Fandom A Game Of Thrones : THE EXALTED COUNCIL - RP

[Akio]

Qoren Martell
​

Qoren snorted with disdain. It was a cold and mocking sound as he spoke again. "Honor is no different than pride, and pride is something only permitted to the strong. And none of us are strong. Dorne has formidable warriors but we are few. We are in one of the weakest positions in the seven kingdoms, we lack the numbers and food of the Reach and Riverlands, the wealth of the Lannisters and the Crownlands, the remoteness of the North and the Vale. I ordered that attack because I was taught since I took this position I must act for the good of my people. I am not a knight, and I spit on the vows of one if that is what it takes to save the lives of my people. Because of your foolish honor, they were prepared, and Daeron and most of his important men survived. And how many will die for that honor of yours?" He said as he turned entirely towards him as he coldly recited names. "Samn Taner, Jovarn Parsin, Drack, Connin, Tyral, Wyllem, Darron Martell." He said his voice breaking slightly at the mention of his son before his voice hardened once more into a vicious point as he continued. "And others, all men who died to satisfy your honor. What would I call that but pride, if not arrogance? And that was only today if Daeron had fallen half the war would have been avoided. One of Dornes two enemies fallen before he could become ringed by steel. And now how many do you think will die in this war to bring down the ambition of Daeron Waters. How many sons, fathers, sisters, mothers. How many will die for that precious honor you hold dear? Those 'good men' may be the death of us all. Not just I but thousands upon thousands. If that is what your honor is worth then you then I will call it arrogance. If you were unwilling to break your honor why not just withdraw from the battle, drunk as you were I nor no other would have seen you a coward. But no, you decided your honor was worth risking the lives of every man there. That is your arrogance lord Dayne, that is what your honor is." He shot back as for possibly his first time ever Dayne could see the emotion clearly affecting him, showing how badly the death of his son had fueled this trip up here as for the moment he had nothing of the cold steel Qoren was known for, though his cold logic was much the same.

 

[TheAncientCelt]

Lord Steffon Dayne
The Mourning Sword

The Red Keep

It came, a flood of words, threatening to drown Lord Dayne. The sour lips spat their poison, trying to kill the wielder of Dawn then and there. The cold eyes, once so filled with a detached interest in the world, no less than that of a lizard's, now bore at Steffon, thunderous and angry like a storm. He spoke the names, he offered his views on what honor truly was, and then declared it foolhardy, equal in responsibility to the blades which dug into the corpses left outside Harrenhal. Reserved as he tried to be, the violet eyes in the Sword of the Morning shot forward with a silent anger. Their relationship was clear. Prince Martell could say whatever he liked to Lord Dayne, so far as it did not overstep his boundaries to Queen and her family. Steffon could not even bark at his superiors. Any slight or insult given need be carefully thought over. In some ways, this likely helped Steffon move past confrontations such as this. In others? It made the fire in his belly boil, words no honest man should speak mixing with the wine he had for breakfast. The reaction to the audible call to his son reserved no sympathy from Steffon. How could it? Qoren did not understand what his son died for, he spat on the memory of Darron's cause. The man could not see the forest from the trees. When Qoren finished his lengthy and emotional spiel, Dayne was quiet. His feet rocked, a hand held at his side with a palm resisting the urge to ball up. Moments paced, Steffon could not keep quiet for long enough. "At the risk of speaking beyond my standing, Prince Martell. Your comprehension of honor is what leads you to this er of thought."

He winced, knowing he spoke too openly to the Lord of Sunspear. "My honor is. ." The rapid fire statements carried weight to them. Why did Steffon stop the ambush? More people would be saved the troubles of war if a few died. It wasn't the worst rationality to hold. His lips pursed together tightly. He held no answer. "Something I cannot give up. Not fully." No, it was the last vestige of himself he had left. Even then, it was dulled. Wine and sorrow made part of Dayne numb, he was sure of it. Men and women ran, drunk off panic at Harrenhal. The real Steffon Dayne wouldn't of abandoned them. That Steffon Dayne inspired the best in others, he would provide the sense of safety that lacked after Regent Rosby's death. Arianne wouldn't expect anything less of Dayne. "Killing those men like that. ." He shook his head, images not of the battle of the night flashed, but a kind, warm smile. A generous and serene presence, unabashedly independent. That smile melted at the very prospect of being a piece in Qoren's plan. It was worse than Lord Corbray's hilt, a knife twisting in his stomach couldn't compare to the cold lightning that struck his nerves. "I would of lost something very important to me, Prince Qoren." His voice was lower, the aggressive, albeit controlled, edge no longer present.

"I was selfish. For my own sake, they died." He quietly admitted. Honor was. . Everything. And nothing. The gods judged the value of men off of it. 'Yet the Gods deemed me, devout to them, unworthy to keep a wife. Unable to be a father.' If honor was so important, if it was everything, why was he reduced to nothing? The unpleasant thoughts surged through him. Dayne wanted something to drink, immediately. Shame draped over Steffon as his own resolve began to crack. "I hold some weight in their fates." Steffon silently agreed, hating that Martell wasn't wrong. "Samn Taner, Jovarn Parsin, Drack." His head hung lower, the floor becoming a greater interest to the Sword of the Morning than the iron eyes of his lord. "Connin, Tyral, Wyllem." Each word, he pictured another death he caused. Why were the lives of strangers more important than his fellow Dornish? What would honor do for the many smallfolk, those who honor demanded Lord Dayne protect. What use was it if it conflicted? Was warning them, sparing Daeron Targaryen a disgraceful death right, if it did more good in the end? 'No.' He thought, meekly. 'What I did was right. And wrong.' His eyes rose, looking into Qoren's. The final name came out with more confidence, strength. "Dorran Martell. It. . .What I did, for the sake of my honor, has left it stained." There was no winning, especially not when Lord Qoren had Steffon doubting himself. "You hate what I did, allowing the king's men to respond to us so swiftly. I. . Can not begrudge you this. My hands are not clean, despite the lack of blood drawn that evening. I would ask you. ." He paused. What worth was it, asking this of Qoren? He did not follow Dayne's beliefs. Steffon didn't know if he even did, anymore. Yet, this same inner compunction that demanded he warn Lord Corbray and Daeron Targaryen forced his voice to rise, his eyes to harden in resolve. "I would ask you to give me a chance at redemption. I had. . . Allowed Daeron Targaryen's party to prepare. On your permission, I will swear an oath on the love I hold for my wife that I will take the life of the Dragon."


Akio
​

 

[Akio]

Qoren Martell
​

Qoren did not say anything as the other Lord tried to explain to him what his honor made. He didn't push anymore, he didn't need to. He simply watched him with his vivid blue eyes containing all the chill of the wall even as the lord began to doubt himself. He watched almost with satisfaction as his honor waged with his guilt and his logic and doubt and he couldn't help but feel a savage sense of glee as this proud lord began to doubt himself. He did not let any of this show, however, he hated this man nearly as much as he hated Daeron but he never planned to kill him. Say what you will about the knight's foolish notions of honor his skill was not something he could afford to throw away going into a war. As much as he hated him he needed Seffon Dayne. And whether he wanted to or not Steffon would be one of his weapons that he would use, and he would do this again and again if that's what it took to obtain victory. Lord Dayne could hold onto his honor, but he would stain it. His blue eyes held onto Steffons own as he made his proclamation, his request and he met his resolve before answering it. "Very well hold onto your honor Lord Dayne, as long as you realize the cost your honor has to your countrymen I will not push you from it. I do not blame exclusively you for the result of that day." He said lessening a bit of his push onto him, he had shown him the stick with his verbal blistering and now he relaxed his attack somewhat. "I ordered it, it was also my failure. In the future win or lose people will write I helped start this dance along with that Rose in our midst Gawen Tyrell. I should have noticed Darron, ordered him back, changed my plans after you shouted. There was much I didn't do and I blame myself far more then you will ever blame me for this war and my actions on that day." He said looking away from him seemingly on self-reflection as he moved towards the door.

"I accept your oath, my son also is looking for Daerons death and if he ever catches him in his grief I doubt he will allow him to die cleanly so perhaps it's better one day if you are the one to catch that boy you saved and end his life." He would place his hand on the door handle, satisfied how this meeting went and feeling a bit better than he vented his rage onto this man of honor and made him doubt. "But do not forget. I will use every method to end this war, every dirty trick, every cruelty, anything to ensure our people's survival. If your honor does not allow you participate in these actions then step aside when you need to but war is coming, for every sacrifice you make you risk your countrymen and I want you to remember the consequences of Harrenhal and this promise you made with the love you bare for your wife. War is not a song, and honor will not be your shield Steffon, nor one that will protect those under your charge." He opened the door and without even looking at him simply spoke. "You are the Sword in the Morning, one of the hopes for Dorne. Daeron is not your king or your grace. Fight for Dorne and your people. I hope you live up to their expectations and your bold promises." He said leaving the room, letting the heavy door shut itself behind him.

 

[Nightblade]

Jon Baratheon
The Silent Stag
​

Location: Kings Landing

Jon finished reading the notes and missives he had received and proceeded to burn them, watching until
they were nothing but ashes. Once he was satisfied, he decided to go about his business.
He knew Gawen was locked away for now and part of him was glad. He had received the missive that
Willam had recently been spotted arriving into the city and Jon planned to greet him.

Stepping down the stairs and various corridors until he reached the entrance to the Red Keep, he knew
the way the Westerlander lords came to the city and it was through the Dragon Gate. Mounting his Stallion,
which had been prepared for him, he rode down through the city intending to meet with the lords.

Coming across the group of lords that happened to be making their way towards the Red Keep, Jon called out

"My lords, Thank you for arriving so promptly to the city"

He called out, his eyes finding Willam in the group

Interactions:
Yarrow - Willam

 

[Dread-neck]

Lucas the Ashen Blade​

Lucas hadn't bothered keeping track of how much time had passed since that whole bloody affair at Harrenhal. Common sense dictated that he should given that he had inadvertently signed himself up for a war, but what could he say? He had to keep some since of calm in this storm that was his new life. He saw to his duties as one of Ryden's lackies, his sympathies going only so far as his new co-workers were butchered by the grieving prince. He folded his arms but said nothing as each one fell, learning not only where they fell, but also how the Prince fought. He could understand the grieving he went through, having gone through the same thing years ago with his own family. He felt the prince was dealing with his anguish in a rather childish way, but he did not voice such thoughts out loud, not for fear of losing his job or for fear that the Prince would put him next in the ring, but simply for the fact that grief counseling was not in his job description. How Ryden felt and dealt with it was not his concern. Lucas was only concerned with how to keep the blood-thirsty lordling out of harms way. Only when he made his job more complicated would he step in and say something.

Without a word, he followed Ryden as he strode from his freshly blooded guards, watching as Anaya followed suit. He liked her, what could he say? She was a little spitfire. He did however pity that she had decided to open her mouth and start talking about his grief. He didn't like the tone that Ryden had opted to take with her, but he stayed quiet nonetheless, keeping himself ready should he need to step in.

Akio Little-Fox

 

[notabot]

Boremund Brune
Commander of the Goldcloaks​

Boremund's fingers dug deeper into the man's neck as he forced him down again, holding steady against the wild thrashing and gurgling muted screams. The barrel rocked slightly, water sloshing over the rim but he held his grip firm as the struggling faded and the bubbles became less and less. Boremund counted down for a moment in his head; then with an effort heaved back. The man came up gasping for air as Boremund hurled him to the corner.

“I'll ask again.” He waited a moment as the man, carpenter by the look of him, regained his senses and locked eye-contact. “Who the fuck did it?”

A few feet from where they stood was a woman, middle-aged, unremarkable in appearance except for a series of stab wounds dotted across her back and the pool of blood she lay in. Commander Boremund Brune was getting tired of unanswered killings in his city. The carpenter had come to the Goldcloaks offering information in return for pay. Boremund had neither coin nor patience for him.

“P-please, no more.” He whimpered, trying to crawl further into the corner as Commander Brune stared at him intently. “It, it was dragon-men.”

A long list of expletives flashed off through Boremund's mind and his hand tightened involuntarily around his sword-pommel, but after a moment he sighed.

“Tie her down with lead and toss her in the Blackwater.” He ordered one of his men, a look of annoyed resignation had come over his face. He had been a Goldcloak for seventeen years now ever since leaving Crackclaw, commander for five, the only reason he still had a head attached to his shoulders was that, no matter what, Boremund did not do politics. It wasn't his fight. “As for you, shit-for-brains, speak a word of this and you'll join her.” The man readily nodded as one of the watchmen stepped up to clasp the Commander's cloak to him, it's gold shone out in the otherwise dingy warehouse; sometimes it did him a little good to remember which side he was meant to be on.

Twenty minutes later Commander Brune found himself trudging through the streets of Flea-bottom up on his way to the barracks, his mood more foul than usual. Boots squelched in the fresh mud with each step and a shiver ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. The city was tense, he could feel it. People huddled inside more, hoarding up supplies for the coming storm. More lords from all over Westeros were spilling in every day, each one bringing his own private bloody militia with them. Sending his boys against thieves and cut-throats was one thing, armoured knights, well that wouldn't be pretty.

Boremund turned a corner just in time to see a gang of street urchins sprint away in fear, but his mind was otherwise occupied as he stalked onward. There were times when he missed Dyre Den, things had changed since his brother took the lordship but he had some happy memories back in Crackclaw. Still, he'd made his choice, Boremund wanted no truck with lordship or the game of thrones, it wasn't his fight. He just wanted to keep his city safe through the inevitable war.

Boremund pushed open the heavy door to the barracks and scraped the mud from his boots, he was looking forward to a good sleep. It had been a long day of what he had a bad feeling would be a long year. But he was surprised to find himself met with half the officers in the watch stood in the entrance hall, all looking at him.

"The fuck are you all doing here?" He started angrily. "I don't pay you ladies to stand around, piss off and do some work." But something was wrong, he could tell.

"Commander..." Gaemon Longwaters, a lieutenant, stepped forward after a moment looking not a little uneasy. In fact none of them seemed able to hold his gaze for long. "Word has just reached the city; House Celtigar has taken Crackclaw Point...your, your family Boremund they're...I'm so sorry."

Boremund felt his stomach drop out of him, suddenly he was numb all over. Vaguely he was aware of the other officers offering their condolences, patting him on the shoulder, but it was like it was happening to someone else. A whole spectrum of emotions was churning away inside him, too much for him to process, but one thought kept coming back to him. Boremund did not do politics. It wasn't his fight. His fist clenched over his sword pommel.

 

[Little-Fox]

Anaya Uller | Ryden Martell | Lucas the Ashen Blade
King's Landing: The Abandoned Hall
​

“Do you think whether you’re here or not will change anything?” Ryden said coldly as he continued to walk to the back of the area. “I will not feel any peace till my brothers killer lies dead at my feet yet everyone will continue to demand things of me. After all i am the prince of Dorne.” He said with bitterness as he realized he’d reached the end of the deserted hallway stopped and turned to look at her with fire in his eyes as he turned to regard her. “The last prince of Dorne.” He said with anger and pain as he narrowed his eyes at her. “So tell me Lady Uller what consolations do you have for me, what sympathies have i not heard?” He questioned, his voice carrying a dangerous edge to it even to her.

As he came to a stop, so too did she. Afterall, it wasn’t a smart move to corner someone you didn’t plan on harming and even then it was a gamble on if it gave you any real advantage. Cornered animals tended to be far more dangerous than their free-roaming counterparts and as she’d seen in the training yard, this was more than doubly true here. It was darker here, darker than she liked and his mood only intensified that feeling. “You are the prince of Dorne… and while there are those who will ask things of you, I don’t plan on being one of them. I don’t think you want someone to console you, not until blood is shed and someone’s head is on a pike. Offering you sympathy is like offering a drunkard water, it’s not what he wants and it would only be thrown back in my face whether it was genuine or not. I’ll ask you again, Prince Martell… do you want me to leave you?”

Ryden looked at her for a long moment and slowly chuckled. It was not a happy sound and instead contained a low kind of malice. “Indeed you’re right, but still you ask my opinion. That's all you can do can’t you? For all that big show of indepence you’re nothing more than a pawn of your father's games. Handmaiden, he wanted to parade you like a product being sold, to attract a prince of Dorne, even though my brother was almost as afraid of relationships as failing my father so perhaps you were meant for me. He sent you after me after all so they might well be his intentions. Of course i usually prefer girls with a bit larger assets so if it fails i wonder what he will do to you? Sell you to some aging lord to spread your legs like a broodmare?” He said obvious meaning to hurt her and while he didn’t know her very well from speaking with his sister he knew enough and in his grief struck out against this young girl, wanting to get out his anger. “You’re weak and unable to make a decision for yourself. How can someone like you pretend to know what I’m feeling now?”

Lucas followed both of them listening carefully as both of them spoke. Finally, with that last bit from Ryden, he’d finally heard enough. “Then take it from someone who does know how you feel. Is this how a ‘Prince’ is supposed to act? Hacking his men to pieces and throwing petty insults at those trying to be his friend?” He snorted and folded his arms, his eyes boring into the lordling. “You’re acting like a child. Breaking his toys in a tantrum. Yes, I understand you are grieving, but wounding your men and insulting those who are trying to help will do nothing but ensure that you have nothing but men who will likely shirk their jobs because they do not wish to guard a boy who treats them so, and fair weather friends. And believe me, if you keep treating your men like this, the day will come when they realize that there are more of them than there are of you, and they will take advantage of that. Skilled as you are, we both know you will die in a coup.” Lucas said letting that sink in. “Your brother died with honor and with a blade in his hand. Not many lords can say the same. And you disgrace him by acting as you do.” He knew that his words were likely going to warrant a response from Ryden, but hey, such is the price of employing someone with nothing to lose.

Anaya took a small step back with Ryden’s words. He wasn’t wrong, unfortunately. Or at least, not entirely wrong. The question of what would happen if it failed implied that there was a chance for success or that she was even willing to try such a thing. He likely couldn’t comprehend that a Lady wouldn’t actually want to be with him. Lucas began to speak, sea-green eyes flitted over to him for a moment as she listened, silently thankful that perhaps this wouldn’t end as poorly as she’d anticipated. Just as with the conversation at the back of the caravan, she fell silent, letting the two talk back and forth while she mentally nursed her own wounds. I make my own decisions just fine. It’s acting on them that’s the issue. I am not incapable, I am trapped by the circumstances of my birth. Just like you.

Ryden would turn his head to the sellsword and he could see danger in his eyes. While his words were sensible Ryden was in no mood to listen to them and he turned on the sellsword in a black rage. “Yes because a sell sword with no history, no responsibilities, and scrunching for the highest bidder has any right to judge me? How would you know the pressure that weighs on me of people's expectations, how would you know the relationship between me and my people, or anything at all. Your paid to guard, not to judge things you don’t understand.” He said all but snarling out his rage and it seemed for a moment he was about to dismiss him from his service or worse.

Once again, Lucas held the prince’s gaze. He knew that running his mouth like this would get him in a bit of a fix, and he was more than ready for a fight, but first words. “No history that you know of. Once again, you assume too much. And yes, I scrounge for what I have, but then again, it’s a life that I choose. Not one that I was forced to lead.” He said calmly. There was no reason for him to get in a huff over words. What could words do to him that a blade could? “And I can read it plain in your actions and on your face. I don’t have to live your life to understand what you have to go through. Loss is universal for a prince and a peasant. There is nothing special about you that makes your loss unique to you simply because you have a title. And I agree. I am paid to guard. However continue treating your people as you do and I will have to ask that you increase my earnings. I will not guard you from an army whose wrath you rightly deserve to feel.” His words were once again calm, and his posture loose, in case he had to move quickly. “You speak of your responsibilities. You are a prince. Yes, that does not take away your right to grieve. I may not completely understand your duties, but there is one thing that you do not understand because you have not been made to walk in shoes that were not made of the finest leathers. Your people may love you now, but if they see how you treat your men, that love will wane. Through the years they will wonder what happened to the Prince that they knew. Why was he replaced with such a tyrant? And eventually, they will turn. Your actions bear weight. Not only on you, but on your house and your name. And you would do well to remember that. Do not focus on the what ifs of this situation. Do not focus on vengeance, because in the end, it may not be you who gets to serve it. Focus on yourself, your people, and your life, lest you lose who you are.”

A dark brow rose as the girl listened to the pair. For a sellsword, Lucas seemed to have a decent grasp on the world and how things worked. On the other hand, she understood Ryden’s grief whether he wanted to admit that fact or not. The healthiest place for him to get this out would be the battlefield, not cooped up here in King’s Landing. It was just about getting him to realize that he needed to keep his shit together and his anger under wraps until he could actually let it go that was the problem. She could see that tension building though… Ryden looked ready to strike, and while Lucas could hold his own that day at the caravan she didn’t want to see it tested a second time here in the back hall with only herself as a witness. “There are a lot of assumptions being made about who would understand what… I stand by what I said earlier, however.” She looked up at Ryden with an expression of apologetic frustration. “You don’t want sympathy or anyone’s help in this. You won’t let go of your anger until you’re out on the battlefield and you’ve seen vengeance occur. Even then, I’m not sure you’d be happy unless it was your own blade who slew him. But I would highly recommend you not take it out on the guards lest they be incapable of doing their jobs afterwards. How many can you afford to lose between now and when you do go out to fight?”

Ryden narrowed his eyes at Lucas and was obviously about to snap back with a fury, his hand even drifting to his sword before Anaya started speaking Lucas’s words weren't wrong and what made it worse is it even sounded like something his mother would say. Anaya however hit the point she needed but he would never admit it. He needed the guards and even his own father would tell them wasting them was foolish and even as he began to slow and some of the fire in his eyes calmed he turned to Lucas and spoke out, his voice still harsh. “You are dismissed for now, go into the city and help Brune for awhile. I don’t wish to be followed.” He would then turn to Anaya. “Go, your right i don’t wish anyone's sympathy. Tell your father i just need time to grieve. Now go. Both of you, i have no desire to hear either of your voices.” He said walking to the door of one of the deserted rooms and sliding inside it before slamming it shut.

Lucas’ face was neutral as his orders were given. No need for eye rolling or a witty retort when the point was already driven home. He gave a lazy two fingered salute and started walk away turning to Anaya once the door was slammed. “Wanna tag along or are you gonna stay cooped up here, too?”

The softly hissed sound of her releasing a long held breath was just audible after the door’s catch had fallen into place. “Sure. It gives me a bit of time to get away from things… and to avoid my father for just a little while. I did what I was asked, it wasn’t wanted… my job is done, right?” She brushed her hair back over her shoulder and started back down the hall, thankful for the fresher air once they were out of the gauntlet. “Thanks by the way. You didn’t have to step in like that, but it’s appreciated despite the fact he wasn’t really… wrong.”

Lucas grinned at Anaya as they walked. He held up two fingers. “Two things you need to learn and will learn if you hang around me, Anaya. The first thing as that you don’t let anyone tell you what your life is worth. Kings. Queens. Mothers. Fathers. Your life is your own. Do with it what you want because you only have one. Fancy names and titles will only get you so far. And despite what some people with a lot of it to spare will tell you; coin doesn’t buy happiness. If it did, the Prince over there would be a bright ray of sunshine. The second thing you’re gonna learn, is that not all orders are worth following. We were born with free will for a reason, right?” He asked looking at her with a raised eyebrow.

One corner of her lips lifted into a gentle smirk. “Yeah. You’re right.” She tossed a glance back over her shoulder at the closed door before shaking her head and following out towards the city. “He’ll cool down eventually, just probably not until he gets his hands on Daeron. I think we might have gotten through to him though… too many soldiers and guards and it really becomes an issue of was it really worth it? I’m not saying he’s right for what he did. But I’m saying that there’s a trade off between what’s worth it and what’s necessary. When those two become grossly off balance, it causes more problems than even his father will want to deal with.” She shrugged. “Oh… I still have your dagger if you want it back. I didn’t have to stab anyone, most of the ones I ended up with were the non-combative Dornish. Still wish I could have actually fought out there.”

Lucas waved his hand. “Pfft, keep it in case Sunshine decides he wants to get a little too hands on. I have plenty. And to be honest, I could care less about what his father has on his plate. Not to sound indifferent, but really, I’m more concerned about whether or not I’ll be having to fight off a coup because his kid decided to let his blade do the thinking. And trust me, he’s going to have to learn to live with the possibility that he may not be the one to dish out that little bit of vengeance. Being prince doesn’t entitle you to everything.”

 

[Elucid]

Vaemond Celtigar
The Hereditary Warden of Cracklaw Point
​

Somehow Vaemond had imagined war to be a lot different than whatever this was, all this incessant marching and trotting about bored him. Every story he'd been told as a boy talked about great battles, with swarms of men making their final stands in the mud and the grime but none of that had happened.
They'd been marching largely unopposed for the last few days and while there were a few skirmishes with some scouts that had been sent out there was no major fighting. All this would've been fine if he was in any place other than the point, there would've been other things to do, sights to enjoy but this was the point and Vaemond was getting tired of bedding the timid village girls his men would bring to his camp every night. If the lords of the point weren't going to actually put up a fight, then there was really no point in him staying back he'd rather just make his way to Claw Isle or pay his respects to the Queen in Kings Landing.

Vaemond couldn't go just yet though, his armies had just set up camp a few miles away from the seat of house Crabb, it wouldn't be proper for him to not see this siege through. Word had been sent to the castle; surrender and you'll be spared, fight and your entire house shall be put to the sword. Nothing had been heard back. Castle Crabb seemed to be a downgrade from their previous seat at the Whispers, this castle was not much unlike Dyre Den with the crooked towers that made it look abandoned and desolate, more so with the swamplands and overgrown soldier pines surrounding it. No wonder these people believed in these nonsensical tales of the squishers; creatures that came by night time to steal all the bad children. Vaemond though that he'd probably believe it too if he lived anywhere near a castle that looked this eerie.

Like all the other times before, the army had begun by looting and pillaging the surrounding countryside, taking what they needed in form of food, supply, and women. Most of the men, however, had stayed back to guard the camp and to construct the things needed for an assault, breaching towers and the like.

Vaemond was supposed to be attending a council of the commanders the night before the assault was to take place to discuss the particulars of the battle but he couldn't be bothered, the commanders were more than able to do their jobs themselves and didn't need him to breathe down their necks, his brother was more than suited for that job. Besides he had other, more important things to do like finishing translating that Tyroshi treatise on trading in pear brandy or bedding one of those timid village girls the men had brought back from their last raid.

x------x------x
​

Vaemond had had his share of nightmares, but none that would manifest themselves in the real world. That is, until today. Waking up to the screams of his men and the sight of huge flames burning through the camps was a unique experience, to say the least. He'd been to sleep early that night, with an army that seemed ready and disciplined enough to take on any force thrown at them, never would he have imagined that in but a few hours they'd be in shambles running around searching for buckets of water. The fire wasn't his most serious problem now though, there were sounds of fighting near him. It seemed that the Crabbmen had sallied out after the flames had begun to attack a part of the army where they'd have an advantage in numbers. He needed to get his men to concentrate on fighting that force or else all would be lost.

Mounting the closest horse he could find he raced through his part of the camp, barking orders at his men "Leave it to burn you bastards!! the Crabbmen are upon us, grab whatever you can and go". Some of the men hadn't even put their armor on properly but they still grabbed the closest spear they'd find and charged. The fighting was brutal, his men unprepared and unarmed were no match for the force that had fallen upon them, but his men had managed to bog the enemy them down there was no way they could retreat, even the enemy knights were forced into the thick of battle, a battle which now looked more like a desperate free-for-all. Surrounded, Vaemond had to fight himself, he was no great knight but he could surely fell a few footmen you'd expect as much from the person swinging around a Valyrian steel ax.

Just when the situation began to seem dire with many of Vaemond's men beginning to rout, Edwell and his knights came to the rescue crashing into the back of the enemy formation, that could now be more accurately described as a blob. Vaemond rallying the troops nearby him to fight, gave the rest enough time to figure out exactly what was going on and mount an effective attack. The remainder of the battle was pretty straightforward, the Crabbmen were cut down one by one with none of them showing the slightest hint of routing until it was just the Lord Crabb and a few of his retainers left. Lord Crabb was resilient though, it took two bolts to the chest and a spear to the knee to finally stop him swinging his sword. No one was to kill the man though, that would be Vaemond's job and it would be a horrible affair. The man was stabbed more times than could be counted with Vaemond hysterically shouting the words "I am, the Warden of Cracklaw point!" again and again and again. It took two men-at-arms and his brother to finally make him get off of the now clearly lifeless body.

The castle would be taken soon after, with little to no men inside it wouldn't be much of a hassle, the battle had cost Vaemond much though and he intended on exacting revenge. The lord's wife and daughters would be given to the men to take their turns with, once they were done, the entire family would be executed, their heads put on pikes for all to see. They say that Ser Clarence Crabb would collect and bring home disembodied heads to be brought back to life by his witch of a wife, it seemed poetic to have his line die out in this very same way.

Spoiler: Mentions

TheFool , notabot

 

[Braddington]

King Daeron III Targaryen
King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm​

Hours had passed since Daeron fled to his chambers and locked the door behind him, refusing servant after servant who had come to check on him or offer him this or that. During this time all he could do was think, what he could do, what his duty was, what his father would think, all of it. No answers came however as he grew more and more angry in frustration at the predicament. Eventually he knew he had to leave, he had things to do, something entirely new for the Prin- King and he had a duty. There it was again duty, the one thing binding him to this forsaken endeavour, a sweet poison that has given him everything ambitious men could ever want whilst taking everything he once cherished away from him like a sick joke the Gods relished in.

Leaving his room he headed straight for office of the Eyrie’s Maester, a rather timid man who did his duties but nothing more or less, Daeron considered him one of the most boring men he had ever met and that means a lot considering the bankers he had conversed with in Kingslanding just about counted as men. As he entered the room the Maester simply arose from his desk offering it to Daeron before leaving with slight bow that signified more or less indifference. Daeron proceeded to sit, brushing aside the Maesters writings and beginning anew on fresh parchment. He had many letters to write before the Council and he would get them out of the way now. He wasn't insane enough to waste time on each house in a region however, the Maester could do that.

Spoiler: Lord Stark

“To Lord Bryce Stark, Lord Paramount of The North, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North,

I wish to officially thank you for the aid you gave me at Harrenhal, without the might of northern troops the dishonourable Dornish ambush may well of killed me and my men. I wish for you to also send my condolences to the family of Lord Cassal, he fought brave and well for the cause he believed in and for that he will be remembered when I sit the Iron Throne. If his family ever need my help, they shouldn't hesitate to ask.
Onto more official matters, I won't lie my Lord, it seems war is on the horizon. The banners of the Vale have already been called and I think it would be prudent for the North to do the same. I need you Bryce, without the North I will be trapped in the Vale to die whilst usurpers claim the crown. If you choose to keep the oath you gave me at Harrenhal I wish for you to gather the men and march for the Twins with haste. We must not allow the enemy time to trap us in.

There is also one more thing my Lord, it concerns marriage. When I claim my throne, the realm will need a Queen, for that reason I wish to formally announce that with your permission and her permission I wish to start a courtship with the fair and beautiful Lady Willow. I can think of no more beautiful a woman in the realm, a winter rose with a sweet and kind heart. I will not pursue this if you or her disapprove, after all this is not my choice but hers.

Signed,
King Daeron III Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm”

It pained Daeron to write the last paragraph, not because he had any ill will towards Lady Willow, in fact quite the opposite, but because of what it would mean. He knew it would have to happen eventually however and this was not set in stone, he could back out anytime he wanted but if he wanted to sit the throne this was but one of many hard choices he would have to make. With each decision however, he could feel a little bit of himself chip away.

Spoiler: Ser Steffon Rosby

“To Ser Steffon Rosby,

I write to you today with sincere sadness, your father was a great man and one of the greatest Hands ever to grace the Kingdoms. His brutal murder at the hands of Ser Gawen Tyrell shall be avenged I promise you this as I promised your brother who is now at my side. This act of murder and treason shall be remembered as will your father and he would be proud of his sons today.

It is thanks to your fathers loyalty to our former monarch that I write to you today as your King and ask of the following. Gather all Crownland loyalists and their men and head for the Bloody Gate, don't stop or allow yourself to be stalled. You must flee immediately for the sake of survival.Do this task for me and I promise upon your arrival that you shall be rewarded for your loyalty.

Signed,

King Daeron III Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm”

Then came the final letter, one he could not send via a Maesters raven but one that meant far more to him than all the others combined.

Spoiler: Jon Baratheon

“Jon,

I need you, I haven't seen you in months and I don't know how long I can last without you there to make me smile and relax. These past weeks have brought me to the brink of breaking, I'm being proclaimed as King and it seems war is coming to the Kingdoms. I can't fight you, I won't fight you, I need you by my side if I'm going to make it through this. I know this is your family, but when has Jocelyn ever done anything for you? She has treated you like trash all your life and now she harbours a murderer, a murderer Jon.

I love you and I mean that, you mean more to me than anyone in this world and always have since those early years. That will never stop no matter what you decide, but please Jon, I am nothing without you.

Daeron"

Daeron had to stop, the emotion was building up and he needed to maintain his composure. He left the letter to Lord Stark and Ser Rosby for the Maester and took the letter to Jon with him, knowing exactly where to go. Jon had people everywhere and Daeron knew this, after all he had been sending messages to Jon for years. He hoped if he left it in the usual place it would find it's way to Jon like it always did. With that done all that was left was the meeting. He approached a servant and tapped her on the shoulder, she quickly averted her gaze. “Tell Lady Arryn, Princess Visenya, Lord Commander Royce, Lord Robert Rosby and Lord Grafton to meet me in the war room as quickly as possible.” The servant bowed and scurried off. Daeron arrived and took a seat, awaiting the others.

Rusty of Shackleford
Nightblade
Saavedra
clarinetti
ailurophile
Little-Fox (kinda)

 

[TheFool]

Matthos Of Braavos
Son Of Fire


​

Nothing aroused him more than the colour red. Just thinking about it drove his loins to a stir. The colour of my lord. Matthos’ lord wasn’t some high and mighty nobleman, no. He was a God. The God. R’hllor. They were in the middle of The Kingswood after a long journey from Starfall. Since he had been summoned by his ‘lesser’ lord.
Steffon Dayne.
A nobleman, indeed. The two had met months ago when Matthos Of Braavos first landed in Westeros. They instantly hit it off. Of course we did. I am nothing but charming. And now, the nobleman was in King’s Landing. And he asked for Matthos and his group of Essoi misfits to join him, and bring him his sword as well. Dawn. Matthos had the sword in a sheath attached to his waist. It was a beautiful thing with a beautiful name.
A name that gifts your heart with hope.

“How much further?” Roach asked, his hand on the hilt of his own sword. “Not much.” One of Steffon’s retainers replied. Roach groaned, “That doesn’t answer anything.”
“Shut up then.” Shiv shouted from the back of the group.
“No, you sh-”
“Stop the fighting. It won’t get us to King’s Landing any faster.” Vahaza said. She was sitting in a small cart, being pulled by a Dornish donkey. The woman could barely walk at her age.
“Vahaza is right. Be quiet, both of you.” Matthos spoke.
Matthos was in the front of the group. The only people he followed were Steffon’s retainers who were the only ones that actually knew where they were going. Everyone else was at Matthos’ back. To his right was Xhobar. A large man who Matthos met in Asshai. Though he is originally from The Summer Isles, if I recall correctly. Xhobar’s skin was darker than the night’s sky. He was usually a very talkative man but today he was in one of his moods. Behind Matthos was Roach and Shiv. Roach was a handsome young man who Matthos had met in Norvos. He met Shiv in Plankytown, as she was on the run from a gaggle of guards. Behind them was the cart, pulled by one of Steffon’s retainers and pulling Tick and Vahaza. Vahaza was a woman who said she was of nine and eighty. Though the group guessed she was much older. Tick was a former pitfighter, his skills now sullied by his addiction to Milk Of The Poppy. There were more of Matthos’ friends back at Starfall.

He had quite a lot of them.
Nothing but charming.

After an hour or so of silence, King’s Landing appeared in the distance. “Looks pretty small.” Roach said, scratching his head.
“Name a bigger city then?” Shiv spat.
“Well… where do I begin? Braavos? Pentos? Volantis?”
“Shut up.”
Roach laughed, “Do my words offend you, Westerosi?”
“My fist will offend you, Norvoshi.”
“Calm.” Matthos put in, “Be calm. I can see the city gate. I think we would all hate it if we had to stop and scrape Roach’s body up from this road.”

As the got closer and closer to the capital, Matthos’ smile became wider and wider. He put his hand on Dawn’s pommel as it laid inside its sheath. This is it. He thought to himself. All of my trials have prepared me for this.
“Open the gates.” One of Steffon’s retainers shouted up to several guards. By winter, this city will be a light.
He looked at the city, and then down at his robes. His red robes. This is for you, my lord. His heartbeat fastened, and the gates opened. Letting The Lord Of Light into its city.

Tyland Lannister
Lion Of Lannister


​

They met with a stag on The Street Of Sisters. Jon Baratheon. Tyland looked at him as he addressed them, though the stag’s eyes only searched for Willam. Before his nephew could gather a grunt in response, Tyland grinned.
“No thanks necessary, my lord. Who wouldn’t want to come and see this city?” Tyland’s eyes surveyed The Street Of Sisters. It looked as if it was decorated by The Seven themselves. The street gave a false first impression of King’s Landing. One would not imagine that Flea Bottom is just a quick slip to the east. “My nephew, son of Lord Loren Lannister, would like an audience with Princess Elaena. If you could escort us to The Red Keep, we’d be ever thankful.”
Tyland’s grin stayed on his lips.

Roland Foote reined in his horse. “Do you want me to accompany you, Ty?” He whispered. His horse neighed. Tyland leaned in, “I would appreciate that.” Tyland’s smile soon widened, “Though if you wish to fondle a whore- be my guest, friend.”
Both men broke into laughter.
“There’ll be time for that later, my lord.” Roland said.
“Yes,” Tyland looked back at Jon Baratheon.
“There will.”

Jocelyn Baratheon
Dowager Queen


​

“The smallfolk call it The Second Ball. And another Dance.” Maester Osfryd spoke softly, his voice filled with a frailness. Jocelyn rolled her eyes at him. Osfryd was acting on behalf of Grandmaester Harren who had yet to make his way home to King’s Landing after what had happened at Harrenhal. “It’s foolish to name a war that hasn’t even begun to ripen.” She retorted. Jocelyn stood adjacent to the seat that Elaena sat in within the small council chamber.
Where are the others? She wondered. Did my handmaiden lose herself in the keep’s halls again?
“And besides,” Jocelyn continued. “The bastard isn’t even a dragon, and an unborn babe is unable to dance.” Just thinking about Daeron Waters and Melessa Tyrell made her fume with anger. “Well, that is what they are saying.” Osfryd said.
He was an odd little man. A cronie of Harren’s. Though even though Harren had a certain strangeness to him, he was completely normal compared to Osfryd. I did hear that he hurt a handmaiden after she went to see him about her moon’s bleeding. Jocelyn sighed. How, I do not know. She looked at Elaena who was silent.

They hugged a little longer after talking about Jaehaerys. The hug gave Jocelyn strength. Strength to carry on and fight. The last two weeks had been stressful, to say the least. She wasn’t anywhere near giving up, but life was looking grim.
It still does, but we will make better of it.

Jocelyn took a seat and let out another long sigh. “Maester Osfryd, fetch the letters.” She commanded. The Maester replied with a nod and then got up out of his chair. He stumbled across the small council chamber, his chains from the citadel rattling as he did. Jocelyn looked at Elaena and smiled, “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, grandmother. Just… deep in thought.”
Osfryd returned to his chair and plopped himself in it. He then placed the letters on the table. “Shouldn’t we wait to open them until the others arrive?” Elaena asked as Jocelyn picked up the letter nearest to her.
Jocelyn shook her head, “Do not worry, my dear. They will hear it all when they are here.” Jocelyn looked at the letter’s seal. House Celtigar. She broke it open and began to read.

“Vaemond Celtigar states that he is ready to attack any rebels within The Crownlands.” She said, her eyes still scurrying over the words he had wrote her.
“He already has, your grace.” Osfryd spoke up. “I heard word this morning that House Brune has been a victim of Vaemond Celtigar. Though I wasn’t too sure if it was true.”
Jocelyn took a breath.
The war has begun. The Second Ball. Jocelyn looked at Elaena, “What should we do?”
“What?” Elaena raised an eyebrow.
Jocelyn repeated herself, “What should we do, Elaena.”
“I-”
“You are the Queen. You may not have a crown on your head just yet, but you are. You make the choices now, my dear. I will always provide you counsel. But the last word is yours.”
Elaena gulped, “What is your counsel?”
Jocelyn smiled. Hmm. “I would write back to Celtigar. Give him our thanks. He has uprooted a rebellious stem before they even got their chance to grow. Thank him, and invite him here to King’s Landing.”
Elaena nodded. “I will do as much. Maester Osfryd-”
“I am already on it, your grace.” The Maester picked up his pen and dipped it in its ink, before beginning to write.
“Tell him, also, to bring Lord Brune’s children with him. I know them. They are probably scared. They’d be safe here with us.” Elaena added. Jocelyn smiled at her words before adding, “And we can use them as bargaining chips like we are Meredyth Rosby.”
The poor girl. A handmaiden of Elaena’s, now held under house arrest here in The Red Keep. That is what happens when your late father lies.
Elaena made a grimace when Meredyth was mentioned, but she did not speak of her.

Jocelyn put Celtigar’s letter on the table and took the next one in her hand. The three bats of Harrenhal. “This one I will open later on. It is a personal letter from Larys Whent.” Jocelyn informed Elaena and Osfryd.
“Of course, your grace.” Osfryd said.

The final letter on the table had the trout’s seal. “House Tully?” Elaena said. Jocelyn nodded and broke said seal open. She read the letter. Then she stopped. What? “This…” She continued to read. And then she reread it. Her eyes could not be believed.
“What is it, grandmother?” Elaena asked.
“I am baffled.”
Jocelyn didn’t know whether to be angry, or to laugh. “Pia Piper, the whore, has written to Baelor Tyrell and offered House Tully’s allegiance. Only, she did not seem to send the letter to that oaf. She sent to us instead.”
“Oh my.” Osfryd frowned, “The Pipers aren’t known for their wit.”
“So this gives us… some kind of upper hand. Right?” Elaena asked, her face like stone. Jocelyn nodded. She then read the letter aloud, so Elaena and Osfryd could hear.
“It is very advantageous for us to know this indeed.” Osfryd said, while still writing his letter to Vaemond Celtigar.
“Yes” Jocelyn put the letter aside. “What do you think?” She asked, turning to Elaena. Elaena was quiet for a moment or three before she answered. “I say we wait ‘til the others get here. Then we discuss what to do with House Tully.”
“Of course, your grace.” Jocelyn said with a smile.

“We will wait.”

Veron Greyjoy
Lord Reaper


​

The woman’s moan was muffled by the waves as they wrecked against his longship. “Take me.” She whispered in his ear. Veron Greyjoy lay on top of his love. You will have me. “Lord Greyjoy.” His eyes opened. He was lying in his hammock in the belly of his beast, ‘The Black Angler’.
“Lord Greyjoy, we’ll be in Lordsport soon.” The voice of a sea scullion informed him. Veron did not issue a reply. He only got up out of his hammock and walked over to the boy. Then, with precision, he slapped the boy across the head.
“You’d wake your Lord?”
The boy crouched down and cowered, “I- I am sorry. Please forgive me Lord Veron.” Veron looked at him. Pale and small and scrawny.
“You are forgiven. Not get out, you pissant.”
The boy fled.
Veron sat back in his hammock. The room tilted due to the water below. He tried shutting his eyes again in an attempt to sleep and an attempt to dream his dream. But, it was no use. “Curse him.” He mumbled to himself.

It was wet on deck. The Iron Islands had been plagued by late summer showers for the last five days. The rain was particularly heavy this evening. “My lord.” A voice said as Veron appeared. That voice was soon joined by others, all saying the same thing. Veron looked at them all, before clearing his throat and bellowing out-
“Where is my son? He should be steering.” He said. “The only reason we are at sea right now is so he can learn to steer. So where is he, and why aren’t his hands steering this fucking ship?”
“I’m here, father.” Ron said, his voice shy. Veron looked around, trying to find him. Until he saw his firstborn son sitting on deck sharing a flagon of ale with several members of the crew.
“So, instead of steering. You’re drinking southron piss, is it?”
“Father, I-”
“Shut up. Get over here. And captain this ship. My ship. Like I asked you to. You fucking numskull.” Veron spat. His son stood up, anger evident on his face, and walked over. The boy began to steer. Good.

They docked at Lordsport as the rain began to wither. “Everyone ashore.” Veron commanded. His crew did as they were told. “Especially you,” Veron looked at his son as he stood by the ship’s steer. His face was blushed and he smelled like bull’s shit.
“Do I even get a congratulations?” Ron asked, his tone of voice now one with snark in place of shyness. I will strike him someday.
“You’ll get your congratulations when you own and captain your own ship. Now get your soggy I'm uncultured onto land.”
Ron stormed off, muttering swears under his breath.
Someday soon.

Lordsport was bustling, as per usual. Veron immediately noticed something odd. A ship was missing from the port. A ship that had been there when they had left on The Angler. “Portsman,” Veron shouted.
“Yes, m’lord?”
“Where is my brother’s ship?”
“He left right after you and your crew did, m’lord. He and your sister reckoned they’d be back soon after you as well.”
Bastard.
Veron had told his sister, Gwyn, to not go anywhere with that brother of theirs. But obviously she didn’t listen. Veron crossed his arms. She never does. Veron looked across the crowd to see his lady wife on her horse, talking with Ron. She clutched at the baby within her belly.
“Wife.” Veron said as he walked over to her.
She carefully got off of her horse and hugged him. “It is so good to see both again.” She said, sweetly. If only I could say something similar. For the woman in his dreams was not his wife. “I have to tell you what little Horgan did, he-”
On and on she went.
Whilst Veron could only think of one woman. The woman he wanted. The lips he longed for. If only she wasn’t on that ship with their blasted brother.
My sister...

Spoiler: MENTIONS

Akio
Braddington
Hypnos
JPTheWarrior
Nightblade
TheAncientCelt
Elucid
diwa
Yarrow
@EveryoneFuckingElseBasically

 

[notabot]

Boremund Brune
Commander of the Goldcloaks​

Three men made their way down the cliff-side in the night, their golden cloaks shone out in the darkness.

“I swear it only ever pisses it down when I'm on patrol.” Boremund muttered as he continued warily down the coastal path, attempting to shield himself against the downpour. In his left coat pocket there was a letter, tucked away in secret. He had written it that morning, the words were still fresh in his mind.

To his grace King Daeron III Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,
I write to you in desperation.​

“How much further is it? Feels like we've been walking for bloody days.” The tension in his voice was plain, this past week had been a living hell for Boremund. Naturally his instinct had been to drink the equivalent of Blackwater Bay in whiskey. But these were troubled times and the watch, no, the city needed him. So he'd stayed agonisingly sober, all the while mentally composing the letter.

My name is Boremund Brune, I serve as commander of the Kings-Landing city-watch.
My Lord brother has been murdered without provocation, our ancestral lands taken, my people slaughtered.
​

“We're close.” Ser Gaemon Longwaters, the one leading the trio called back. “You just need to be a little patient commander."

“The seven saw fit to grace me with stunning beauty Longwaters,” Boremund snarled while readjusting his metal nose. “they probably thought throwing patience into the mix would of made it unfair for the rest of you ugly gits.” Gaemon, with his high cheek bones and princely Valyrian features opened his mouth to reply but closed it a moment later.

"It's just up ahead now." Their destination was a little known sea-cave, ideal for smuggling, the watch kept a close eye on it in the hopes of ending outfits before they started. As they rounded the corner he could make out torchlight coming from within, Longwaters beckoned him closer. His impatience seemed to evaporate suddenly then, all he wanted in the world was to turn run, anywhere but face this. Boremund took a deep breath and entered the cave.

The monster responsible for this atrocity is named Vaemond Celtigar. I write to you seeking only rightful vengeance against him for the crimes he has committed against my family.
​

"Boremund!" A women's shout caught him at him unawares, Brune's eyes still adjusting to the bright light. The women attached to the voice threw herself into his embrace. Boremund was not a hugger. "Gods it's good to see you cousin!" He looked down in surprise Catelyn!? She'd been little more than a babe the last time he'd seen her. "House Crabb has fallen." She sobbed. "The stories they tell Boremund...What happened to your nose?" She asked him through tearful eyes. Looking up he saw her brother Ambrose, he wore a grimmer expression, but there was warmth there to. It had been a relief to hear the Brunes of Brownhollow had been spared of Vaemund's slaughter, for now at least.

"You brought it?" Boremund asked, breaking his cousin's embrace. Ambrose Brune seemed hesitant for a moment, eyeing the two Goldcloaks in the cave entrance. "Gaemon Longwaters and Jonn Heddle, my men" Boremund said gesturing to the two, then corrected. "My friends. You can trust them." After a moment Ambrose nodded and drew the cloth back from the table behind him.

I ask this of you your grace: Liberate Crackclaw point. Drive the invaders from our shores and bring a swift, merciless justice down upon Vaemond Celtigar.​

Boremund stared into his brother's cold lifeless eyes and for once he couldn't think of anything to say. Edmure's face was older than he remembered, he wasn't the boy who'd spent countless summers exploring and playing together. There were streaks of grey in his hair, creases round the eyes, stresses of a lordship he supposed. Boremund had always meant to go back, visit the crooked old castle, have another adventure together, now he never would. Edmure was dead. He hadn't realised he'd been crying, hastily he wiped the tears from his cheeks. "Thank you." Boremund managed as he pulled back the sheet and turned away.

Do this and when your armies march upon the capital me and my men will open the gates of Kings-Landing and deliver the city to you.​

- Commander Boremund Brune​

"You can't beat Celtigar on an open field." Boremund was suddenly back as Commander Brune now, his mourning temporarily forgotten. "Holding out a siege won't work against him either, arseholes are better trained and better equipped. The only way to fuck him is to use the terrain, choose your battles, armoured knights will go down like a sack of shit in a bog, cavalry can't get through the dense pines, hit-and-run, wear them down." He pulled out a stack of parchments from his cloak. "I've made plans." He turned to the two men behind him. "Some of the lads are well read, they know strategy, helped me draw them up. Take these back with you-"

"Your not coming with us?!" Catelyn gasped, she looked ready to weep again, even Ambrose seemed crestfallen.

"Take these back with you," He repeated. "Ser Gaemon here has agreed to go with you to help, he knows strategy, how the high lords think. I can do more for us here in Kings-Landing cousin." That it turned out was a painful sentence to get through, but his tone brooked no arguments. Boremund turned to the watchmen beside him. "I need you to send this to the Vale of Arryn." He said pulling the letter from his tunic. "Not safe to send it from here, but first castle you get to. And, thank you Gaemon."

"This makes us even commander, you take care of my family." The watchmen smiled.

"Not even fucking close." Boremund returned the smile, albeit a little forced and went to hand him the letter. Then stopped. Brune had met Gaemon's family, kids were brats, wife had a nice rack on her. They were good people, would Daeron spare them? Could he? He didn't know the man and trying to stop an army from looting a city was like trying to stop a dog from licking it's balls. His city, the one he'd protected for almost two decades. Slowly Boremund withdrew the letter, there had to be another way. He'd already lost one family.

"I...Nevermind Ser. Good luck to you."

As he turned to leave Boremund threw the letter into the brasier, wondering if he'd made a mistake.


Elucid

​

 

[Elucid]

Vaemond Celtigar
Hereditary Warden of Cracklaw Point​

The air was heavy with a putrid smell of death and decay. With what little possessions they had they ran, ran through the thick, muddied marshland. Every new step made it harder to take the next, some fell and didn't try to get up again the earth claiming their tired and weakened bodies. None dared look back, looking back would just make it all real, for what was done in that village would make the stranger shudder.

Glendon, like many of his fellow hedge knights, had sought gainful employment under the Cetligar banner. The pay was paltry but it didn't matter, most found looting to be far more profitable anyways. He had hoped that he'd be able to fight in an actual pitched battle by joining up, the kind they speak of in the stories; where things like chivalry and integrity actually exist. The only real fight Glendon had had up until now was when he cut down the village smith trying to defend his wife and daughter's honor. It made his stomach churn, what they were doing here was wrong, he'd heard of armies pillaging the local countryside for food and supplies but this, this was done out of spite. Lord Vaemond would order entire villages burnt to the ground simply because their local lord who was meant to protect them refused to give up his keep.

Thinking about all of this made Glendon uneasy, he assured himself that on the very next payday he'd get all of his belongings and get as far away from this forsaken place as was possible to Dorne maybe, or even the Free Cities. For now, though, he needed to keep his nose down and be a good little soldier. He and a party of six other men had been tasked with aiding a supply caravan that'd gotten itself bogged down somewhere north of the village, this was common so they'd thought nothing of it. He and his party had made their way through the woods for quite a while and eventually made camp in this dry patch of land they'd found, which was something of a miracle in these parts.

After the fire had been lit and some ale had been had one of the men, a boy really, who looked like he couldn't possibly hold up the weight of his own sword, spoke up "So, How many of you were at the siege of Crabb castle? they had me garrisoning Dyre Den, I've heard many things."

Glendon was at Crabb castle when it happened, many good men lost their lives that night.

One of the other men, a native of Claw Isle smirked as he answered, "Glendon here was in the thick of the battle that day if I remember correctly though, he didn't spend any time with the noblewomen of the castle afterward, a shame, they were feisty to be sure."

Glendon didn't reply and did what he always did, brood in the corner.

"Well ladies, if you'll excuse me I must go take a leak." said one of the other men obviously bored by the lull in the conversation.

The next few minutes Glendon spent polishing his sword, thinking of all the things he'd do when he finally gets to Dorne when it all came crashing down. Everything happened so quick, the first thing they heard was a loud shriek from somewhere in the forest. The men huddled together with their swords unsheathed some of them trying to desperately put on armor when as if out of nowhere two crossbow bolts whizzed past Glendon felling his comrades. Then came the actual ambush, a large group of crabmen descended upon the men, they were poorly armed and untrained but they were many. it would take an ax in the shoulder blade and a spear to the back to finally kill him.

Glendon never made it out of the Crownlands.

X------X------X
​

"You tell me this now? when I'm getting ready to go to the Capital?!" barked Vaemond as he adjusted his outfit, a regal dark grey tunic with exquisite embroidery on the collars and the sigil of house Celtigar sewed prominently on the front.

"Look, we knew what we were up against, they've done this before. I won't lie though, the few ambushes we've had have been very well coordinated assaults something I didn't expect but I have a plan, you needn't worry brother" Edwell was nothing if not sure of himself.

"A few Ambushes?! How many of these villages do I need to burn to the ground before they understand that I am not to be fucked with" Vaemond cursed in anger.

"Time is of the essence for us now, we need to take more castles, we need to make the point bend the knee. We can't afford to have these ambushes slow us down and the only way to make sure that that doesn't happen would be to feed them false information. I'll send out bands of men across the point with information about troop movements on them. They'll be soft targets and the ambushers will be more than happy to attack, by the time they realize that they've been duped we'd have taken yet another castle" Edwell explained, with each sentence his pride in himself swelling.

"Good, that's what I like to hear. I shall hope to learn of the point's submission by the time I return from Kings Landing. You may leave now"

Vaemond had prepared well for the trip to Kings Landing, he'd brought with him a variety of gifts for the young Queen after all he needed to make a good impression, although the letter he'd gotten from Lady Jocelyn seemed to suggest that he'd already been able to curry her favor. Lady Tide was decorated heavily, it was his impression that Summer Islander swan ships were not a common occurrence there. It would not take long to reach Kings Landing especially with a good wind at his back, Vaemond couldn't help but get a feeling that he was walking right into the lion's den.

Spoiler: Mentions

notabot

 

[Rusty of Shackleford]

Bryce and Amelia Stark
Wolves of the North

Bryce was in the catacombs when the letter arrived. He was laying his respects to his late parents, placing a a crest of House Reyne on her tomb. She was always proud of her heritage from House Reyne, and would always tell her son of them. He never associated with his mother's kin many times, especially after her passing. He was just too bitter and angry to talk to them. They had no respect at her funeral, spitting on the traditions of North like they were simply animals that they dealt with. Bryce sat at her grave, praying to the Old God's that his family would be safe, and that his mother was well in the afterlife. He was just finishing up when his wife came in, her soft footsteps alerting him as he shot up. "Oh. It's you, love." The woman smiled, saying, "Indeed it is, love." She looked at the late Lady Stark's tomb, saying, "I never knew her very well. But she was a fine woman, Bryce. My mother looked up to her." Bryce nodded, saying, 'Yeah. She never did be quiet about that. 'Oh, Lady Stark. I hope my daughter is just like you one day. You are the model of a Northern woman." He chuckled, standing up as he kissed and embraced his wife, towering over her as she sighed. She looked into those familiar grey eyes she had fallen in love with, saying, "I...we got a letter from Daeron. It's...for you." Bryce looked confused, saying, "Well, that's good. Why do you sound so...off?" He unfolded the parchment, sitting back down to read it. He was at first relieved, at it was a pleasant letter from his former protege. But then he read the part that mentioned Willow, and his jaw dropped. "What in the bloody hell? I...I..." He stood u,p pacing around as he said, "I mean, he's a good lad. I trust him. But...I don't know. Could you...talk to Willow, love?" She nodded, kissing his cheek as she walked off.

The woman walked through the courtyard, having a servant tell Willow you meet her in the Godwoods. She sat down under the Weirwood, reading the letter over and over again as she almost teared up. Her precious Winter Child was going to be married to the rightful King of Westeros. Her eldest daughter. She teared up a bit, already missing her daughter. She was protective mother, and she dreaded having her daughter leave to live in King's Landing for the rest of her life. She wiped her tears, rebuilding her stoic exterior as she pulled her cloak close and waited for Willow.

Braddington
Little-Fox
​

 

[Little-Fox]

Willow Stark
Daughter of the North​

Stormy blue eyes looked up at the servant as they entered, a bit of understanding passing between as the message was delivered. The Godswoods... Being summoned by one's mother was normally something to be concerned about even in good times. It could mean planning a surprise for one's younger siblings. It could mean learning about your brother's betrothal. It could mean discussing that perhaps you shouldn't try to cook at a gathering because your skills aren't exactly... well... the servants often do far better. Here, she could only guess that they'd be discussing what happened at Harrenhal, and so as she drew her trusty cloak around her to make her way to the Weirwood all she could think about was the suffocating anxiety that came with the knowledge that something life-changing was on the horizon. War was coming.

The pale bark of the Weirwood trees greeted her with the comfort of an old friend as she crossed beneath their branches, the crimson leaves still in their full summer displays. Her lips curved into a gentle smile as she saw her mother, the woman she'd inherited much of her appearance from despite the fact that she acted so much more like her father. She was quiet as she moved to sit across from her, the tangled roots providing ample seating for those who came seeking solace, advice, and communion with the Old Gods.

Rusty of Shackleford

 

[Hypnos]

Gawen Tyrell
Murderer
​

A glorified prisoner: that was how Gawen Tyrell found himself upon his return to King’s Landing, bound by chains of his own making. Although he was no stranger to frosty receptions, his inability to roam any further than the boundaries of the White Sword Tower was still a great blow to his pride. In Gawen’s mind, he should be heralded as a hero, the man who had ensured that the crown fell to its rightful owner, at the very least he should be able to resume his old duties and stand by Elaena’s side through this tough time. But alas, that was not the case.

Almost immediately following his return to the capital, Gawen had been apprehended by the city guard, ordered to give up the Queen and to follow them back to his chambers. He had complied at first, for King’s Landing was Elaena’s home, his home, and he trusted that she would not be harmed within its walls, though it soon became apparent that he was less than a guest of the crown. No one had told him that he couldn’t leave, in fact, had he tried to escape, Gawen was confident that he could easily overpower the guards that were stationed outside of the tower’s doors and simply make his own exit, though he knew that wouldn’t be the best idea. When he had initially asked to leave the tower to meet with Elaena once more, the guards had told him that it would be ‘better for him to stay inside for now’, a phrase he had grown used to hearing after it had been parroted to him the hundredth time. He wanted to leave, he wanted to be with Elaena, make sure she was safe, ensure she was not being manipulated by the snakes that inhabited the capital, but deep down he knew that it would be best for both of them if he stayed put. She was probably still shaken from her sudden ascension to the throne, she needed time, once this whole affair had blown over things would go back to normal, she would see him as a friend once more.

Gawen looked out of the window of the tower, watching men spar in the yard below, he had heard little about what was going on outside of the city, and when he had tried to find out, no one seemed eager to give him details. ‘They think me a dead man walking,’ he thought dourly. They were wrong. Gawen would not be killed, no one would dare to execute him. Though some might see his execution of Lord Symond Rosby as dishonourable murder, Gawen knew that Elaena was smarter than that, she might might be scared, but she was not stupid, and she would never sign the death warrant of the man who had watched over her for so many years. That was all he needed: Elaena. The rest of them could burn in the seventh hell, For she was there queen, and as long as he held her ear he would keep on living. ‘If I still hold her ear;’ a voice nagged in the back of his brain. He tried his best to push such thoughts from him mind.

He had only been stuck in the tower for a few days, though already he found himself bored and agitated. His brothers in the Kingsguard would not talk to him, nor would anyone else for that matter, and he hadn’t spoken to another soul since himself, Jon and Elaena had parted ways. He thought back to their trip along the road, to the Lannister he had sent away. If the boy was lucky he had swallowed his pride and run off back to Casterly Rock with his tail between his legs, if he unlucky, he had broken his legs and been trampled under a horse. Gawen didn’t really care one way or another, though he worried that his treatment of the Lannister might not do him any favours. Loren Lannister was a slimy bastard, but he could have proved to be a strong ally. No matter, the past was the past, and it wouldn’t do well to dwell on old mistakes, he had enough to worry about thinking to the future.

As he continued to glance at the people outside, a knock could be heard upon the door, followed by the clattering of iron bolts against oaken wood. Gawen put his hand upon the pommel of his sword, a force of habit, with recent events it was very hard to distinguish between those who wanted to help him and those that sought to do him harm. Entering the room was Ser Robin Sarwyck, his brother in arms, and one of Gawen’s oldest friends within the capital. He opened his mouth to speak, though he quickly closed it again upon look at the man’s face, it was very clear what he thought of him.

“I am to escort you to the small council chamber to meet with the council and Queen Dowager Jocelyn.”

“And Elaena? Will she be there?” If Sarwyck heard him, he made no attempt to reply, instead simply turning around and exiting the room, clearly expecting Gawen to follow him. Gawen complied. Whether he marched into punishment or reward, there was no point in delaying the inevitable.

The walk to the council chamber was done in complete silence, with neither Gawen or Sarwyck saying a word. It felt like an eternity in between the White Sword Tower and the small council, Gawen wanted to speak, wanted to explain himself, but he knew that he should save his words for when he needed them, for Sarwyck was very small indeed in comparison to those who held his life in their hands. Eventually, the pair arrived, and without breaking stride, Sarwyck left him. Leaving Gawen to face his fate alone.

Never one to think too carefully about a decision, Gawn pushed open the door and entered the chamber, his eyes immediately drawn to Queen Elaena. It seemed that he was the first to arrive.

“Your grace.”

TheFool

 

[Rusty of Shackleford]

Amelia Stark
Mother Wolf

Amelia smiled as her daughter approached. She hugged the girl, saying, "Willow, my dear. You look wonderful today. Just like me when I was your age. Minus your father always with me, of course." She laughed, saying, "Anyway, I summoned you here for a reason, Willow. It's about...this." She handed her daughter the letter from Daeron, saying, "It's from King Daeron, dear. He...well, wants permission from your father to court you." She swallowed a bit, saying, "Now, you know your father won't accept this if you don't, yes? But please, give the boy a chance. Bryce thinks very highly of him, and he seems to be a good lad. I know being Queen seems stressful, but...just...give him a try. Please." She kissed her daughter's forehead, saying, "Winter is coming, my sweet Winter Child. Though I'm sure you already know this."

Theon and Lana Stark
She-Wolf and Little Wolf

The two Starks stood at the foot of the Eyrie, Theon saying, "From what I hear, the king himself is in the Eyrie. That'll help me out. Could make some extra connections." Lana nodded, her hand over her bump as she frowned? She'd been having g contractions, and they knew the baby was coming soon, but not yet. They rode up to the gates, Lana just then grabbing her stomach as she felt water dripping down her skirt. She grunted, saying, "Theon...the baby..." Theon's eyes widened, shouting to the guards, "Let us in! My wife is in labor! I'm Lord Theon Stark, son of Bryce Stark! My father squired the king! Please, let us inside!" He helped her off the horse, sitting her down as she breathed heavily, holding his hand tightly. She was crying, the pain so intense that she was screaming g so loud just about everyone in the Eyrie could hear it. Theon waited anxiously, hoping they would be let in.
Little-Fox
Braddington​

 

[Little-Fox]

Willow Stark
Winter's Flower​

"King Daeron?" Deep auburn brows furrowed slightly as she accepted the letter, the color of her eyes almost edging on grey rather than blue for a moment as she looked up at her mother and then down at the letter, reading it over a few times before passing it back. A flush of pink started to form across her cheeks as she sat in relative silence for a moment, the kiss to her forehead almost not registering for the girl in her shocked state. "Winter will be here in just over a season..." And I will reach my twenty-first name-day by mid winter... "And he seemed like a nice man when he stayed in Winterfell for a time... I do not know that I would make a good Queen, it... it seems like something someone stronger would... would be better suited for." Someone more like you. She bit her lower lip gingerly at the thought. Her mother was strong, bold, resourceful, every bit the fiery woman one expected to be with someone in leadership.

"I do not see any reason I should not at least give him a try... after all, the Martell who was supposed to dance with me at Harrenhal seemed as awkward as... as I am." That faint smile started to return as she locked her hands together in her lap, doing her best to not wring her hands.

Rusty of Shackleford

​

 

[Rusty of Shackleford]

Amelia Stark
Mother Wolf

The Lady sighed, saying, "Good. This is the King, after all. I heard your brother was nearing the Eyrie, last I heard from him. He said Lana was close to giving birth. I'm going to be a grandmother, your father a grandfather, and you and your sister's aunt's. The King's in the Eyrie as well. I'll have to at your brother for news when I can." She sighed, looking down at her skirt as she said, "Oh! Almost forgot!" She reached under the folds, taking out a curved, ornate dagger in a finely crafted sheath. The woman handed the dagger to Willow, saying, "My father gave me this on the night before my wedding. Told me to castrate your father if he touched me without permission. Of course, you can see by your abundance of siblings, that me and your father quite like each other." She laughed again, her face straightening as she said, "But in all seriousness, I want you to have this. To use it. You'll have more use of it than I ever did." Even if Willow refused it , Amelia wasn't taking no for an answer. Willow needed this if she was to be queen and to use it well.
Little-Fox​

 

[Little-Fox]

Willow Stark
Winter's Flower​

The Eyrie... "Are we going to go see Theon and Lana before the baby is born?" It really had been too long since she'd seen her brother, and if she was to meet with Daeron as well... She steeled herself with the thought. She'd want to see her brother beforehand. She gave a look of surprise as her mother produced the dagger, her lips parting as she tilted her head slightly. "He told you to..." Her cheeks darkened a bit more as her freckles started to fade against the coloration. "I'm glad you didn't... I can't imagine what you and father would have done if you hadn't had Theon and all of us girls." She grinned and forced herself to relax as she accepted the blade. I have... no idea what I'm doing. Gods help me. "I might need to work out how to use it, but I will do my best to learn how to use it well." She'd study the blade later, but for now she needed to think.

Rusty of Shackleford

 

[Akio]

Qoren Martell
​

After his conversation with Lord Dayne he felt as if a film of grief had passed over him. He was not gone and likely never be done grieving for the son he lost but he felt revitalized enough he was once again taking part in the world. His men had not been as idle as he was and swiftly he got news of what went over the last few weeks. Most lords had retreated to their realms and prepping for war. However Lord Celtigar nearby had already struck for Elaena, or so was it said. He had beaten houses Crabb and Brune who were supposedly planning rebellion and killed the Lord of House Brune while destroying House Crabb altogether. Hearing of the details he couldn't help but frown, after all, it seemed if there had been no claim of allegiance to any side from those houses at all and the destruction of House Crabb was brutal and in many ways unnecessary. Had those lords truly planned to support Daeron? Or had they simply been undecided? Either way, it was something that made him question Celtigars motives. Something to bring up to council perhaps.

He had been informed by a servant about the small council a little while ago and now in a proper mood to tackle it. While still considering the matter of Celtigar and having his spies recite him the names of important officials in the capital he heard a name that caught his attention. Brune. It seemed one of the fallen houses sons were in Kingslanding and even the leader of the Gold Cloaks. For a moment he felt uneasy, while there was some troops presence in the capital the Gold Cloaks still held the largest number of swords in the city. Depending on Brunes relationship with the city watch would he be able to convince them to help him take revenge on the faction that murdered his family? Perhaps, in some small way if not a full-scale rebellion. It would be something he needed to address. He told his servant to go find commander Brune and invite him for a talk in a neutral place within the city after the small council meeting. If he invited him to the Red Keep he might take it as a threat and disappear, better he try and meet him not before he did something to harm the running of the city.

Once that was done he made his way to the small council chambers. He left his guards behind, the Kingsguard were the only protection the council chambers needed. Though he wondered how many were truly left in Kingslanding. The lord commander had fought with Daeron that night and he didn't know how many other had left Elaenas service forever. He reached the small council chambers and entered swiftly. In it was Jocelyn and Elaena but also someone he didn't expect. Gawen Tyrell. He found his eyes resting on him as he entered the room. The originator of it all. If he was here it looked like Jocelyn meant to decide his fate here. He would turn his gaze back to Elaena and he would incline his head to her with a slight bow, giving the proper curtseys. "Your grace." He said calmly. While she was his niece she was also his liege lord and was party to the title over everything else, never the less he gave her a small and rare smile, likely the first time had smiled in days. He noticed Osfryd was already writing and it seemed the council on some level had already begun. After a moments consideration, he took a place at the Maesters side. While there were matters he wanted to bring up he would wait until council began.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Urrigon Greyjoy
​

Urrigon Greyjoy enjoyed a few good things in life. Good food, good woman, a good song, a good battle. While he had some of those things at Pyke the last couple days had bored him to tears so after a morning with his sweet sister he had offered to take her out to sea and enjoy some time on the sea waves. He always felt best when he was on the deck of his ship and he was with his men, bastards that they all were. Only his sister's not so tender embraces could match those of the sea. Originally he had been content just to simply sail around the seas around the islands and return before Veron got done with his little outing to avoid the neusince of the nagging he would likely get. Of course, when he had seen that slow, plodding merchant ship far outside the normal route near the coastline he just couldn't resistest.

Shipping near the Islands had been safe for generations due to the oversight of the Iron Throne and that made the merchants careless. Even as his ship closed on the slower boat they did not make any moves to get away. Urrigon tuned to his crew who had also seen the ship on the horizon, they knew his tastes better than most and several were already looking at him for orders with anticipation and glee in their eyes. He would not disappoint. "Alright, you bastards! I know your as blood hungry and courageous as I am! Every single one of you are rough bastards, not even a mother could love but your the best crew anyone could ask for! Truth is, I'm fucking bored of sitting on my ass at Pyke. So we're gonna have some fun!" He said to the general roar of approval from his crew who went to gather their weapons. His eyes searched his sister on deck and when he eventually found her he drew two axes from his belt and pointed to the ship. "Gwyn!" He said with a reckless smile on his face that made his features light up and standing framed to the sea on the edge of his ship he almost seemed pulled out of a story of old sometimes. "I bet ill kill twice as many men on that ship as you will!" He said calling out a reckless challenge, knowing that his sister would likely rise to the occasion.

 

[TheAncientCelt]

Balthazar Darklyn
Master of Coin


Lord Balthazar smiled, nodding his head at the handmaiden. A girl he didn't recognize, knocking on his old chamber in the Red Keep. There would finally be a council held. The fate of the realm, the kingdom, and the crown would be decided here. "T-t-tha-thank you, miss." Darklyn stuttered out, letting her move to the next lord as Darklyn shut the wooden door, slamming it into place. The iron latch came over it, sealing himself inside the luxurious apartment. His quarters in Duskendale were naturally better suited to Lord Balthazar, filled with a little shaft and basket that went straight down to the kitchen. Darklyn was a sucker for snacks, especially as the night went on. It wasn't strange for Lord Balthazar to send the basket down to the kitchen and within minutes, warm bread with cheese melted over it accompanied with the smell of tinder burning would waft up to the lord. Of course, Selyse Darklyn despised this habit of his. Once, she confronted Lord Darklyn on his late night meals, outraged about waking up in a bed of crumbs. Balthazar merely suggested she find her own chamber to sleep in, as he loved his cheese more than Selyse' company. The shocked expression on her face pained Balthazar now. He and Lady Selyse were at ends for years, Darklyn's very nature demanded he father many children. This included bastards, from Pentos to Lannisport, anyone could find a fatherless guttersnipe with those familiar, large eyes that were associated with Balthazar. He would've had them raised in Duskendale, but he knew better than to call upon Selyse's rage in that circumstance.

Now, many years later, Balthazar found his relationship with Selyse comfortable. Neither loved each other, Darklyn and Rosby admitted that. But they tried not to interfere with each other as much as possible. She had her own room and paramours, Darklyn assumed. He didn't begrudge her that. Anytime he left Duskendale, Balthazar found a new whore who fancied him. Part of Balthazar wished he'd been kinder. Maybe they'd never of loved each other, regardless of Balthazar's habits. But the feud between husband and wife caused a rift between two great friends as well. Symond Rosby, Regent up until two weeks ago, was a life long friend and companion of Darklyn's. Only, up until his sister, Selyse Darklyn, whispered into Symond's ears about the mistreatments she had to endure at Balthazar's hand. Bickering between them was rare, but a coldness had overtaken their friendship. Until, of course, King Aegon passed. Both men were very close to the king, his passing made them forget their squabbles and enjoy their company once more.

A pain filled smile crossed Balthazar's face as he removed his shirt. 'All my friends are dying.' Old age was a curse, Darklyn persisted. Some talked about the feebleness of their race as a blessing, as if they were enlightened by crossing a certain age threshold. Balthazar wanted to know what was so good about needing to piss five times a day and the pain that accompanied regular bowel movements. So much had changed recently, the carefree environment that Aegon strived to develop was stabbed in the back. Friends dotted every border of this dispute of succession, with Baelor being one such foe. Darklyn prayed the man saw reason. And then there was Daeron. . .

Another knock struck his door. "I'l-I-I'll be out in a minute!" Time escaped Lord Darklyn, the thoughts that plagued his night now haunting his waking seconds. Opening the wide chest under his bed, Balthazar pulled out a silk garment, a gift from Volantis, with the colors of his house dyed on it. No words embroiled its fabric, but Balthazar was comfortable without that. A quick check of his armpits, Balthazar found them acceptably sweaty, without reeking.

Balthazar, dressed and ready, grabbed a bundle of parchment, reports that he'd neglected in the interim since Aegon left him. Unlatching the door, Balthazar smiled at a guard of the Red Keep, his cloak of gold sullied with mud. "S-s-sssorry to keep you. Let's be off." The Lord of Duskendale led the way to the small council chamber. He knew it better than this young man. A head smaller than most women, much shorter than other men, Lord Balthazar took no shame in having to look up to people. It was hard to feel shame in his height after years of dealing with his stutter. A matter of fact, Balthazar didn't care much for it, but the stutter had been apart of his life for so long, it was impossible to remain frustrated with it. His tongue was too fat, the maesters told him as a child. He accepted what they told him, hating it for years, until he finally was asked to join the small council as the master of coin. They can make fun of his stutter all they like, but the king picked him over any one else.

The door to the chamber room was solid wood, the red brick walls old, in need of a genuine cleaning. The last time Balthazar was here, Rosby briefed everyone on King Aegon's death. He inhaled, sharply, and pushed open the doors.

His eyes took in the occupants, it was hard not too with eyes as big as his. A maester, likely Harren's replacement for the time being. Lord Qoren Martell - 'Prince. They like being called princes.' And then Gawen Tyrell. Son of Baelor Tyrell, so naturally Balthazar should like this man. Yet, he killed Rosby. He killed him and will be rewarded for it. Balthazar swallowed, stepping further into the room. "I-I-Ap-Apologize for my tardiness, Queen Jocelyn, Queen Elaena." He bowed at his waist, his small stature not needing to move much at all. To Darklyn, Jocelyn would always be the queen. For most of his adult life she was just that. He'd be hard pressed to identify her as anything else. He smiled at them, earnest and wide. For all his troubles, there was at least one constant in his life. "Prince Qoren." He gave him less respect, the man was a stranger. . But, he was here to support his niece. Balthazar wouldn't disrespect Qoren, but he couldn't show the Martell the same degree of respect as others. "Ser. . Gawen." Balthazar was familiar with the man. Or, he thought he was. Finding his old, familiar seat, Darklyn fell into it. The meeting would start soon, given how scattered the Small Council was. ​

 

[JPTheWarrior]

Alexander Baratheon
Lord Paramount of the Stormlands
​

Alexander's shifted his position, making himself more comfortable in the old dark wooden chair of his chambers. He had been very busy ever since he came to King's Landing to attend the Small Council. All of his children and wife were at Storm's End, probably one of the safest places to be, or so Alexander wanted to believe. He had made sure they had a safe journey, escorting them to their fortress and only after they were set would he made his trip to Crownlands. He and his cousin, Evelyne Baratheon, the new lady in waiting of Elaena, had arrived today, covered by the darkness of the cloudy night. Alexander would only stay for a few days, but his cousin would stay for much longer. Now that Meredyth Rosby was a prisoner, the new crowned Queen needed a new handmaiden and Jocelyn made sure Evelyne was picked.

While the idea of leaving his precious cousin alone in the Red Keep and King's Landing, a city of corruption and venomous deceit, terrified the lord, it still had to be done. Evelyne was a beautiful young woman, target of many love letters and admirations back in the Stormlands. Many offers came to Alexander, asking for Evelyne's hand in marriage and every offer had the same reply. Evelyne needed to marry someone who would form a great strong alliance. Maybe someone outside of his kingdom would help. That's why she came to this city, to find important lords that might be interested in the company of a beautiful wealthy wife. However, now that four sevenths of Westeros was against House Baratheon, the options were scarce.

Alexander let out a big sigh and finished writing the last of his letters to all the Houses of Stormlands, asking them to prepare to war and gather when called. The lord put the feather way, and grabbed the stack of written parchments, all signed with the Baratheons' sigil, the black elegant stag on two feet. He looked to his reflexion on the mirror and couldn't help but chuckle at his appearence. Three consecutive sleepless nights took their toll on the lord. Under his eyes, two long dark circles had formed, proof his tiredness.

A knock on the door woke Alexander from his thoughts. Soon after, a recognizable soft woman's voice called. "Alex, the Council is about to begin" Evelyne announced as she slowly opened the door and peeked her head out. "Yes I'm ready, Eve" he replied. Alexander's lips curved into a smile and he got up. Evelyne's hair was tied in long silky tresses held back with a braid and a silver tiara ornamented with small antlers and ambers. She was also using a necklace, of the same color as the tiara. The necklace's chain threads were hanging a small golden deer's head, a present Alexander gave to her.

The lord walked up to her and left the room, closing the door and locking it. Evelyne put her arms around one of Alexander's and kissed him in the cheek. "I'll escort you to the Small Council's chamber. You look like you need a formidable company, just like myself". The girl winked at his cousin and they both laughed. Alexander nodded "You stand correct. I'm happy for not having to be alone at times like this, Even if my wife and children are home, I still have my sister and brother and you Eve to light up my days." he said while giving her a kiss in the forehead. The two cousins made their way into the Small Council. Upon reaching its door Evelyne let go of Alexander "Good luck, Alex" she said before leaving the lord by himself. He entered the room and looked around to see who had already arrived. His sister, Jocelyn, the new queen, Elaena, were next to each other, to not surprise obviously. Prince Qoren and Balthazar Darklyn, the Master of Coin, were also on their seats. Alexander's eyes fell on Gawen Tyrell, the lord giving him a strong angry glare.

After this meeting, he would arrange a long conversation with the murderer, for he was the sole cause of his family's risk of dying and the lord paramount did not like it. "My lords, my sister and my Queen" he greeted everyone and sat next to the Master of Coin. "Apologies for arriving late. Work has been filling all of my time as of lately"

TheFool
TheAncientCelt
Hypnos

 

[ailurophile]

v i s e n y aiiiw a t e r s

even in her sleep, visenya was unable to escape the events of the council.
the fire.
"i, king aegon targaryen, the sixth of my name--"
the bloodshed.
"declare daeron waters to be named my son--"
the conflict.
"and heir in the hour of my death."

it had been several days since visenya had left her chambers. upon arrival, she had taken to bed, presumably ill, or perhaps in shock. in truth, she did not even know herself. there was a lot to think about, and as she wasn't daeron and didn't have to be ready and active at any given moment, she had the luxury of being able to lie in bed and mull everything over. naturally, the legitimisation of her brother made her ever more determined; now, she didn't just think that was what their father would have wanted, she knew it, and it was daeron's right. of course, the whole thing had also made her incredibly jealous. though she expected to feel anger, really what was eating away at her was the disappointment, the worry, the feeling of being forgotten. she wasn't an idiot, she knew that there was very little point in legitimising her as she wasn't the intended heir, the only effect it'd have would be to stroke her ego, but a small (rather, a large) part of her still felt as though somehow, she'd been wronged.

laying in bed for the rest of her life wasn't going to change anything. visenya had things to do, somebody who would need her support, and she was being selfish by neglecting him at such a crucial time. so, with daeron on her mind, she'd risen from bed. she'd submerged her body in water and scrubbed until her skin turned pink. she'd combed her hair, let it tumble down her back. she'd found herself a dress. just as she'd been fastening her necklace, the same one she'd worn to the council, a knock at the door and a voice informed her that daeron had summoned her. finally, she smiled at herself in the mirror, feeling like herself once more.
--
fearing she'd be late and keep her brother waiting, visenya had practically flown through the halls on her way to the war room, but when she arrived she discovered she needn't have worried-- aside from daeron, she was the first to arrive. though she'd knocked out of courtesy, she was already halfway through the door, and when she saw they were alone in the room, she let herself in without waiting for daeron to even acknowledge her. her steps were light, quiet, as she moved across the room to her brother. immediately the letter caught her eye, and she leant over to press a gentle kiss on the top of daeron's head before she slid into a nearby seat.

"my dear brother," visenya's voice was quiet and soothing, "i have so many questions for you, but i'll narrow them down. how have you been? and who, if i may ask, are you writing to?" as she finished her question, she reached over to lay a hand on daeron's, temporarily pausing his writing in the hopes he'd look up.


Braddington

 

[Braddington]

King Daeron III Targaryen
King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm​

Daeron sat in a rather old and dusty wooden throne, probably from a time before the conquest he presumed. Whatever it was it was uncomfortable, why was it that all these damn thrones were always so ridiculously painful? Or was it the weight of what they meant, maybe that's the point... not that it mattered, it was the most important looking chair in the room overlooking a map so it did it's job for him now. As he sat there waiting monotonously he decided he would carry on writing, he didn't have many left to go but he did have one idea up his sleeve which could certainly help. The Golden Company. Ever since the last Blackfyre pretender laid dead upon the soil of the Disputed Lands the Golden Company seemed to have lost all purpose, after all, without the Blackfyres how could they ever return to their homeland? Daeron knew exactly how, with him. If he promised them titles taken from them and the chance of home, maybe just maybe they would join him. Whilst it might seem desperate he needed all the help he could get and right now he imagined the Lannister and Tyrell levies rising en mass, a never ending army equal in size to Mern and Lorens. But just like their combined forces did 3 centuries prior they would be broken by a Dragon. Well, that was the plan.

As he continued writing his sister entered the room, he barely had time to acknowledge the knock before she came over, kissed his head an sat down holding his hand. He put down the pen and note, already finished apart from titles and so forth and pulled Visenya into a tight hug. He was glad she arrived first, he needed her badly and had been missing her more than he ever thought he could. He let her finish her questions and began answering them “I think stressed is a good word, also scared, worried, petrified, guilty and sick. There are a whole host of other words I can attribute but those will do for now. I am King now and there is to be war, and I don't even have Jon with me although I did send a letter. It's going to be a long road Visenya, please stick with me....you will wont you?” He gripped her hand a little tighter, he wasn't sure why he even needed to ask the question but an answer would somehow make him feel better. “As for the letter, its for the Golden Company. We need all the men we can get, so why not at least try?” The letter was then taken by the Maester who finished it and prepared for it to be sent.

Maester Selwyn
Maester of the Eyrie​

As he finished and sent the Kings letter, Selwyn settled back into writing his comprehensive thesis on leeches, a rather fascinating tome if he did say so himself. But then a shriek was heard and a guard came to him “Maester, there is a woman at the gates giving birth! The man with them says his father is sworn to the King, what do we do?” the Maester thought for a second before moving things in an orderly manner. “Bring her here immediately, she must be brought out of the cold at once. Tell the King there is nothing to concern him and that the meeting shall remain uninterrupted. Get the man in here as well.” The guard did as he was told and returned to the gate, looking to the man he spoke with slight panic “We need to get her to the Maester, please, follow me.”

Spoiler: Letter to the Golden Company

To the Captain-General of the Golden Company,

I King Daeron, the Third of my name, wish to extend an offer to the free brotherhood of exiles at this time of great strife. In return for the Golden Company's aid in the war to come, ancient and unjustly revoked titles will be restored to certain members when I sit the Iron Throne and members will be allowed to settle unencumbered. A sizeable payment in gold will also be given once the war has officially ended.
I ask that you please consider my offer, kinks of which can be worked out at your discretion. In my eyes its time the Golden Company finally came home, to the land it is meant to be. Westeros will welcome you back with open arms under my reign, I swear it on the Seven.

Signed,

Daeron III of the House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm

ailurophile
TheAncientCelt
Rusty of Shackleford

 

[ailurophile]

v i s e n y aiiiw a t e r s

a look of concern crossed visenya's face as daeron told her how he was feeling, and she reached out with her free hand to gently smooth a few locks of hair out of his face.
"i hate to see you so upset. if there's anything i can do to help you, you must let me know. i don't want you to feel as though you're all alone." her words were in earnest, and she obviously felt strongly about the situation. his question brought about a look of almost confusion, as she frowned, then laughed and shook her head. "of course i'm going to stick with you. you are my flesh and blood, daeron, the only person i have left. i love you." she hoped her words would calm that particular worry of his.
quickly, she moved the conversation on as she blushed pink, a little embarrassed by her slip of sincerity and emotion.
"the golden company?" visenya echoed, furrowing her brow as she considered this, "interesting. you're right, we might as well try."
several minutes had passed since visenya's arrival, and still it was just the two of them sat there in the room alone. assuming they still had at least a few more moments in private, visenya smiled.
"well, daeron targaryen." as she tried the name out loud, she almost seemed to glow with pride. "you must be so happy. father's heir. i knew it."




Braddington