as that were utilized in the assignment of night guard shifts for a King. The Lord Commander's methods were to be trusted with a loyalty bordering on fanaticism, and as a general Joron was all too willing to oblige; his personal opinions on the importance of his duty aside, not even fanaticism could compensate for the four hours of sleep he'd snatched between the previous day's riding and today's, and he did not expect to be relieved for a few hours yet. It was with a yawn on his lips that Ser Joron was caught by the arrival of his King.

Only if you don't mind.

Joron Corbray shifted his stance, his head tilting faintly within that newly forged helmet. Was he being asked his opinion on taking this walk? As what… a friend? For just a brief moment, Joron saw that same kid who'd whined about shining armour and asked hard questions about life from behind a veneer of childhood innocence. And that kid's all grown up now. Even if he stood there awkwardly asking his kingsguard’s permission for something he needn't. Maybe what he does need right now is a friend. Maybe he was still looking for Joron’s approval; he wasn't sure, but he was willing to bet a bit less formality would do the awkward king wonders.

“Sure,” Ser Joron Corbray said. Without the Yes, Your Grace that he likely should have. “Where do you want to walk to?”


The lack of any titles came as a surprise for Daeron, he had to admit he had grown used to the formal nature of his role, so much so that he no longer even noticed when people bowed to him anymore. The simple lack of “Your Grace” at the start or end of a sentence brought out the old Daeron once more and he instantly felt at ease with Joron, as he did all those years ago. He beamed at the knight and just looked at him with a sense of gratitude in his eyes, a silent thank you in the stressful times.

He didn't really have a destination in his mind as to where to walk, just away from the camp and into a quiet area. It also didn't help that he had never been here in his life but that didn't particularly matter. He spoke up to the knight “Anywhere, away from all of this. I hear there is a mill not too far from the other side of the camp with a good vantage point. We could go there and see for ourselves, I doubt the men stationed there would mind if we gave them a break from their duties. If you know of anywhere better, we can go there.”

Daeron didn't want to seem insistent, he could tell Ser Joron had not had much rest and did not want to push him any further. A stark contrast to when they were both younger, Daeron would always push no matter the circumstance, much to the chagrin of everyone else.


Despite knowing in general terms where the camp was stationed and the borders of it, Joron was not particularly well-versed in what nearby would otherwise constitute a vantage point fit for a King. From a practical standpoint, one close enough that guards are stationed there would do just fine; so long as they are not silly enough to completely dismiss the men, as Daeron had expressed wish to. Joron can’t imagine the Lord Commander would be particularly pleased with that course of action, and he would object, and so--

“Can’t say I do. The mill sounds fine,” he paused there, catching the ‘Your Grace’ that threatened to follow before it could tumble out. “Though it might do to station the guards at the base.” For a brief moment Joron regretted breaking this fantasy the King seemed to want in which he could run off to somewhere high and unprotected, as though this were peacetime and not the march of war; of course, it wasn’t really up to him and if Daeron wished to ignore his suggestion he was fully capable of it. A vague apology rest in Joron’s brown eyes as he looked over to meet Daeron’s gaze, but it faded soon thereafter.

It's odd, he realizes. Not for the first time, but to find himself confronted with the peculiarity of having any sort of personal rapport with the King; a lifetime ago he'd imagined growing to serve King Aegon VI and then King Jaehaerys II. “It looks good on you. The crown.” Of course it does. What was the point of that? Everyone must be telling Daeron that; it's true, and Joron probably would have been better served by silence. “Everything.” The finely tailored regalia, he means, but he realizes after a moment how that might sound. “I mean -- all of your clothes.” No, he wasn't making it better.

Joron’s eyes turned skyward as he let out something of a half-embarrassed, half-apologetic laugh. “I'm sorry, Daeron, my mouth -- isn't working.” My mouth isn't working. Daeron. Seven gods above and below. He's going to stop before this hole is dug deeper yet.


Daeron knew that he could not simply dismiss the guards and pretend things were as they were before the mess at Harrenhal but a part of him believed for just a brief second that simply having Joron around would be enough for a simple mill less than a mile away from a war camp of forty thousand men but that wasn't the case anymore. He simply sighed and looked into the what seemed to be apologetic eyes of Ser Joron “Yes, that seems fine. The guards can stay at the base of the mill, I am sure that will be alright.” He was slightly disappointed but he understood the man had to do his duty and perhaps it wasn't wise, no matter how safe it seemed to leave the mill abandoned with the King inside of it. Another reality of his new position.

As Joron stated the “crown" looked good on him Daeron couldn't help but feel that if so many repeated this then it must be true. After all there was his sister, his entire Small Council, every Lord in the Vale and every Knight great or small. Whilst it was obviously nothing more than a formality, everyone of them could hate him for all he knew, it was starting to have an effect. Each time it was said by someone he admired it convinced him slightly more that he was doing the right thing, that he was actually meant to be King in spite of what the other claimants (or their backers in the case of the unborn child) said. Then as Joron rambled on he realised it wasn't meant as a formality as in the other cases but an attempt to….what? Compliment him?

I mean -- all of your clothes.

Daeron didn't know whether to laugh or thank him, so he settled on involuntary awkward blushing instead. “It's ermm, it's quite alright Joron, I mean Ser Joron...which do you prefer? Ah forget it, I am going on a tirade I am sure. I do this occasionally in certain circumstances...oh! Not that I am saying this is a certain circumstance of any kind it's just, well, you know what I mean, maybe.” Daeron stopped in his tracks and breathed in a little to calm himself down, still blushing awkwardly, hoping the night would make it less notable...until of course he realised there were torches everywhere that lit the camp up. “Shall we go? The mill is in that direction,” he said with regained composure, pointing in the general area of the mill. “You can lead the way if you wish.”


If Joron had noticed that flushing illuminated by the light of torches he was conscious enough to not bring mention to it; that, or he was tired as that earlier yawn had hinted -- or possibly a combination thereof. “I don't rightly mind either way, Your Grace. It's still an odd transition for me, this, ah…” he trailed off, losing his words as he wondered if he were about to offend the young king by drawing attention to the changes in their stature. Or maybe he'd already done that with his change of phrase.

East, then. Better that they were at the flank of the camp than ahead of it. He glanced east, clearing his throat as his vague embarrassment threatened to leave his mind careening off to somewhere that wasn't here. “Aside you or behind you if it's the two of us, Your Grace.” Lord-Commander’s orders. It was hard to watch his back if Joron couldn't see it, and in a camp of forty thousand there were too many opportunities for dissent. His right hand rest upon the pommel of Lady Forlorn who lay sheathed at his right hip: an oddity in and of itself on account of his being left-handed.

“I could call you Daeron, if you'd prefer. When it's settings like this, and you don't need to set an example.” Was that being presumptuous? He wasn't sure. Probably. Joron looked over to the nearest soldier or guard in the camp, and then back to his King. Assuming Daeron did start walking, Joron was entirely ready to accompany him.


Daeron pondered the life of a Kingsguard for a second, the sheer perseverance it must take to spend your life guarding one person, in some cases a person you had not even met before your appointment. Daeron doubted he could do what Ser Joron would now do for his entire life, let alone sacrifice himself or others just to protect them. It wasn't their prowess with a sword that impressed him, it was their willingness to remain loyal until death after spouting a single oath to a man who just so happened to wear a pointy hat. He himself was just a man wearing a pointy hat. Yet here Joron stood, in full armour with barely a few hours of rest to guard a man he knew briefly for a year as a child.

He didn't know how to react when Joron proposed calling him Daeron, it was an unfamiliar thing even before all of this happened. He was always just “Waters" to the nobility and those around them, only his sister, father, brother and niece referred to him by his first name to his face. A list now shrunk to just one. “I..would like that Joron, you can call me anything you like, Daeron works best. Let's be off then, you can walk by my side, I don't want you forced to walk back there for the entire journey.” With that Daeron began walking through the camp.

The camp was active even at night, especially at night. Men were singing and drinking all over the place as servants shuffled between tents and tables at an inhuman pace, providing anything a soldier might need. As they walked through men changed their attitudes completely at the sight of their King, they stood mid laugh and with serious faces bowed to him and averted their gaze until he could no longer be seen before returning to their games. Servants stopped what they were doing and scurried out of the way as if he were some god that would strike them down by waving his hand in their direction. He commanded respect, obedience and even loyalty just by the simple fact their liege Lord's said he was their King. As much as it disturbed him some part had to admit that he liked it, he liked the respect and he liked the way they treated him. It made him feel like he mattered. More than that, it made him feel like he was just better.

As the two reached the mill, Daeron noted the flat edged top of the ruined structure, almost perfect for what he intended. Around 5 guards came to greet them “Who goes there? What the bloody hell do you want?” shouted the lead guard in Rosby colours with a thick flea bottom accent before he was hit on the arm by a smarter guard to his side. As the two came into view he quickly changed his tone “Your Grace! I beg your apology! I didn't mean to offend you, forgive me for speaking out of tone.” The man even dropped to one knee in an effort to grovel. Daeron looked at them all with a serious face, betraying no hint of his internal laughter and regarded them with disdain “Do you have any idea what the punishment is for speaking out of turn to your King, do you ser?” he boomed at the man who began stuttering “N-n-no your Grace, please! I meant nothing by it.” Daeron rested his hand on the man's shoulder and he recoiled. “The punishment is simple, a round on me when we take Harrenhal.” The man almost began crying “No! Please have merc-” he stopped mid sentence and looked up to see Daeron with a smile on his face almost breaking out into laughter. Daeron lifted the man up and bowed slightly to him “You have done nothing wrong, you were just doing your job. If you would stay down here for a small while, my friend and I would appreciate not being disturbed up there.” The guards bowed and the two of them walked through, heading to the top of the mill, hearing nothing but laughter from the guards friends downstairs as they no doubt mocked him.

Upon reaching the top, Daeron looked out to the Riverlands and the war camp before sitting down at the edge and regarding the stars above. He noted Joron and ushered him over “Come, sit by me Joron. We can talk if you like.” he said in a slightly kid like tone.


Despite the certainty that rest in Joron’s mind that there would be many journeys in which he would end up walking behind him Joron offered no argument. In this one he needn't if it put the king’s mind at ease. And so Ser Joron walked aside King Daeron Targaryen III in gleaming castle-forged armour that had yet to see battle through a camp barely less pristine. Not all of these men would see the end of the next fortnight, and so Joron found it in many ways sobering to watch their revelry and the way it unwound in the presence of their young king. His own brown gaze flickered around the camp, snapping to the movement of the soldiers they passed, and it wasn’t until they’d passed out of the camp proper and into the field that he allowed himself to dismiss some tension.

That is, of course, until the rather threatening shout of the guards ahead. It was Joron’s left hand, then, that began to drag Lady Forlorn some inches up in her scabbard. The sound of valyrian steel dragging along the metal rim of its scabbard was not a subtle sound, but neither was Joron attempting to be subtle about it; in just the same way, they would hear the sound of her resettling as the guard began his whimpering, and the others seemed content to stand down. Indeed, Joron took some moments then to reach up and remove that helmet from his head, propping it between arm and chestguard. It was much better, that -- the feeling of the night’s cool air in his hair as he shook it out.

It wasn’t until he was atop the mill that Joron again spoke. “Your friend?” he queried, amused as he came over to lower down into something of a crouch aside Daeron, or as much as one could in as heavy of armor in which he was currently clad. Yes, it’d been something of his intention to offer his friendship, but he hadn’t necessarily expected Daeron to so vocally acknowledge it. Why would he? It didn’t particularly make sense -- just as it wouldn’t make sense for him to dangle his legs off the edge as Daeron was. How would he stand to defend him quickly enough, should he have to? Joron’s gaze trailed away from the platinum atop Daeron’s head, and up toward stars that seemed less lustrous, somehow.

“You find it easier to think out here, don’t you?” he asked, glancing along a few of the constellations that littered the sky. A lifetime ago, it seemed to him, he’d received the teachings given to a young noble. These days, he’s not so certain that he could pick more than a couple out by name. “Beneath the stars. There always seemed more of them outside of King’s Landing.”


Daeron smiled sadly as he sat there, picking out all the stars above one by one, repeating their names aloud over and over again as he did most nights. He would say them like a mantra. “Crone’s Lantern, Galley, Ghost, Ice Dragon, King’s Crown, Moonmaid, Shadowcat, Sow, Stallion and Sword of the Morning.” It reminded him of their place in the universe and how small he was in comparison and it to helped ease his stress when his problems were put into a greater context such as that.

He lay backwards, resting his head on the cold stone beneath him and let out a sigh. He looked over to Joron who was crouching there next to him and gave him a quick wink, staring into his eyes for a second, getting lost in them with a slight tinge of pure innocence, a rarity in these times, before looking to the stars once more. “I do find it easier, my mind becomes more clear and my thoughts are given time to work themselves out. Look at them all, Joron, what are our problems compared to the Gods above? It's this which calms me and allows me to solve real world problems without a hint of urgency and pressure. Without the world demanding answers I don't yet have.”

Daeron lifted his head before resting it once again on his clenched hands. “If you think these stars are bright and visible you should see the Eyrie at night. Look up on a clear night and you can see them all clearly, almost if you can see their very surface. On those nights my dreams become clearer, I am able to make out all the things going on in them, even if they always end the same way. With a Dragon. I told my brother of these once, he said I had the gift, I asked my father as well, he said I had the curse. Just like Prince Daeron Targaryen from the stories of my great grandfathers Lord Commander. Although he became a wandering drunk so I will try not to emulate him if I can. I have dreamt of devastation, Joron, of the Riverlands on fire, of treason and revolt. I have even dreamt of elephants, a creature I have never even seen before but only heard of in even more stories.”


The spoken names of constellations drew Joron’s gaze over and down to someone who seemed to him, for just a moment, to be just a man. Of course he knows them. Joron found himself quite glad that he’d not mentioned his own ignorance aloud, and something of a fond smile came forth as he absently took that helmet from his side, placing it down on the stone before himself. His hand rest atop it. Maybe he could relax here for just a few minutes, even though that nagging weariness threatened to rear its head. Metal shifted as he allowed himself to settle into a seat, and he reached back to move the cloak aside lest he sit atop it.

Was that a wink, or was his mind playing tricks on him in the dark? For once, he didn’t think it was. The kingsguard’s eyes were a chocolate brown that didn’t quite catch moonlight the way valyrian purple did, and he absently found himself disobeying that order. Ser Joron’s gaze did not travel skyward at Daeron’s insistence, and instead remained upon the king’s features. He’d heard the rumors, of course. It was difficult not to. The prince that wasn’t a prince that liked men; and other men were quick to laugh about such things, and ladies to whisper snidely. It hadn’t been a particularly funny rumor to Joron then, but now it seemed to him more relevant than perhaps it should. Joron’s lips parted as he considered interjecting then and saying something, but he paused as he snapped back to listening -- Daeron was speaking of matters far more important than the drivel on his mind, and he would much rather not interrupt.

Dreams of dragons and wars, and talk of ancestors past. Matters that should be relevant to a king. Finally, Joron’s gaze traveled up to the sky once more, and he exhaled a breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding. “You won’t be facing them alone,” he promised, though his tone was soft, and lacked the solemnity of a vow spoken in daylight. “Whatever your dreams may prophesize. I’ll be at your side.” Others would be as well, but in this moment Joron seemed to have forgotten about them; it was easy to, beneath the stars like this.


The words of Ser Joron brought his attention back down to the earth once more and his mind back to reality. He looked back the knight once more, his deep purple eyes looking through the armour of the man next to him and into the person himself. Daeron saw something there, something endearing which he had not noticed before. He sat up and swung his legs around, crossing them so he faced Joron directly. Once more he looked into the man's eyes and smiled at him, not a fake smile or a sad smile but a genuine and affectionate smile. “I would like that, Ser Joron. You being at my side through all this. Just like those old days.” Daeron looked down for a second, his mind wandering as it always did in situations such as this before he looked up once more.

“You know Ser Joron, what I noticed when I was young is even more true now. Whilst I may not be one of the dashing Princes from the stories, you are every bit the handsome knight.” Daeron wondered if he had gone too far and looked down again, regretting making the remark in the first place. He tried to rectify the situation immediately “Oh! Not that I am implying anything, Ser. I am just commenting on your….natural good looks?” but failed miserably. Instead he attempted to own it and act confident, even if he was falling apart inside. He boldly looked up at Ser Joron once more, no hint of worry in his face, at least that's what he thought on the inside, what he actually looked like being another matter and waited for any form of response.


Mother’s mercy, he wasn’t mad. Well -- not in this way, at least. Joron had begun to guess where Daeron might be going with all of this before he landed on the word ‘handsome’, and then it seemed to him that it was a bell that needn’t be unrung. The king looked wildly uncertain in himself, and that may even be worsening on account of the difficulty in reading what was running through Ser Joron’s mind; he sat silent for some moments, his lips having parted as he prepared some sort of a response. Right? He was going to say something… right? Perhaps were he less sleep-deprived some manner of witty comment might have tumbled forth, but Joron was finding difficulty in adequately formulating words, and so he did not. Yet.

Metal scraped along stone as Lady Forlorn’s scabbard turned with him, and Joron drew himself onto a knee. A leather gloved hand came forward, for now Joron had come to terms with his own presumptuousness, and found himself willing to further engage in it. Reaching to take hold of the back of Daeron’s neck, Daeron’s kingsguard aimed to close that distance and meet his king’s lips with his own.


As Joron sat there in silence he thought he had messed everything up completely, he had overstepped his boundaries and now came the punishment for his reckless decision to speak about matters other than formal affairs. He blushed a pinkish shade of red and sat, his eyes darting around as he looked everywhere but the direction Joron was in. Then the knight got onto one knee and for a brief few moments he thought the man was about to rise and walk off, leaving him there alone in disgust. Just as he was about to try and stop the knight from leaving, however, the man reached out with a hand and it connected with Daerons neck. He had no idea what was going on, innocently pure about the matter. A rush of thoughts came through his mind, was he about to strike him? Was he going to get angry? Then Ser Joron’s lips connected with his.

Daeron was shocked at first and almost pulled away but then he gave in, a spark lit inside of him. He let the kiss consume him and did so with an eager passion, his eyes closed as he focused on nothing else. When they separated he allowed but a second before Daeron himself initiated another kiss, clinging to the armour of Joron, no matter how cold and uncomfortable it was to the touch. There was a fire behind his actions, an almost crippling need for this as he tasted the sweetness of Ser Joron’s mouth and mellowed into softness, barely able to hold himself up. When they finished he collapsed forward onto the knight, drawing him into a hug and resting his head on Jorons shoulder.


In the rush of all of this Joron’s weariness slipped away, forgotten. This seemed, to him, so gratifying that he nearly forgot how troublesome his actions were. Yes, he shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t be imposing himself upon his king, and he should be better remembering the vows he’d taken. Certainly not imagining such lewd acts, or thinking about how if they were to move to the center of the stone roof no one could see any further indiscretions from the ground below. And yet he was. Daeron’s lips were as soft as they’d looked. That thought distracts him as he notices that the other man was having difficulty holding himself up, but he needn’t anyway; as he seemed apt to collapse, Joron’s left hand parted from Daeron’s nape, and his armored arm dipped down to wrap its way around Daeron’s upper back.

“You are every bit dashing,” Ser Joron murmured as Daeron settled there against him, “though you are no prince, my King.” Most princes from the stories he’d heard told of were platinum-haired Targaryens as beautiful as they were handsome, and it struck Joron as odd that Daeron seemed to think himself unfit in their midst. Still, Joron realizes, then. The same shame he’s had from childhood. It’s still there. He turned his head, tilting it to press his lips not against the metal atop Daeron’s head, but the hair aside it. In the midst of all of this gathering for war and thrusting Daeron into this role no one had taken the time to convince him that he was worth the trouble?

“You’re capable of this,” he said into Daeron’s hair, turning his nose to run through it as his beard likely scratched at Daeron’s forehead. “Forget their words. The lords and ladies that insulted you and hurt you. There’s fire in your blood, and dragons in your dreams. You’ve grown beautiful and just, and every bit your father’s son. And he believed in you.” His right hand came up and over, reaching to Daeron’s chin to lift it enough that he could press in for another kiss, insistent. “I do, too,” he vowed as he stole a breath.


Daeron felt safe, he felt calm and he felt happy. For the first time in months he felt at ease with himself and secure with his place in the world. As he clung to Joron he couldn't describe the feeling, he had never truly felt this way before, not even with...Jon. The name hit his mind like a cannonball, not that he expressed this on the outside. It had been since long before his brothers funeral that the two had even had a conservation, he felt guilty to admit it but in this moment he didn't care one whit about Jon. After all, where was Jon when Daeron needed him? Always somewhere else. With that he placed the Baratheon into a corner of his mind he rarely opened.

As Joron whispered sweet words into his ear and he felt the knight snuggle into his hair he felt no shame or apprehension at the event and he could of stayed in his arms forever more if need be. He felt Jorons beard on his forehead but he didn't mind, the feeling was somehow relaxing and calming, therapeutic even and so he let it happen. Then came the words he needed to hear as Ser Joron lifted his head to face his own. That someone other than his sister truly believed in him meant more than he could express and a fire was ignited in his eyes. Any sign of weakness in that moment left as a second wind of energy hit him.

This time he was ready for the kiss and he greeted it with strength and passion, emboldened. As they kissed once more, Daeron’s hands raised to find the sides of Joron’s neck, and he tugged in a nonverbal suggestion that they move away from the edge of the mill’s roof. When the knight shifted to move with him, one of Daeron’s hands moved to lace his fingers through that brown hair. Tonight he could have this, under the stars. He could feel happy for a while, before tomorrow came and they would ride to war.

 

[Akio]

Qoren Martell
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Qoren Martell had never been one to let doubts show. When you doubted your course of action in the view of others, others would feel they had the liberty to doubt the lord as well. But given recent events he found it hard not to doubt the decision he made and had retreated to his corridors, standing in front of a map spread over the table. He had a wine glass in hand and wasn't sure if this was his third cup or his forth as he looked at the small pieces spread on the board. Every time he looked at the board he couldn't help but grow disquiet. Baelor had pierced deep into the Stormlands, taking two castles in a matter of days by splitting up his forces and dividing the load. Harvest Hall and Blackhaven had fallen into dust and Stormsend... He looked the great castle with a prancing stag piece on top of it, made of stone and reached over and flicked it to its side with a snap of his fingers. His jaw tightened. Stormsend, one of the greatest castles in Westeros had fallen to foolishness and cowardness. The stag was done, all that was left was for it to be dressed and skinned. Only Alexander remained uncaptured and he wondered how much longer that would remain true considering the situation with his family. His armies had made it to the passes but now they were stuck there, with the much bigger army of the Reach pinning them within Dorne. And Kingslanding...

Qoren took a large swing of the Dornish red and then without thinking threw the glass hard against the wall which shattered into hundreds of pieces. He placed both hands on the table, looking at the board with disquiet. Kingslanding was surrounded by enemies with very little hope in sight. If Baelor came here how long would they last... A month, a year? Kinglanding would not surrender like Stormsend, Jocelyn would never allow it and nor would he. But he wasn't sure they could hold the capital for very long either. Thier only advantage was the royal navy was strong but could it defeat the Redwyns and Hightowers combined forces? If they lost the royal fleet they would truly have no way out. For Elaena or any of them. Backing Elaena had always been something of a dark horse. But had he truly sent his entire family to their deaths? He already lost one son, was he destined to lose his entire family for the gamble he made? For the last day since he heard of Stormsend fall he had been trying to figure out a way to break this situation in the south but it was in a deadlock and without the main portion for their forces they were doomed. He rubbed his eyes, bloodshot by lack of sleep and the exhausted pull of his body but before he could further contemplate his options down that road there was a knock on the door and his captain walked in. "My prince." He said getting his attention causing him to regard him out of the corner of his eye. "What is it?" He said calmly despite not really wanting to be interrupted. "The Hand of the Queen sent a messenger, he requests your presence my Prince." He said with his head still bowed. He has never spoken to Balthazar Darklyn though he knew of him and naturally had seen the post of Hand of the Queen bestowed on him. Former Master of Coin, on the small council for many years and a close friend to both Baelor and the slain Rosby. Yet he remained even after Gawen was inducted onto the small council and stood against Baelor and he had not heard a complaint from him. A loyal friend? Or a stuttering coward? He doubted he was a fool, some had thought Rosby was a fool and Baelor and yet Baelor was sitting in Stormsend with the largest faction in this war and Rosby had nearly secured Daerons spot as king if not for the mad actions of a single love sick Kingsguard. "Im on my way, no reason to send the messenger back. I will go now." He said leaving the table.

He was dressed in a royal robe the color of the sands of dorne, trimmed with gold and outlines of red. He had Balthazars messenger lead him back to the Hands tower to go meet with him. Soon being lead to the room and dismissing the messenger he stopped in front of the door for a mere moment before opening the door and stepping inside. His eyes scanned the room, a mess of food, books, and maps and he realized it was likely the Hand was just as worried about the situation as he was. He turned his gaze to Darklyn and inclined his head to him. "Lord Hand." He said seeming unconcerned about the mess. "You called for me?" He half asked, half stated, interested to see what exactly Darklyn wanted him for.

 

[TheFool]

Tyland Lannister
Lion Of Lannister


​

The Mourning Mane could not tame the charming lion. Its innkeeper, a man of much of nothing, brought Roland Foote and Tyland Lannister to their respective rooms. “Goodnight.” Roland said, before disappearing behind a door painted mustard.
Goodnight.
Tyland put the rucksack that his horse had been carrying on the cotton white sheets of his bed and sat himself on a small wooden stool in the room’s corner. It wobbled as his backside touched the seat. He sighed, then sitting there in silence for what seemed like a long while.
I’m too tired to sleep, he thought to himself.
So instead of sleeping-
He read.
Tyland reached over to his rucksack and took out the book he had snatched from Willam’s room back in The Red Keep. His journal? He opened the book’s plain cover and read the first page. It was dated a few years prior.
When he was Prince Jaehaerys’ squire?
He turned the page.
Why did I take this? It was so sudden. Tyland had set his mind on fleeing King’s Landing. Before he could, however, his eyes saw it. The journal. Just lying on a writing desk, begging to be read. “I should stop…” He said,
But stop he did not.
Tyland turned the page.
What?
He reread what Willam had written. He couldn’t believe the book. Jon Baratheon? Tyland felt sickened. Maybe it was the inn’s stench of mold. Maybe it was the awful meal he and Roland had had before they were given their beds for the night.
“He likes men?” He said.
Like I do.

The Rock was radiant. As always. “You happy to be home?” Roland asked, reining in his horse. Tyland looked at him with a tired look,
“Delighted.”
His voice dripped with a dire amount of sarcasm.
“I don’t think he’ll be too mad about Willam. The kid is… no longer a kid.” Roland said.
But I left him.
Tyland sighed,
“I don’t know, Roland. I just don’t know.”
They rode on.

As their horses galloped through The Rock’s gates, Tyland’s eyes immediately met with his brother’s. What is he doing?
Loren was in armour with an army at his back.
What is-
Tyland pulled the steed to a standstill.
He knew.
War.

“Where the hell is Willam, brother?” Loren asked. His words like a rusted axe scraping against scrap metal. Tyland looked back at Roland who was talking to a battle readied Gawen Greenfield. Gods. He took a breath and said,
“He’s in King’s Landing.”
Fuck.
Tyland was regretting what he had done even more so now. His could feel the sweat collecting on his hands as they clung to the horse’s reins. “I-” He stopped talking so to think of what words to choose. “I left him. I begged and begged him to leave. To return to The Rock. But, he refused- Loren. He refused to leave… so I left him.”
Tyland and his brother stared at one another.
“I apologise, Loren.”
Fuck.
“I apologise…”

Spoiler: MENTIONS

Yarrow

 

[Nightblade]

Jon Baratheon
The Silent Stag
​

Jon had just heard the news as he was sitting at the table, taking council. It had been a few hours since he had landed but the news had come out only minutes ago. The Reach had moved with lightning speed and taken Harvest Hall, Blackhaven and Storms End. His Good-sister had surrendered the castle right away despite Storms End's ability to withstand a siege. Now the castle had been taken and his family was either taken prisoner in the castle itself or god knows where. He felt a cold rage come over him at the thought of his good sisters stupidity, they would have been able to get reinforcements there in time had she stood firm. She was weak.

Jon was busy contemplating as Lord Tarth was calling on those assembled to rally a force to take back the Stormlands from the flowers. But the good lord was forgetting that most of House Baratheon was now captured including the Heir Ethan. Arguments continued until a young lad came in mentioning Signal fires out on the shore. After some debate it was put to rest, a boat carrying Brielle and some men in case of an ambush. With a nod, he watched Brielle leave.

With a sigh, Jon realised that the men were looking to him. Of course with his brother not here it was up to Jon to rally the men and mount a plan.
Mention: Little-Fox

 

[Whisker]

Lucion Marbrand


​

A howling gale lashed at Lucion’s back as he stalked along the walls of Deep Den. Beside him, Patrek Lydden was fumbling with his cloak, trying in vain to keep the wind from blowing the heavy cloth from off his balding head.

“Confounded weather. A bloody army could be marching up to our gates right now and we wouldn’t even see them coming.”

Lucion glanced at his companion. Patrek Lydden was smaller than most Lords with a weak chin, watering grey eyes, and a beard white as the snow atop a mountain peak. What little hair that sat atop his head, however, was a coarse black – the color of coal when it met an open flame. As a boy, he’d oft imagined they had called Lord Patrek “The Badger” as a result of his sigil. Now, he could see there was perfectly good reason for the nickname outside the sake of simplicity.

“You had best hope for the sake of your outriders that there is not,” The Lord of Ashemark replied.

Because if I see so much as a flicker of torches that I have not authorized out on that road, I’m putting each and everyone of their useless heads on a spike … And maybe yours alongside them, Lord Patrek.

Alas, he knew his Uncle would have his balls if he tried. In the back of his mind, Lucion could hear Loren Lannister, the Lion at the Rock, scolding him in much the same severe tone as he had when he’d been his page: ‘I do not care if you don’t like the man. You will get along with him. You will hold your men there for the remainder of this campaign.’ Still, it was quite amusing to imagine that shining bald head up above the main parapet, eyes bulging and that ever-wagging tongue food for the crows.

They reached a tower at the edge of the first outerwall. Groups of half-drowned sentries and men-at-arms clustered beneath ragged blankets scrambled to get out of their way.

“Make way,” came a shout. “Make way for my Lords of Marbrand and Lydden!”

Blinking drops of rain out of his eyes, Lucion found the tower door through the mob and jerked it open. He held it just long enough for the shorter man to enter before following him out of the downpour. Inside, the other Lords were already waiting for them. Fires had been lit in braziers by the servants, and the tables groaned under the weight of the fat sow that had been served as supper. The aroma of it almost made him lightheaded after the stink of mold, leather, and smoke that permeated the outside of the place.

Most of the others were already seated. A quick glance saw jowly Lord Robin Hamell deep in conversation with the crane-like Kevan Moreland. His brother-in-law by marriage, Donnel Brax was seated across from Kyle Jast and his younger brother, the scarred Ser Danwell. He nodded curtly at the pair when he passed. They were experienced men, not like the other load of duffers he’d been left with.

Taking his appointed seat at the head of the table, Lucion filled his cup to the brim with wine. The pig he left untouched. Growing up around soldiers, he had always found it unseemly to be eating before the first watch had even been recalled. “What news from the South?”

“The war goes well enough,” grumbled Ser Gurrad Crakehall. Old, but built like an aurochs, he towered over almost everyone in the room. And unlike most of the other lords, he was dressed in mail instead of finery. “We have confirmed reports that the Reach led by Baelor Tyrell himself has taken Blackhaven, Harvest Hall, and has pierced the Stormlands almost as far as Storms End.”

“That far already?” drawled Kevan Moreland while cutting himself another slice of ham. “What, does Baelor plan to win the war in time for supper?”

Lucion cut off most chuckling with a curt wave of his hand.

“The Baratheons were vulnerable. Weak. The bulk of their forces were in King’s Landing protecting their girl Queen. Baelor Tyrell saw this and did what needed to be done.”

There was a brief silence in the hall as he took a sip of his wine.

“But you would be as big a fool as Whistler to believe this war won. It is NOT won until the bastard-pretender and his horde of savages are put down like dogs. It is NOT won until Jocelyn Baratheon and the rest of the stags are skinned alive and taught their proper place. It is NOT won until that pompous serpent – er whatshisname … Martell and his ilk are thrown back into the sea to live out the rest on their days on that shitheap down south pretending the rest of the world still gives a fuck about their existence.”

Lucion rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and put his goblet back down. He was aware that he had everyones attention now. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a sheaf of parchment and passed it beside him to Patrek Lydden.

“Here. This is a parchment I drafted this afternoon detailing my inspection of the place and what I want done starting at first light tomorrow.”

Patrek took the letter, opened it with his knife, and scanned the first few lines. Then the old man’s eyebrows puckered.

“Reinforcement of the Western Guard Tower. Repairs done to the outer wall. Palisades, stakes, and extra trenches for sanitation. Reopen the archer nooks. The commission of smiths. Outposts along the Gold Road. By the Seven, man, this is expensive work … And not to mention the additional cost in manpower...”

“It will be done.” Lucion’s voice once more thundered down like an axe to deaden rebuke. “All of it. Pull the men from wherever you can find them, Lord Lydden. You can get them from the Moon for all I care. Just see that it is done. If an army were to choose to invade the Westerlands, I want this place ready to defend her.”

His chair creaked as he settled back into it. “And someone send for a maester. Its time to start drawing up our plans on how we’re going to do that.”



Yarrow

 

[TheFool]

Matthos Of Braavos
Son Of Fire


​

“I’m never not at ease, Lord Steffon.”
Matthos smiled, before putting his cup o’ wine to his lips. He drank. The vermillion tasted sweet on his tongue. He held it in his mouth before allowing it to slide down his throat. “If you’ll let me, I can comfort you with tranquility.”
He will let me.
Steffon gave a cautious look.
Matthos placed the palm of his hand on Steffon’s pant. It stayed there for a fine moment. He then lifted his hand up,
“I will show you.”
Steffon took it.
Matthos pulled him towards the room’s hearth. The hearth harnessed a small fire. Too small. Matthos let go of the grip he had on Steffon and crouched down so his gaze could cradle the flames. Too small. Steffon stood behind him, lingering, whilst he stared at the fire. It devoured the sticks and twigs it sat on like a meal.
Too small.
The fire grew.
Not at all by a gigantic amount. But, it grew.
Perfect.
“Kneel with me.” Matthos said. His voice hoarse. Steffon knelt, with a semblance of reluctance. When he was kneeling before the hearth-
Matthos stood and put his hands on the back of his lord’s neck. As to keep it in place. “Look into the flames…” He said, holding Steffon still.
“Can you see it?”
Steffon gulped, “What is it I should be seeing?”
“Look.”
The fire danced.
“Look, Lord Steffon.”
The fire almost screeched. Steffon was enthralled. Matthos was as well. “I see… I see… water?” Steffon stammered. “And some sort of-”
“Hush. Be silent and let the flames speak.”

Steffon was quiet for the night. Shiv came with his armour. Matthos gave him his sword. Dawn. He broke his long lull with a farewell.
“I should return to The Red Keep.” He said, standing outside of Maerie’s. The street dark with the morning twilight.
Matthos looked at him and at his companions whom he could not remember the names of.
“So you should,”
He smiled. “When you need me, you know where I will be.”
Steffon and his men stood there in an awkward stance. Matthos leaned in and had his lips peck his forehead.
A kiss.
“I hope I have put you at ease, Lord Steffon.” Matthos started as he pulled away, “There is a certain type of assurance in seeing snippets of the things to come. And I assure you that you will see more. When the moment is right.”
Steffon nodded, his hand clinging to the sheathe in which his sword slept.
“Thank you, Matthos.” He said.
He and his companions turned away.
“The night is dark, Steffon Dayne.” Matthos said as they parted.

The feel of the Dornishman’s skin against his lips still prevalent.

Spoiler: MENTIONS

TheAncientCelt

 

[Braddington]

Lotho Antaryron
Former First Sword to the Sealord of Braavos
​

The day was bright and warm as Lotho awoke in his private quarters, the Black Pearl crashing soundly against the waves as it slid gently into Blackwater Bay. He arose to the sound of distant bells and men working the ship, no doubt it was simply the Sept calling the citizens to prayer, an odd religion for an odd land. He wasted no time getting prepared and washed his face with a simple splash of cold water to alert his senses and got dressed into clothes he had already set out the previous night. They were simple but noticeably noble, no simple peasant could afford such coloured leather with streaks of purple and no peasant had such a weapon at their side as he did. A sleek and thin blade, made to kill a man before he even realises he has been attacked and made by the finest blacksmiths that Braavos had to offer. All in all he would make an odd sight in the Westerosi city.

As he exited his cabin and stepped out onto the deck a terrible smell hit him, he knew it was the city and had expected it but this was quite something else. It made even a Dothraki horde seem hygienic. Still he pushed through it and walked up to the Captain who regarded him with a nod “We shall settle her in any minute now, I expect the guards will stop and inspect the ship. There is a war on after all.” Lotho simply nodded at the man as he stated the obvious, he knew there would be complications in his task now war had consumed the land. In fact he wasn’t quite certain his hiring was still wanted, Prince Jaehearys was dead and his supposed charge was now claiming to be Queen. It didn't stop him from coming anyway, even if he was rejected he wanted to explore this land as he had done in the east.

Looking at the port before them he realised his ship was the largest by far, if he wanted a conspicuous entrance it was not going to be a possibility. When the ship connected with land the gangplank was lowered where at least half a dozen men in gold cloaks waited to receive them. At they're head was a rather presumptuous and plump bureaucrat who stepped onto the gangplank only to be greeted with a symphony of drawn swords, he quickly recoiled in horror before another man, the head of the group of guards Lotho presumed, stepped forward. “On the orders of her Grace, Queen Elaena Targaryen we are here to inspect your ship for smuggled goods and other such contraband. We ask that you comply or turn around and leave the port.” Up until this point he had remained in the background but now he staggered forward to see the man clearly. He saw that his right hand had recently been damaged so he couldn't hold a sword comfortably if they had to fight, his expression was one of a nervous nature, all he really had to do was push and this farce would be over.

“Tell me, my friend. What would your Queen say when she learns that you delayed and rummaged through the ship of the brother of the Sealord of Braavos? A man she sent for herself? I don't think she would appreciate it one bit and neither would I. I suggest you simply turn away and go about your business so there are no further complications.” It was a gamble, Elaena probably had no idea who he was but the guard seemed gullible enough. The man regarded Lotho and buckled under the man’s confidence. “My deepest apologies, my Lord. I will see to it you are cleared immediately.” He said before meekly looking down and ordering his contingent to come with him via hand gesture. One didn't listen however, he was a young boy of maybe 20 years who no doubt wanted to prove himself “But! We can't just ignore our orders! If you won't do your job then I will.” The boy screeched before marching up the gangplank. Lotho rolled his eyes at the boy and blocked his path “You should go to your Captain, boy. You don't want this fight.” Naturally the boy wanted the fight and he went with a rather sloppy punch which didn't even require effort to dodge. Lotho spun the guard around after grabbing him with his right hand and ripped his helmet off, throwing it into the bay. Then he put the boy into a choke hold which quickly knocked him out. Lotho threw him down onto the dock where rather frightened guards rushed and removed the boy, carrying him off somewhere.

Lotho regarded the ships Captain once more “Please get my things to the Red Keep, I wish to explore this city by myself and find something to eat. If anything is damaged or stolen, especially the eggs, I will personally send you overboard myself.” The Captain bowed to him as he made his way off the ship and began wandering. Westeros was off to a good start.

 

[Little-Fox]

Nissa Morrigen
Little Crow​

The blossoms of flame on the opposing side of the water were greeted with a smile as Nissa called the men to begin boarding the smaller vessel. "Good work. We have our welcoming party, now let's get our asses to the other side."

It wasn't long before the boat was headed across those night-darkened waters, torches lit and kept in braziers to keep their vessel visible. "You should sleep, my Lady." The sound of waves and the creak of wood filled the silence for a long moment before Nissa turned from the bow, fatigue marking her features as she shook her head. "There need to be at least four of us awake at all times, you know that."

"I do. Why not wake another and take a turn?"

"Because I'm their leader. I will take my rest with the last round of sleepers, and that's if we don't make port before then."

"You will need to speak with our host when we arrive." Dirty blond locks shook as he shifted about and adjusted himself to sit on a crate as she frowned at him. He was right. She'd need to be ready to speak when the time came. The wingless crow had a message to deliver, and once they made port it would need to be given as soon as possible.

"Fine. I will wake Samuel for next watch. He can take my place and I will sleep." The ship was little more than a sloop, small enough to be manned by her crew and simple enough that the few who understood nautical travels could explain what needed to happen. The sails were left open but with the light amount of wind they weren't moving at a very quick clip. The current consensus was that they might arrive by dawn if they were lucky.

It was a few hours before dawn when the sloop met with those from Tarth, Nissa waking to being shaken by Will. "What? Are we there?" He shook his head and helped her up from the small makeshift pallet. "Tarth has sent someone out to meet us." She adjusted her leathers and nodded, combing her red hair back and out of her face. "Good... take me to them."

Nightblade

 

[TheFool]

Tyland Lannister
Lion Of Lannister


​

Tyland and his brother talked briefly. Loren filled him in on what was about to begin. A war. Tyland was to march with him through The Riverlands.
Gods.
“We will speak of Willam later.” Loren said. His voice had a sternness to it that unnerved Tyland a little. Loren began to march, but before he did, Tyland asked for an hour or two to spend in Lannisport.

“Tyland.” Gawen Greenfield greeted. He was in armour with an emerald tint. He and Roland had been conversing whilst Tyland did the same with his brother.
“Gawen,” Tyland started. “It’s good to see you got out of Harrenhal alive.”
Gawen grinned, “Well I wasn’t the only Gawen to do so.”
“Did you see The Symond Slayer in King’s Landing?” He added.
Tyland shook his head.
“We were only in the bleedin’ Red Keep for a few hours.” Roland said.
“Ah.”
They sat on their horses.
Quiet.
What do we tell each other? Now that death seems so near.
Gawen Greenfield and Roland Foote had been his friends since birth.
They both are more a brother to me than Cadwyn or Loren.
“So where are you setting off to?” Tyland asked.
Breaking the quiet.
“Coastal defence.” Gawen said with a smile.
Roland scoffed, “They have you fightin’ The Greyjoys, eh?”
“They do.”
It was quiet again, until Gawen spoke some more-
“Will you be going to join your father, Roland?”
“My father?”
“He’s with Marbrand. They set out for Deep Den a few days back.”
Roland’s face had a perplexity to it.
A voice came yelling,
“Lets go!”
Ser Morgon Yew.
“This is it.” Gawen said, as he gripped the reins of his horse.
“This is it.” Tyland repeated.
Gawen gave his friends one last grin, before trotting off.

Lannisport.
He was home.
“Oysters. Oysters.” A man with a yellow beard yelled. “You wan’ a few?” Roland asked, as the hooves of his and Tyland’s horses clopped against the cobblestone road. Tyland didn’t give it one thought,
“I’ll buy.”
Roland laughed, “You bloody better, Lannister.”
They dismounted right at the stall made out of reddened wood. The Oyster Man welcomed them and when he realised who Tyland was- he offered his oysters for the price of none.
“I won’t rob the men of this city, ser.” Tyland said as he reached into his pocket and plucked up several coins. He took them out and handed them to The Oyster Man.
The man smiled,
“Thank you, m’lords. You are ever generous.”
Am I?

Roland and Tyland leant against a fence that overlooked The Sunset Sea. They slurped their oysters. Neither saying a word to the other.
They knew what was to happen...
What do I say?
It was so surreal. In all his years, Tyland had lived a life of relative peace. Under Aegon’s rule war was scarce.
What do I do?
He slurped.
“Ty,” Roland said, as he threw away the shell.
“Roland.”
Tyland replied.
It was silent for a second or so.
“So, you’re set on it?” Tyland asked.
“On what?”
“Joining your father at Deep Den.”
Roland stood still,
“I have to, Ty. He is my father. I want to be there… by his side. If something happened to him and I wasn’t…”
Tyland nodded, “I know. I know.”
An awkwardness lingered in the Lannisport air. Is this it then? He thought. Is this… goodbye? Tyland turned to his friend. Roland did the same, and rested his hand on Tyland’s shoulder.
“We will see each other soon. I fuckin’ swear to you.” Roland said.
Tyland closed in and they hugged.
Though they had been friends since forever, this was the first time they had shared a hug.
“You hear me?” Roland said.
I do.
“I hear you.”
Roland let go and grinned,
“Kill some bastards.”
Tyland laughed, though the laugh was undertoned with an umbra of sadness. “You better get back, Roland Foote. Or else I’ll kick your ass.”

With Roland parted-
There was one last stop in Lannisport in which Tyland had to visit.
The Shoemakers.
“Good afternoon, m’lord.” The old man said to him as he entered the shop. Tyland smiled, “And a good afternoon to you.”
“What can I do for you today?”
“Is your son here?” Tyland asked.
The old man smiled and then shouted for his son to come out from the backroom. Tyland’s heart skipped a beat when he appeared.
Sebaston...

The two of them stood in Sebaston’s room in the upstairs of The Shoemakers. It was silent. Tyland sat on the edge of the bed whilst his lover looked out the window.
“First time we’ve been together in your actual bedroom.” Tyland noted, with a mischievous grin. Sebaston did not return it.
He just watched the men outside.
“Have you been well?” Tyland asked.
Sebaston nodded, “I have.”
Has he?
“You don’t seem li-”
“Do you know Jeyne? The dressmaker’s daughter?” Sebaston interrupted.
Tyland blinked,
“The one with the lisp?”
“Yes.”
“I know her. What about her?”
Sebaston let out a long sigh-
“I am to wed her next week.”
Tyland’s heart had gone from skipping beats to sinking. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to say. He sat there staring at the grey wooden floorboards which were rotting slightly. Tyland felt their pain-
He was rotting.
In that moment, he mourned. He mourned for the love he and Sebaston shared. He mourned for the love he and Loren never had. He mourned for the friends he would lose once the war waged on. He mourned for himself...
It’s all just hopeless.
And even though it felt as if he had received a blade through the chest- Tyland did not cry a single tear.
“I, uh, see.” He finally spoke, words broken.
Heart broken.
“We should have never of started this, Tyland.” Sebaston spoke, “It’s wrong. A man cannot love another man in… in that way. It’s sick.”
Tyland gave a short nodding.
He felt like a corpse.
“So I will marry Jeyne. We will have children together. We will be happy. Which means I have to end this with you.”
Tyland stood up,
“Alright.”
For once he was at a total loss for words.
Sebaston looked away from the window. His green eyes settling their sight on Tyland. The last time they will.
“Leave.”
It was all he said.
It was one word, but it buried itself into Tyland like an archer’s arrow. He walked towards the door and let himself out.
Stay with me,
He heard Sebaston speak from when they slept together before Harrenhal. Just for a few more hours. ‘Till the sun begins to rise…

 

[Rusty of Shackleford]

Bryce and Amelia Stark
Old Wolves
Bryce nodded, saying, "Aye. If I don't execute them for treason, Theon will. He doesn't take to kindly to betrayal. Remember what he did to that merchant who tried to sell slaves?" Bryce shuddered a bit, saying, "Nevertheless, thank you, Brother." Bryce hugged his brother, his wife doing the same as she whispered in Brandon's ear, "Iron from Ice." She commonly said the Forrester motto, as she still held her old family name close to her. She said it to Bryce the most, and he repeated it. It was their own way of saying, "Good luck." In fact, she said it before he went to Harrenhall, like she always did when he left.

Bryce eventually heard a knock on the door, opening it up as he saw Lyanna smiling at his daughter as he said, "Lyanna! It's good to see you!" He hugged his daughter, smiling widely as he said, "What is it, dear? How are the Lord's? Hope they haven't ripped the main hall apart!" He laughed, Amelia doing the same as she hugged her daughter tightly.
WaitingCynicism
ailurophile
​

 

[TheAncientCelt]

Balthazar Darklyn
Hand of the Queen

The Red Keep

As the door moaned open, Balthazar's eyes shot forward. His vision blurred with age, but the dark skin of Darklyn's replacement was impossible to mistake for any other. If he had any doubts, Prince Qoren's voice squashed them. The smaller man gave a weak attempt at a smile, nodding with less enthusiasm than a bloodied whore. "P-par-prince Qoren." The Hand of the Queen rose, pushing his seat back, earning an awful, scrapping sound as wood struck stone. Balthazar ignored it after a wince. "Please, Prince Qoren, take a chair. I-i-I- have some things to say." The mess that Balthazar resided in was ignored, any embarrassment for the "squalor" was hidden well. "Rorge!" Before the blond boy could get far from the door, Darklyn called, loud and eager for the youth's services. "T-two clean goblets of Au-au-,"

"Arbor Gold, Lord Hand?" Rorge interrupted without fear of punishment. Balthazar had been around the boy's father enough for that man to help Lord Darklyn through his infliction, the son meant no harm by it.

"Yes." Darklyn was quick to wave off Rorge, watching the blond haired man storm down the stairs, no doubt in search for the finest, jewel encrusted goblets in the Red Keep. Whether or not Qoren Martell decided to take Balthazar's offer and sit, the shorter man would, planting his round ass on the wooden stool, earning himself a creek of rage. Pushing aside several books on the duel-desks, Darklyn jabbed a finger onto the map of King's Landing, with several markings dotted throughout it, notes leading to the edge of the paper. "A-as you've no doubt heard, Storm's End is. . .Is in Baelor's hands. I-i don't know how, whether my old friend infiltrated the fortress o-o-or did the impossible. T-t-t-that doesn't matter though. W-what does is that Baelor is within distance to march on us. Lord Baratheon's making for the Stormlands, leaving the city vulnerable. I-I have been devising a plan to keep us safe. . But I need another ear. I need someone's help." It wasn't an ideal situation, Qoren Martell wasn't a man that Darklyn was familiar with. Apart from Jaehaerys' wedding, the two men practically met for the first time days ago. "I-If I could have your attention, Lord Martell. . I'd like to tell you what I've thought up. What I'm already doing." The stage was set, Lord Darklyn was not going to see King's Landing fall. Be it to Aegon's son or a life long friend. Darklyn dragged his finger just south of the city, right off the map and falling down past the King's Road. His eyes were on the map, though he peaked up at Qoren for half a moment before beginning. "Fiffff-fifteen of my men were sent across the Blackwater with a few goldcloaks. T-they are removing as much of an advantage as Baelor can get. Cho-chopping at every tree worth it. M-My line of thinking is that, i-if that Autumn Bull thinks he can create ladders or spare arrows outside the city, we'll beat him to it. S-same when it comes to making enough arrows to supply. . .The entire city."

"My lords," Rorge was fast. "Your Gold." The young man sauntered into the room, failing to keep himself composed before handing each lord their drinks. "Will that be all, Lord Hand?"

"Y-yes, Rorge." Balthazar gave a half smile and pulled the wine to his lips, quickly gulping down the liquid before placing it at the edge of the table. "I have men grabbing anything they can that's metal too. Door hinges, door knobs, rusted, old sword hilts. It's all being gathered in the courtyard outside." All without the Queens permission. Either of them. "T-they will be melted down and re-re-ree-turned into arrow heads, if we act fast enough. I plan o-on raising an army of the locals." He waited, judging the reactions of the Dornish Lord paramount, before progressing. "A-archery, of course. I-I don't think they need to be good with swords. And any man with two arms can hold a spear well. I want more men on our walls. More arrows hitting our enemies. Which brings me to a request on your half, Prince Qoren. . The Goldcloaks won't be proficient archers o-or too happy to train the local populace. Bad blood between them and the civilians, to my understanding. But you have. . . Plenty of skilled Dornish soldiers here. If you would be generous enough, I will need to borrow them, have your men train the cities last hope."

As Balthazar waited for an answer, he drained more of his goblet. "A-And. I need you t-to send word to Dorne. . . The city needs actual soldiers. T-the Goldcloaks are no knights, t-though they may be better than farmhands. We ne-need your army." Darklyn was prepared to negotiate how much he needed. No lower than two thousand, certainly, and Prince Qoren wasn't willing to give more than six, The Hand was free to assume. "B-both for the cities defense and preparations. T-there is much to do. . . Metal collecting. Training the cities people. . . R-removing the forests in a better fashion. . . ." A pregnant pause. Darklyn resisted the urge to wince. What words followed the rest were dark. Darker than anything Balthazar wished he'd ever order. "Removing people. . . Removing homes. . The buildings outside n-need to go. The people inside. . .Some of them need to go. Most in Flea Bottom." Darklyn would insist they need to keep the able bodied. Maybe give families the opportunity to stay if their men fought for their city, if the women helped the Hand's effort. Amidst all the markings on the map, the most prominent were x's, marking where Lord Darklyn wanted to "renovate" the city.

There was no doubt in Darklyn's mind that this city would despise him when they were done.


Rhaenyra
Captain-General of the Golden Company

Myr


"Lieutenant Quhuru, Captain." Dickon Costayne's voice was impossible to mistake. Deep as Braavos' bay with a demanding tinge to it, similar to most Westerosi descended, Dickon's voice was tainted by his line's stay in Essos. A handsome man, past thirty years with a shaved head and a blond beard, his eyes were what Rhaenyra often found herself admiring. A beautiful pair of purple eye that hypnotized Rhaenyra. It was yet another trait his family adopted from this foreign land. Those very eyes were heavy on the Captain-General's form with little shame, Rhaenyra felt naked under it. A sweaty, white shirt that clung to her chest and tights that revealed her hips and legs, it was little surprise that the knight would spend spare seconds on his superior.

Rhaenyra paused, looking at both men as they entered her tent. Dickon stood back, his hand on the flap while her lieutenant stepped forward. With a wide bow and arms outstretched, her lieutenant looked half duck as he entered. This combined with the soot colored man's wide grin forced an equally wide smile from the Captain-General, lasting seconds before she shielded her teeth with her lips. "Have you sent riders to the city, Ser Dickon?"

Her knight shook his head. "Nay, Captain. I found this one first." He stayed there, eyes on the back of Quhuru's head. "If you will me to go, it will be done."

Those purple eyes met Rhaenyra's own grey. The woman fought to not be lost in them. "You'll return to me when your task is complete." Her words were harsh but lacking any teeth, the Captain-General could not afford to be constantly approving of her men.

"I will." Costayne agreed before dropping the tent flap, disappearing beyond it.

When it became clear that Ser Dickon was off Rhaenyra began. "Lieutenant." She addressed him, no longer carrying mirth along her lips, they dipped far towards her chin. She sat at her desk, her body half turned towards the man, hands gripping parchment tightly as if her life depended on it. "I would offer you something to drink, but I have suspiciously been robbed of my wine. Nevertheless, I will make this as brief as I can." A man who represented a certain minority in the Company that needed to be addressed. Outsiders. Quhuru, like many other specialists, were brought in from Essos or beyond. Warriors and soldiers that Rhaenyra or Baelor Butterwell would be too dimwitted to reject. They fought for pay and had no home to go to, presumably, and were content with this life. Rhaenyra's only fear was that these men would not follow her west, if that is where her winds were heading. Rhaenyra stood paralyzed when it came to this letter. Was it a forgery? Some playful trick? It could of been, easily, Rhaenyra wouldn't ever know. The woman needed information. She needed to speak with someone from this King Daeron's court. She needed to know if the men born of foreign soil would travel with the Exiled Brothers and fight a war with her. A final war. "Any words I say to you must not be repeated. Swear to it, on penalty of something more being removed from you." This wasn't information that could get out. Not even in the Company. Not only would every whore and grunt have an opinion on it, but if their would-be enemies on the other side of the sea discovered this plot, Rhaenyra could be known for being the second Captain-General slain on the Stepstones. Once Quhuru made such a pledge, the Captain-General sighed, wiping sweat from her brow and sliding her hand down to her thigh. "A letter has arrived, carried by a raven." She did not explain what this meant. Her lieutenant was not a dull man.

"Home is calling. They need us." Me. "Or, so says a bastard king who I've never heard of before. A man of no notable accomplishments, whose power I have less understanding of wants to hire us, with promises of land and gold at the end of his war." It was an awful deal. If they lost, not only would the Golden Company likely be fractured for the second time in four decades, but the cost of this expedition would cost Rhaenyra her position atop the totem pole and more than likely, her life. "The resentment for this land is open in my people. I've heard it since I was a child. Those men would follow me back, if only to leave behind this desolate graveyard. I am curious, lieutenant, for your opinion on the matter? For the promise of land and gold - eventually - would you travel across the sea for me? For this king? Will others be so like minded as you? They have no ties to Westeros, I cannot say there is much to inspire them forward, if they are so content here."

Rhaenyra did not bother giving Quhuru the letter. If the man could read, he would see nothing on it that was not said clearly. The letter meant a great deal to the Captain-General, the message was one of hope, of a future for the exiles. She was drunk on it, something she acknowledged, but could not fight against. A single war for a bastard, then there would be no pointless graves dug. The crows could feast on the Second Sons or the Windblown, for all Rhaenyra cared. Regardless of Quhuru's answer, Rhaenyra would write to the king. Unless he or one he trusted dared venture to Essos and meet with her, the Captain-General would be hard pressed to accept this contract, no matter how much her heart sang at what offers it held.

Spoiler

 

[Nightblade]

Brielle
Fallen Fire Priestess
​

Brielle had been the one nominated to lead the ship over to the shore. She had been briefed by Lord Jon and Lord Tarth on the various sigils of Stormlands houses and given plans on what to do if it was these Reacher Lords. As the sun rose behind them from the east, the ship neared the shore and the men got the rowboats ready.

Brielle took the chance to see the sigils for herself, A black raven on a field of green and she knew that it was a house from the Stormlands.

She stood watching as multiple small boats made their way to the shore to meet with the party. Brielle had put men from Tarth on them so that whoever they were meeting would not be on the defensive. The last thing anyone needed was a skirmish breaking out.

Looking towards the cliffs beyond, Brielle gave a sigh. She knew blood would be spilt in the coming weeks for these lands and she hoped everybody was ready for it. Breaking out of her musings, she saw the boats reach land and some men from the party discussing something with the group assembled on the shoreline.

Mentions:
Little-Fox

 

[Nightblade]

Artys Hunter
The Huntsman
​

Artys finished bathing before drying off and returning to camp. He was thinking of the upcoming council. Right now they were in a dangerous position, but as a King, Daeron had to stand by his allies. But to march on land as opposed to travel by way of the sisters was a tad foolish, but Artys' place was not to complain. Instead he would offer true and honest council, even if what he said was not liked.

As Artys mused, his thoughts went to his Son as they always did. He hated going off to war leaving his boy behind, but it had to be done. He received regular ravens from Longbow Hall reporting on Jayson's progress and Artys was glad his son was coming on in leaps and bounds. It did leave him sad that he was missing it, but Jayson was too young to be involved.

He was so lost in his thoughts, he did not realise he had stumbled on Daeron and Joron walking back towards the camp as well. Clearing his throat he spoke up

"Your Grace, Ser Joron, I am sorry I did not speak up I was lost in thought, doing a turn in the woods by oneself tends to have that effect"

Artys looked between them both filling the awkward silence he had stumbled into

Mentioned:
Braddington - Daeron
Lingua Frankly Not - Joron