Fandom ♛ Blackfyre : A Game Of Thrones RP

[Mion]

Cassandra Arryn
​

The Crescent's chamber. She had always been fond of this place. It had a very warm and welcoming feel to it, so its no surprise that the purpose of it was just that. To welcome guests, to allow them a time to relax and warm themselves after their climb up the Giant's Lance. There was no denying that the journey to her home was a rough, exhausting one. But the destination was surely worth it. The roaring flames of the fires kept the room a very cozy temperature. A loving embrace for those who entered the home of the Arryns. The walls of the room were decorated with a white marble with blue veins running through it. It was not quite as exquisite as the walls that could be found in the High Hall. But it was a lovely site to behold.

Cassandra could smell the meals that were being prepared close by in the Morning Hall, where she and her household ate their meals. The past few days had been rather rough on her. With the loss of her father the duty of Lord Paramount now fell to her. Even if I do not feel ready... It is not something I can shy away from. I must dedicate my all to the people of the Vale. They deserve no less. Apprehensive? Of course she was. But she was not any less determined due to that. The burden was great yes. However it was her burden. She must carry it.

Alyssa's tears... The soothing sounds of that waterfall could be heard from just about anywhere in the Eyerie. At least I am still at home... Cassandra thought to herself. If she had not been then she was not so sure she would have been able to manage things as she had.

There was a calmness to her blue-grey eyes. Of course there was still a sense of grief and loss that they evoked but they had grown rather faint in recent days.

Now Lady Arryn was not standing around in the Crescent's chamber without reason, nor was she standing alone. In fact she was surrounded by her household guard on either side, about three men in sky-blue cloaks to either side of her. And then past them stood some servants, holding plates of bread as well as bottles of wine, as well as glasses for the drinks to be poured into.

It was a reception. A welcoming for the guests that she had invited. And it would seem that they have arrived. A party of around 6 people, all bundled up in their furs. If there was a list of words the described the journey up to the Eyerie. Cold would be near the top of the list.

"Thank you all for coming. I hope that your journey was not too harsh on you. Please help yourself to as much food and drink as you wish, if you are still hungry after that then you are welcome to join us for lunch." She had tried her best to sound the part of the Lord. But... It could not be helped that it came off more as a young girl nervously piecing together what to say.

"A-ah you will probably want to warm yourself too... We prepared the fires for everyone to warm themselves by but I can request for some blankets and coats to be brought as well if you all wish it."

"It is fine my Lady, I am sure the fires will be enough." The voice that responded belonged to Ser Lyonel Corbray, her childhood friend and seemingly the leader of this small group. Once he took off his gloves and cloak that had been beaten by the wind and snow the others followed suit.

Accompanying Ser Lyonel was; Ser Gawen Grafton, Ser Harys Hunter, Lanna Coldwater, Norbert Sunderland and Rhea Redfort. Lanna and Rhea were also close friends of Cassandra while Ser Gawen was her cousin. Ser Harys and Norbert however were new faces to her. Although Ser Lyonel and Ser Gawen had vouched for them.

"I am sorry about what happened to your father Cass... Especially so soon after your mother..." Rhea spoke to her with a pitying voice.

Sorry for me that is... She was young yes. But she was neither death nor blind. She knew what the people of the Vale had thought of her parents. There was no love lost between Lord Arryn and the people of the Vale.

"Thank you Rhea but you don't need to worry about me. Please. Relax." She motioned with her arms towards the benches by the fireplaces. She told the servants to leave the food and drink by the group so that they may go and start to prepare the tables for lunch. The household guard was also dismissed, although one or two of them hung about to converse with their guests as well, including Ser Ronnel Egen, the captain of the guard.

"Please, help yourselves." Cassandra reiterated.

She listened to the party talk about their journey to the Eyerie, how Lanna was sure she was going to fall at least 20 times. How Norbert wouldn't stop his bloody sniffing. How Ser Gawen insisted on stopping every 10 minutes to 'really take in the view'.

"It's like he wanted us to freeze our bloody balls off!" Ser Lyonel spat out in between his gulps of wine.

Listening to her friends talk like this brought a genuine smile to her face. It had been a while since she had seen them and well, recently the Eyerie had become rather gloomy. She had made the right choice in asking them to come. Their company would surely make things easier.

Before they knew it one of the servants returned, notifying them that lunch was ready.

"Ser Ronnel, please lead them to the Morning Hall, I will only be a moment."

"Of course my Lady. Well then you lot, follow me." Ser Ronnel lead the group out of the Crescent Hall as ordered.

There is no point in putting it off... I will speak to them about it after they have properly eaten.

Cassandra made her way towards to Moon Tower, the location of her chambers. Where there was a letter that she had been keeping close to herself. A letter from Kings Landing.

Master of Laws... Just what qualifies me for that? Of course she knew the answer to that. It was a simple one. She was an Arryn. And the King would want to keep the Vale as involved in the realm as possible.

She did not want to accept it. The Lords of the Vale would support her in that decision but...

I will see what they have to say... Mayhaps that will help me think of things clearer.

 

[TheFool]

Kinvara
Sorceress




​

She led the pointed steel down the palm of her hand.
Slitting herself open.
When the blood began to gather - she put the knife down and squeezed a fist. Her eyes watching as red droplets hit against the wool and twine. She whispered words in her native tongue. Lhazareen. Squeezing harder. She could feel the power leaving her and entering her creation. Into the wool. Into the twine.
Kinvara knew when she was done.
She knew when enough blood was enough. Slowly, she opened her hand and began to wrap it in cloth. She would have to tend to the wound often - like always. As she wrapped, she looked down at her creation. She used her other hand to pick it up. She put it around her neck. The pendant that hung from the twine touched against her breast - that of which had a scar on it from when she made the last one.

The one for Maekar.

Getting up from her stool. She moved over to a small cabinet. Her room was small and poorly lit. Naemidon gave her her own quarters with her own servants, yet Kinvara insisted she slept in the tiniest room. She was never one for frivolousness. Opening the cabinet -
She took the necklace off and put it in beside a bowl of brown herbs and a vial of poison.
“I’ll give it to him when the time is right.”
She spoke to herself, again in Lhazareen. Her eyes lingered on the cabinet’s contents for a moment before shutting it. She looked at her hand, now fully bandaged. It stung but she was used to the sensation. And it was worth it. Everything she did was worth it.

King’s Landing was at its best in the morning time.
She walked along a street, Eel Alley, a basket full of bread loaves in the grip of her good hand. A servant girl of hers and a member of the golden company trailed her. To make sure she was safe and content. If Kinvara had it her way - she would be out by herself. She did not fear the people of the city.
Not the people out in the streets anyway.
She passed out the loaves to those who sat in their squalor.


“Thank ya, m’lady.”
“Seven blessings upon ya.”
“Mother bless you.”


They cried to her. Mother. She did not believe in their Seven. She had her own God that she prayed to. However, she was grateful for their words. Seeing their needs satisfied in turn satisfied her. As for rich or poor, they all belonged to her flock. “Seeing others filled with joy is the greatest of things one can see.” Her mother would tell her as she combed her hair. Kinvara tried not to think of her mother too much.

For the thought would turn her own to joy to sadness.

Turning a corner, she was stopped by a little girl. Sitting by a wall, shoeless. Her feet black with dirt. Her arms as thin as sticks. Her hair greased. Kinvara looked at the child for a moment before kneeling down beside her. “My lady,” her servant said - pointing to the tail of her dress and the puddle of dirt water it had been dragged into. Kinvara simply shrugged her shoulders and returned her attention to the girl.
“What’s your name?”
The girl looked at her with big eyes, barely blinking. “I’m Tansy.”
“Hello Tansy. I’m Kinvara.”
The girl didn’t respond to that.
“Where’s your mother?”
The girl shook her head before answering, “Heaven.”
“Your father?”
“He went to fight.”
“Fight where?”
“The dragons.”
Kinvara knew. She placed her hand, the one with the bandage on it, on the girl’s. “Are you hungry?” She asked. The girl nodded at that. Kinvara took a loaf from the basket and gave it to her. Tansy, with eagerness, began to take small bites. “So there’s no one looking after you?” Kinvara asked.
Tansy shrugged.
Kinvara thought to herself for several seconds before talking again. “How would you like to live with me? In the castle? You’ll have food - morning and night.”
“Lady Kinvara.” The golden company member with her tried to butt in.
“I’d like that.” Tansy replied, gnawing on her bread.
“Give me your hand.” Kinvara stood up and extended the bandaged hand. The little girl reached up and grabbed it. Carefully, Kinvara pulled her up off of the alley’s pavement.
“Lady Kin-”
“What?” She shot a look at the merc.
A man about half her age. Or at least he looked it. “I don’t think we can just bring street urchins into The Red Keep like this.”
“Watch me, boy.” She said before turning to the servant girl. “Take Tansy here to my quarters. Make sure she is bathed and given fresh clothes. Find her a job in the kitchens if you can.”
“Of course, my lady.”
Kinvara smiled at the little girl and then gently pushed her towards the servant. I can’t save her from this war. Or the ones to come.

But I can make her last days easier…

She and the mercenary walked up the steps to The Sept Of Baelor. Their destination. She did not believe in Westeros’ false Gods, but she had to make a stop her and say her final goodbye. “Wait out here.” She told the member of the golden company. He looked as if he was about to object but she did not allow him to. She walked straight in.

It was quiet inside.
There was a smell of incense and dripping wax. She placed her basket of bread by a statue of one of The Seven. She did not know which. The Warrior? Or is that The Smith? In the middle of the hall, upon a pedestal, was him. All that remained of him anyway. A skull plastered in hard gold.
“Maekar.”
She said, hushed.
She approached the skull slowly. Placing her bandaged hand a top of it. She felt her chest tighten. Her eyes welled with tears.
“I am so sorry.” She told the skull. She did not get the chance to be this personal when she spoke at his funeral. The people of the court did not know how close they were. Her and the heir to The Seven Kingdoms. She would miss him. As much as she missed her mother, mayhaps.
It had to happen though.
She wiped the tears away before they could reach her cheeks.
“My lady.” She looked up to see the golden company man standing at the top of the stairs. “Prince Aerion is looking for you.”
Kinvara nodded. She took one last look at the skull before walking off.
“Are you alright, my lady?” The mercenary asked.
She looked at him with fierceness,
“Better now.”
Her bandaged hand clenched slightly.

Spoiler: MENTIONS

Mion

 

[QuirkyAngel]

Ser Conrad Stone
(Roseroad, The Reach)​

Ser Conrad Stone stroked the flank of his horse as she drank from the water container. Both he and Ser Anton Waynwood decided to stop at a tavern on Roseroad to rest for a bit before continuing the rest of the way to Highgarden. No point in wearing themselves out before the tournament even started. Armor was hot enough as it is, even without the summer sun to add to heat. All the banners they had to carry to represent their house and the Vale didn’t help matters.

Conrad doubted he could ever get used to it—all the ceremonial requirements of being a knight, that is. Not the same way Nickolas and all the other Knights of the Vale seemed to at least. Conrad had never been a squire. Never learned from young what a knight’s duties were. Fighting he could do. Jousting was easy enough once you got the hang of it. However, there was so much more to being to being knight. The decorum. The chivalrous codes .

To be brave and just.

To defend the weak and the innocent.

Before growing close to Nickolas none of that stuff ever crossed his mind. Life for him was about survival of the fittest. At least it was until he encountered Lilana and Waynwood family. Until he fought side by side, steed by steed, with Ser Nickolas Waynwood, the Jeweled Knight of the Vale. A zealous paramount of justice and honor. And now he was dead. Died in King’s Landing with the Lord and Lady of the Vale when they answered the summons of their king.

Where was the justice in that?

“You look like you’re thinking heavy thoughts again,” A tankard of ale was shoved into his chest as Lord Elstan’s brother stepped up beside him and horses. “Drink. It’ll loosen your mind a little. You’ll need it for your first tourney.”

“Can’t be any more difficult than the practice drills you and Lord Elstan had me go through.”

Anton chuckled. “You’d be surprised what some people are willing to do to knock each other off a horse. Every once in a while we have an unfortunate accident because someone just wanted a bit more glory for their house.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing this for?” Taking the tankard, Conrad chugged down a couple gulps of bitter ale. “Glory for House Waynwood and the Vale?”

“No, we’re doing this for you.”

Conrad let himself be led into the tavern. It was mostly empty except for a few unsavory looking men that glared at them as they passed. Ignoring the gazes, Conrad took a seat where Anton did.

Lord Elstan’s brother refilled his cup. “It’s what you get for marrying into a noble house, Nephew-in-law. Either you make a name for yourself or the other nobles rip you apart for not having one. Worse case, they drag Lilana down with you. We're fortunate the Tyrells wasted whatever money they have left on a this fun little event. Neutrality doesn't lend itself to many battles so tournaments are the next best thing.”

“And all nobles are like that?”

“Most.”

“Not Lilana,”

“She, my brother, and his wife are some of the few exceptions,”

“You neglected to mention yourself,”

“When did I ever say I liked you?” Anton eyed him amusedly. “You should know better than most how lowborns are treated in Westeros. And you were born on the lower end of the lowborns, eh Blackfyre?”

Conrad rolled his eyes. “On some days I was a Targaryen. When she was particularly unhappy, I was a Lannister’s kid. Seriously though, don’t talk about my mother’s delusions, even in jest. I don’t want to get killed—especially given all that’s been going on these days.”

“So you are aware of the dangers.”

“How could I not be? Everyone’s talking about it. Prince Maekar’s death…and how King Naemidon has decided hold a contest of succession.”

Ser Anton shook his head. “Having his heirs compete with each other—potentially kill one another—in a race to end a war that’s still going on, while it’s still going on? Madness. Guess we know now where his coin flipped. My bets on the red dragon.”

Conrad shrugged. “It’s fair at least. Merit is a better gauge of a ruler candidate than age in my mind.”

“You don’t understand because you weren’t raised a noble,” Anton cleaned his nails with his fingers. “Heirs are important. This is especially true of houses with a deep history and ancestry. That’s because the death of all heirs means the death of a house. The more heirs one has, the more likely the house is to survive. The name and legacy will live on. Brother put all his hopes in one heir and now he’s dealing with the repercussions of that. House Arryn is basically gone once Lady Cassandra dies. Sevens help the poor girl. Even if she does produce an heir, they wouldn’t be an Arryn. An ancient house that’s ruled the Vale for centuries will fade away with her death, pass the torch to another house, with only the marks left in history books and memories to remember them by.”

“All of this coming from a 32-year-old nobleman that’s yet to wed?”

“I was lucky enough to be born the second son.” Anton smirked. “The responsibility of keeping the family name alive belongs to my brother, not I.”

Ser Anton was right. Conrad didn’t understand it. Names and legacy weren’t very important to him. Family was what mattered. And family had nothing to do with blood. He had no family until he met the Waynwoods. They were his family. He had sworn to protect them. He loved Lilana. He made a promise to his swore brother Nickolas. What else mattered?

Conrad finished his ale.

“Personally, I hope Lilana gives you a cute boy. If she does, chivalry demands that you give her newlywed gift of equal value—victory on your very first tourney in her honor.”

Conrad choked, his face flushing. “And if I don’t?”

Anton raised his tankard. “I will enjoy telling my niece stories about how her husband embarrassed himself, and the Vale, on his very first tourney in Highgarden.”

 

[Mion]

Aerion Blackfyre
​

The Great Sept... This was a place that truly lived up to it's name. The Large gardens that surrounded the plaza, the beautiful crystal towers. The belltower and the stands where the Septons would carry out their sermons to the gathering crowds. The grand statue of Baelor the Blessed, looking upon the worshipers with a grand benevolence. Those magnificent coloured windows with the altars to each of the seven below them.

When Aerion came to this place he did not feel like a Prince, he did not feel any different than anyone else there. They were all the same in the eyes of the gods. He was simply another face in the crowd, coming to pay his respects to those who have passed. Or to pay reverence to the seven above. The Young Prince would speak to the smallfolk as if they were his own kin, he would treat them with kindness and with respect. He did not look down on them, they may be on the bottom rung of the so called 'ladder' that the lords of the realm like to climb so much. But every rung on that ladder was a necessity, the smallfolk, the knights, the merchants, the princes, the kings, everything. It was all needed. Yet, still no matter how much Aerion would speak and provide aide to the smallfolk. The distance between his world and their own was far too great. The smallfolk loved him yes... But it was like the love one would have for the sun. He could not call them friends but they were his fathers people, they were his people. Whether it be Kings Landing or Oldtown, Sunspear or Whitegrove.

He was glad that he had taken his time on his way here. The air of Kings Landing was not exactly fresh, but it was still better than suffocating in his own room. The dark bags under his eyes had not gone away but there definitely was a bit of energy about him now.

The Young Prince made his journey up the steps of the Great Sept, nodding to the member of the Golden Company waiting at the top.

"Good morning Ser." Aerion always made it a point to speak politely to the members of the Golden Company, after all they were the men that had followed his father, and his grandfater, even his great grandfather and beyond. Even if they weren't knights or if they were not particularly pleasant people themselves... If it were not for the men of the Golden Company then mayhaps he would not have even been born.

"Good morning my prince, what brings you to the Sept this morning? Paying your respects?" The former mercenary inquired.

"Y-yes... Since my brothers funeral I have found myself praying in the Sept everymorning..." Aerion smiled gently, although his tone was still rather sombre. It had only been a few days after the funeral of his brother but he had been trying his best to keep himself cheery. That however was easier said than done.

"I see... My apologies." The former mercenary apologised.

"Ah-ah no no it's fine. I just get a little bit lost in thought when I think of my brother is all haha. All of them are good memories though so yeah, I just miss him is all!" Waving his arms he tried to move the conversation on. The mercenary probably didn't mean much by the apology in truth, it was likely nothing more than a pleasantry.

"What brings you to the Sept Ser? Are you waiting on someone?"

"Yes... Lady Kinvara requested that I wait out here for her. Must have wanted some time alone." The man spoke in a rather bored tone. He probably didn't have much care for the seven. But still to Aerion the Great Sept of Baelor was a beautiful, magnificent structure in of itself that always manages to stun him every time he visited. So he couldn't really understand the boredom of the man.

"O-oh... Then I hope I am not intruding too much... If possible could you go and see if it is alright for us to speak?" If Kinvara had wanted to spend her morning in the Sept privately then Aerion could not bring himself to ruin that for her. It was more polite to ask first.

"As you wish my Prince." The man bowed before making his way into the Sept.

Aerion stood alone, waiting for only a few moments. He turned to look down the steps and out into the city. Had she come to mourn for Maekar? Although he asked himself that, there couldn't have been many alternatives. For she had her own gods, she did not have belief in the seven. And after all, she had gone through a lot of effort in helping Maekar before, some said she even saved his life once. Prince Maekar was truly an heir that was loved by all... Aerion could only hope that he would one day grow into a man like Maekar.

"My Prince..." He had not noticed the return of the man, and Lady Kinvara with him.

Aerion turned around, his smile was a little brighter than it was before.

"Good morning, I am sorry for interrupting you my Lady." The apology was a genuine one.

It must have been quite obvious that Aerion was not too sure where to start his next sentence. For he had just remembered where he was... He couldn't just ask her something like that at the doors to the Great Sept could he/!

"U uhm. If it is not too much of an issue would you mind accompanying me on a walk. I-I have some stuff I would like to talk about and you were the only that I think might be able to help..." The Young Prince clasped his hands, part in apology and part in nerves.

"Maybe the gardens?! I find that they are always good for lifting up the spirit." Aerion suggested.

TheFool

 

[TheFool]

Rhaenys Blackfyre
Queen Mother




​

Skinny fingers strung the strings of a beige crafted lute.
A broken melody played. Parts of it graceful. Parts of it crooked. Rhaenys Blackfyre would’ve sung as well. She’d oft be praised for her lungs.
However, she hadn’t sang since the death of her son. The one whom she had loved the most. Daemon. She missed him more so than his father. More so than Essos.
She thought of him as her nails stroked the strings - painted a chipped black paint. She herself taught him how to play his own lute. She had fond memories of sitting by The Rhoyne. Feet treading water. The instrument in her hands and Daemon’s in his. “Like this,”
She instructed.
He would watch her with intensity. His eyes locked to her hands. A smile on his lips. Oh, how he smiled. She would play The Song Of The Seven. It was one of his favourites. Even if Rhaenys wasn’t its biggest fan. The song was simple and sweet and reminded them both of home.
Of Westeros.
Of the country that killed both of my sons.

Her music filled the garden.

Though it was soon interrupted by a tickle in her throat. A tickle that led to cough. She carefully placed the lute down on the table, next to a plate of cooked venison that she had yet to touch. She hit her chest with a wrinkled fist.
Once.
Twice.
Until the storm of coughing did cease.
Rhaenys took hold of her cup of water and drank. Swirling it in her mouth before swallowing. Washing the tickling feeling down fast.
“You alright, Rhae?” Ysabel Darklyn asked as she drank from her own cup. Though, as per usual, Ysabel sipped wine instead of water. Rhaenys nodded in response. She did not want to speak - lest the tickle return.
“Age finally catching up to ‘ya, dear.”
Lianna Lipps, a round old woman with braided grey hair, added.
Rhaenys shot her a look,
“Don’t you dare, Lianna.”
Ysabel let out a cackle, “Age caught up to her twenty years ago, Lianna.”
“So this is death then?”
The two women howled in laughter.
Rhaenys, in annoyance, reached across the table, past the Dornish Red and the glass vase filled with roses, and plucked a red grape from its stem. She then threw it at the two of them. Her friends. The grape bounced off of Ysabel’s nose and hit back onto the table.
This caused all three of them to laugh.

Rhaenys drank more water before retorting to them,
“This is why I left you crones in this hell pit, instead of inviting you with me to Myr.” Her tone was pointed but there was bits of jest behind it.
“That hurt, Rhae.” Ysabel said, still referring to the grape. She rubbed her nose as if it really was sore. Rhaenys rolled her eyes at her.
“I thought you didn’t invite us because Ysabel’s afraid of water.” Lianna said. Her words tailing the end of her deep laughter.
Ysabel’s face dropped,
“Was it not because any ship would sink under Lianna’s thighs?”
“You wretched old bitch.” Lianna snapped.
“Fat hag.”
The three of them laughed again.

They helped themselves to more food and more drink. Chatting of things from the past in a hopes to forget those from the present. Rhaenys finally got to eat the venison. It was tender and savoury. A serving girl asked if she wanted wine -
To which she replied, “No.”
She did not drink swivel.
That same serving girl later brought them more food. More than they asked for. “It is all my treat.” Rhaenys said to her two friends as Lianna tried the seared mountain lion meat and Ysabel the trout pie. Tales and stories were exchanged amongst the three of them, some of which had been told countless of times before. Until the topic turned to it.
The thing Rhaenys was dreading.

The now.

“How are you coping?” Ysabel asked, as she placed a grape in her mouth. Chewing it with adamance. Rhaenys went silent. The sound of birds tweeting as they perched on trees took the silence’s stead.
“I’m… numb to it.”
Rhaenys answered after a time.
“Anyone would be, dear.” Lianna agreed.
“He was such a beautiful boy, Maekar. Carefree and joyful. I watched him grow to be a fine man but he was always that boy to me.”
The wind whistled. They sat on a pavilion in the middle of the biggest garden The Red Keep had to offer its inhabitants. “And now he’s gone.”
“The ceremony was powerful.” Ysabel said.
Rhaenys nodded in agreement.
“Have you spoken to your son?”
My son.
“I have not. I will not. Not until I forgive him for all he has done. For sending my grandson off to fight in a battle he should have had no place in.” Rhaenys took a sip of water. Thinking hard. She felt her heart flutter with hopelessness. For she could never have hope in Naemidon Blackfyre.

Her attention was soon drawn to a silver haired young woman entering the gardens.
Her only granddaughter.
Rhaenys put her cup down, next to her loot, and slowly stood up. Her back was almost hunched in its age. “My sweet Vaella,” She began.
She extended her arms and her granddaughter came into them. They exchanged a kiss on the cheek. “Sit. Sit. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Have some of the pigeon pie. I think there’s a slice left.” Careful of her frail state, Rhaenys sat back down. Sinking into her chair almost as she did.

“What brings you to my garden?” She asked as the servant girl offered Vaella some wine. “Just a drop.” Rhaenys instructed. She wouldn’t have her grandchildren develop into drunks like their grandfather had. She watched Vaella with old eyes.
Rhaenys could see her own mother in the girl, as well as Daenys.
A red dragon dancing with one in black.

Spoiler: Rhaenys' MENTIONS

ailurophile

Kinvara
Sorceress




​

She smiled as she saw the young prince.
As dashing as always. She hadn’t talked to him since before Maekar’s gelding ceremony. “I was just about to return to the keep. We can walk through the gardens there.”
She told him.
The Sept had its own garden but she did not want to linger around this place for much longer. Incase the ghost of Maekar Blackfyre continued to pester her spirits.

They talked of trivial things on the way back to The Red Keep. The weather, the ceremony, the feast that followed it. Kinvara tried to make jest by lightly touching upon some of the stupors people will in. Such as Princess Vaella. Aerion smiled throughout but he clearly had something troubling him.

We all do.

The garden was greener than when she’d last been there.
Patches of daisies and other wildflowers ran wild. Rose bushes of all colours were cozied around. Daffodils and tulips and white carnations.
Kinvara felt the flowers with her fingertips as they walked. The golden company man behind them, hand on his sword. Ready to wield it even though there was no danger here.
Not in this place.
“Now, my prince, what ever is the matter? You know my counsel is not only for your father.” She told Aerion. Her gaze drawn to a few castle guards running quickly past them as if they were in some hurry.

Spoiler: Kinvara's MENTIONS

Mion

 

[ailurophile]

Princess Vaella Blackfyre
​

"Grandmother!"

After embracing and exchanging familiar pleasantries, Vaella turned to dip her head politely to her grandmother's entourage.

"My ladies, good morning."

She dropped nimbly into her seat and accepted the generous slice of pie, though she was sure she couldn't finish it. The wine was much more welcome, surprising since after her debacle at the feast, she'd sworn off of the stuff. Well, until the previous night. Still, moderation was polite -- as she'd been reminded -- so she thanked the servant and took a small sip. With bright violet eyes she studied her grandmother carefully, trying to choose her words carefully, though she knew in her heart these conversations always went one particular way: Vaella would hesitate and try to piece together an intelligent conversation, only to break and bare her soul to anyone who happened to be present.

"I needed some... advice. And you've all always been so helpful before, I just thought that maybe..?"

A pause as she looked around for some glimmer of encouragement.
She began regardless.

"Well first of all I've been thinking about... men." At the last moment, she decided not to name anyone specific. "Not just men in general." Hastily added to make herself sound more sympathetic-- her handmaiden may be content with her whore's reputation, but Vaella shuddered at the thought.

Nervously, she licked her lips.

"I met somebody quite nice, you see. At the feast, Domeric Stark? He brought me flowers and he came to sit with us, between father and I." That additional detail carried a lot of weight with Vaella, but she feared momentarily that nobody would feel the same way. With the ghost of a smirk, she added: "He's tall. So tall. Strong too, I imagine, but I didn't ask. I'm afraid I made a spectacle of myself when we met and now he won't want to be anywhere near me ever again."

Another pause. She was more hesitant this time, as though she didn't want to get anyone into trouble.

"But Vaegor -- sorry, Rodrick -- thinks it's an awful idea. That I shouldn't even consider it because it's unthinkable. But I wanted to get a more educated opinion."

A deep breath.
As exciting as she found the very notion of romance, there was something more important on Vaella's mind. Something that had been eating away at her, something she couldn't even ask her own beloved mother about, because she feared she'd receive a honey-soaked answer for the sake of sparing her feelings.

"There was one other thing, too."

Impulsively, she took a large gulp of her wine.

"This... contest. The one father has proposed..." It was only then she realised she'd been looking at her own lap for some time. She looked up, frowning somewhat with her own concern. "I need to know before I properly think about even considering taking him up on the offer."

Princess Vaella Blackfyre.
Queen Vaella Targaryen?

"Would I be a good Queen?"

TheFool

 

[Mion]

Aerion Blackfyre
​

A prince is not to show weakness. That is what his mother had taught him. But what else was there to show if all his strength was to be robbed of him? If he was to never have a proper nights sleep? It had been enough to merely persevere the headaches. The endless nights of torment. The constant fatigue.

But ever since Maekar... Had it gotten worse?

Dragons flying, dragons falling. Black dragons. Red dragons. Gold dragons. Grey dragons. Soaring. Fighting. Dying.

Were they not all the same kind? What was the need of it all? You can not fault a dragon for acting as a dragon... But shouldn't we?

The claws, the fangs, the flames and the smoke. They were beasts of war, beasts of fire and blood no? Those had been the Targaryen words... Dragons... Arrogant beasts filled to the brim with their pride. So much that it blinded them. But... I am also a dragon...

With a clenched fist the young prince chuckled nervously.

"Hahaha, well I am not really sure how to put it..." He rubbed his head in apparent confusion. His mother had always told him that he looked to have a very clear head even when he was deep in thought... Or was it especially when he was deep in thought...? Mother is always harsh on me ehe.

"I know this might be a bit out of nowhere but... Do you think it would be possible if you could teach me a bit about medicine and healing? A-ah I know that might be a weird thing for a Prince to practice but well. Aha my mother really worries about my health and I just wanted to try what I can to lessen them..."

"I do understand if that is not a possibility though... But well. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important... My migraines have been getting worse and worse lately you see and the dreams too... No matter what the maesters have told me to do or tried to teach me none of it works so. Ahhh, I was just hoping maybe you could help."

Aerion fumbled about with his words as he nervously ramble on breathlessly, his cheeks blushing a shy red. Once finished he bowed in apology, or was it to say 'please take care of me... if you can...'?

TheFool

 

[TheFool]

Rhaenys Blackfyre
Queen Mother




​

Rhaenys leant forward so to hear her granddaughter better.
Her ears were no longer their best.
Vaella spoke of men. Of a man. Domeric Stark. A boy neither she nor Vaella knew much about. Other than the fact that he was a traitor and Rhaenys would not allow a traitor’s blood to dilute her own.
I’ll die before allowing that.
She sipped her water. It was cold on her tongue. Which isn’t long off.

“Leave us, my ladies.”
Rhaenys spoke when Vaella had made mention of the contest.
The foolish contest.
Ysabel was first to stand, bowing her head before helping Lianna up. The two women waddled off down a garden path that ran along pinkened pansies. The serving girl following them, her flagon still in her hands.

When it was but the two of them, Rhaenys’ finger formed a hook shape and waved. “Come closer, sweet thing.” Vaella did as told, moving her chair closer.
Rhaenys thought about how to say what it was she wished to say. How to put it in a polite manner. However at this age, politeness rarely mattered.
“The contest, my sweet, is a sham. A slap in the face against tradition. Even in Essos, such things are scarce heard off. Your heir is your heir. In you father’s case, it was Maekar. Now it is Arlan.” Her words would sound harsh to anyone who did not know her.
“You would make a good queen. I’m sure of it. So sure, but -” She stopped.
Would she?
Vaella had the blood of both dragons in her. The red one and its bastard brother. Though Rhaenys had odd admiration for House Targaryen -
They were her rival.
They were such when she was a child in Essos. They would continue be such for as long as they reigned in The North.
If Vaella won this contest would she claim her crown in the name of her father?
Or the one held by her mother?

“I will not sway you away from taking part in this competition, my sweet. For an ambition such as wanting to sit The Iron Throne is one I am far… too familiar with.” She blinked. She put out her hand and gently took Vaella’s. “But if you want an old woman’s advice. Sit back and let your brothers fight for it. Go somewhere. Do something, other than conquer. Live a life. Reap as much joy as one can. Trying to become the leader of this… place… leads to nothing but ruin. It ruined my father. It ruined my father’s father. Your grandfather was driven to the drink because of it. And your own father - well, I needn’t say more.”

“Live Vaella. For their is much more to this life than that rotten metal chair.”

She squeezed her granddaughter’s hand. Her eyes looking into hers. “As for this Stark boy.” She let out a soft hum. A croaky laugh.
“If I was your age again I’d stop focusing on conquering kingdoms and conquer many boys instead.” A smile grew upon his thin chapped lips.

“Do as you wish with Stark. For as long as you wish. But when it comes to the sanctity of marriage. Reserve that for someone who has not betrayed their entire house. Their kinsmen. Stark does not deserve you for that.”

Spoiler: Rhaenys' MENTIONS

ailurophile

Kinvara
Sorceress




​

She watched Prince Aerion carefully as he spoke.
He was man grown but as he said his piece - she saw the boy. The boy who wanted help. She placed her hand on his arm. “Who would I be to refuse a Prince his teachings?”
She replied to him.
She rubbed the spot she touched, gently. “Of course. It would be a pleasure to pass my knowledge onto you. Like mine mother did to me when I was a girl. There are so many things the people of The Seven Kingdoms do not know. Do not understand. You would get no better education from a maester than from me.”
Kinvara didn’t mean for her words to come across as cocky as they sounded. She was not that type of person. She was however, right. At least she believed she was.

Several more men ran past.
What is happening?

“However,” She began. Her hand falling from Aerion. She turned around and walked further down the path. She brushed against a bushel of roses and plucked one. A dark crimson one. She held it and took in its scent before finishing her words.

“Your dreams.” She spoke.

“Tell me of your dreams.”

Spoiler: Kinvara's MENTIONS

Mion

 

[Braddington]

Daemon Pyke
Bastard son of Queen Daena Blackfyre

No dungeon. That was a start at the very least. Daemon always had a way with the King, and why not use it for some good every now and then? Perhaps with a side order of personal need along the way. It wasn’t immoral, just creative. When his mother passed, he was practically alone in the world. Sure he had family, they treated him like another child of the King, but it wasn’t the same. At least Mat got close. If he had to rely on the memory of his mother then he would, it’s what she would have wanted if she were still here after all. If it were any other King then he would have been drowned in the Blackwater along with Daena. Why stop with just one lucky break? Why not gamble for a few more? A bastard had little, at least he owned the title. Regardless, he had a deadline to keep. Pondering morality was a good way to break it.

The gardens were beautiful, always were, but they were so uniform. Everytime he looked upon them, he frowned even more. Every flower was perfectly placed, every shrub was planted precisely. Nothing was allowed to grow as nature intended, nothing was allowed to flourish here. Each little patch had its place, and it would remain so until they were dug up and replaced next summer. It was suffocating, this whole place was. You couldn’t walk around a corner without hitting into Lord Hayford’s triplets of doom with their feathered dresses and sequins which gave the sun a run for its money, or perhaps Lord Rosby fucking that maid servent half the castle garrison had already used. As if any of those bastards were actually his. Titles, formalities, affairs, secrets and poisons. King’s Landing was rotten to the core, it was hard to imagine anything had changed since the Targaryen days. It was about time he got out for a change, to a place more liberating than the ever stagnant land that this shitpile stood upon. First however, a goodbye to one of the few people here he respected.

Coming upon the Queen Mother, he found her in conversation with Princess Vaella. The moment he heard “Stark” and “Queen” his interest immediately peaked, as did the amount of foliage in front of his face. Skulking behind a bush was hardly the best image, but this was tantalizing stuff. Maybe he wasn’t so different from those he professed to be rotten after all. Nah, he just enjoyed a bit of fun that’s all. Vaella as Queen. He had thought of it before, this contest having been called made no exception to daughters, though no doubt it did for bastards. They could keep their iron chair, it was ugly anyway. Though it had a certain appeal…..what was he supposed to do? He was no warrior like Maekar, he inspired no respect like Aerion, and he had no backing like Arlan. Let alone the determination of a man like Vaegor, gods knows he couldn't keep up the game as long as that man. A bastard was still a bastard, no matter where their house came from.

Exiting the bush, he straightened his leather armour and with his grin made clear his presence. “Come now Rhae, the Stark boy does have a certain look about him. That First Man blood y’know. Surely you had a thing or two for those exotic Dothraki in your youth? All that hair, I can only imagine. Would get everywhere with all that sweat...” He looked to Vaella, smiling towards her warmly, bowing slightly to her, “Princess, good to see you again.” She was a sweet girl, she deserved some respect.

ailurophile TheFool​

 

[ailurophile]

Princess Vaella Blackfyre
​

She could scarcely breathe as her grandmother began to speak. In her concentration, Vaella barely registered the other women disappear beyond the foliage. There was only one face and one voice that mattered in that one tense moment--

And she was voicing Vaella's own concerns.
Confirming them.
Her shoulders dropped.

"They want it more than I do," she admitted.
Admitted?
Was she even sure what she really wanted?

When her father had first announced the contest, Vaella had brushed it off. Nobody would expect her to even be a contender, so why waste her time in worrying about it? But then she'd thought on it. Discussed the possibility with her mother.

Really, why were any of her brothers more deserving than her?

Though Arlan was the legitimate heir, now. He'd be a good King, or so she'd thought, when news of Maekar's death had first reached her. After the feast, her confidence had begun to wane. Intelligent and strong, he'd be an ideal candidate, was it not for her concerns about herself. Not herself, her mother.

Would she be safe? With anyone but Vaella herself on the throne?
Until she could guarantee it, she could never wholly write off her participation in the contest.

But for her grandmother, Vaella nodded. Smiled.

"Perhaps you're right. I wouldn't want to break tradition and waste my life for the sake of something that wouldn't make me happy. Especially not when it could make someone else so much happier." Her hands, previously tugging anxiously at her skirts, settled delicately into her lap. That was, until her grandmother continued, and suddenly one of those hands shot up to her mouth as Vaella's eyes widened.

In spite of her surprise, she let out a laugh.

"Grandmother!" She exclaimed, scandalised, though almost intrigued. Pausing, she considered this new suggestion. Chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. "But there's not a lot to do without... breaking anything. I suppose I could just conquer boys by sucking a lot of co--"

"Daemon!"

If Vaella had thought she was mortified by her own drunkenness at the feast, it was nothing compared to her embarrassment in that moment.
By some great fortune, however, Daemon's jest was an easy topic to latch onto.

"He really is beautiful," she agreed, "Dothraki? Wait, hold on--"

She cut herself off to smile and reach her hand out to Daemon as he greeted her.

"Daemon," softer this time, now her embarrassment was subsiding, "I hope you're well? Sit with us. Everybody else is gone."

Braddington TheFool

 

[Mion]

Aerion Blackfyre
​

All the sadness. All the grief. Had it all disappeared?

For the smile on the young princes face. The one he bore now. Was of a very pure happiness. Handsome? Dashing? Those were not the correct words to describe Aerion. No it was a beautiful smile, or a fair, pretty nature. Like a blooming flower, a shining star. This was the prince that the realm knew, that they loved. The Prince of Flowers, yes this was how it was supposed to be. He was not supposed to be one who sulked around, who lost himself in grief.

Thank you Kinvara... The dazzling youth thought to himself before putting it into words. I will believe in your words! Finally he could do something about this, he trusted her not only to guide him well as a teacher but well... She could be a friend also couldn't she?

"Th-thank you my lady! I can not express how happy I am that you will be looking over me! I hope I can make you proud!" Aerion clasped her gentle hand with is own. He looked up into her eyes with a innocent grin, his eyes full of joy and hope.

But Aerion did not notice the groups of men passing by.

My dreams?

"Ahaha, I am afraid they aren't very interesting things. Well they can be rather confusing. Even for me I mean! And well you would expect to understand your own dreams but they have always been really odd you know?" Aerion was not hesitant. He was too happy for such thoughts, he was merely trying his best to explain to his new teacher.

"Well recently I have been having a certain dream... Well two actually... A dream of a birth, at first I thought it was my own or maybe Maekars but I am not really sure anymore."

"And then there is the dream of a tower, a child, and an ocean. I always have that one before I wake up... I am even more clueless when it comes to that one..."

"I have had many others though... Dreams of dragons. Dreams of battles. Dreams of people I think I know. Dreams of people I know I don't... It really is hard to understand when I put it like that huh?"

TheFool

 

[TheFool]

Gerion Lannister
Lion




​

They could always pass for bothers,
Gerion Lannister and Erwin Lantell. Westerlanders oft mistook them as such. Gerion never saw it. Erwin was scrawny whilst his body was toned. His hair was blonde and curled whilst Erwin’s resembled straight pisswater. Erwin was a few inches taller, though Gerion had him beat inchwise elsewhere.
As Gerion took Erwin from behind however -
He did start to notice the resemblance but, of course, he thought little of it.
“Take me, Ger.”
The boy said, in exhaustion.
Gerion stopped. “I told you not to call me that.”
“Sorry, your grace.” The boy corrected.
That stirred a fire inside him. A fire that soon extinguished itself.

Gerion sat on the bed after, putting on his boots. Erwin laid beside him, watching. “Where are you off to now?” He asked him. His feet swaying in the air. Gerion strapped his boot on tightly -
“The Night Market.” He replied venomously.
“Oh.”
“Have you been deaf and dumb this entire week? It’s only what everyone is fuckin’ talking about.” Gerion said, his voice was one someone would describe as suave. Too suave. His words always dripped with entitlement. Superiority. A superiority he had not gained.
“I thought you thought you were above such things.” Erwin asked as he sat up.
Gerion looked at him, “I am. It’s shite that only the commonfolk can crave but it is tradition so I have to be there.”
“Oh.”
“Is that all you say? Oh? By the Gods, you are insufferable.” Gerion stood up and walked towards a mirror. He looked at himself attentively. Fixing his hair. Wiping his forehead of some of the sweat he had worked up. He rubbed his doublet, feeling his body beneath.

Perfect.

“I’m sorry, Ger.”
Gerion ignored him. He was a cheap fuck. Someone that would bow down in his presence. Someone he was sick of. He wanted a challenge. In both love and life.
“I’m leaving.”
“I am so-”
He slammed the door shut before Erwin could finish another word.

The sun was setting by the time he left Morgon’s Bedchamber. A risque inn that provided noblemen with the ability to sate their peculiar tastes. The streets of Lannisport were packed already. People set up stalls while others already danced in the muck - like drunken idiots.
He hated The Night Market.
It was a glorified auction. People would sell whatever they could. There would be drinks and food and dancing and food and makeshift melees and more food.
I need to get out of this wretched city.
He walked past a dark skinned merchant who shouted out the bargainous prices he had. People ate it up. Gerion shook his head at them. They spend what little money they have on trite.
Gods strike them down for their stupidity.

I need to get out now.

He arrived at the main dock. Pavilions had been set up. It was here that his family and the upperclassmen of Lannisport would sit and sell and buy. He noticed different sigils hanging from different pavilions. A boar of Crakehall. A Brax unicorn. A hill of gold. Yellow dots on purple. A red lion.
The red lion.
He studied that pavilion especially. There had been rumour that his idiot father was to marry Lynora off to a Reyne. Or at least attempt to do so.
Has Robert returned from the capital yet? He wondered. Hopefully not. Hopefully his horse broke an ankle on the way back.
He took his sight and his mind away from House Reyne.
Now focusing them on his own pavilion. And the family that sat upon it.

His father was being told some joke by some sailor while his mother gossipped with Lady Spicer. His maiden grandparents bickered to themselves whilst his maiden great-grandfather, Lord Gylbert Lanny, sat the opposite way to the others - looking out at the ships harboured in the sea.
Crazy bat.
He saw a few cousins gathered in a corner, talking amongst themselves. They went quiet when they saw him however. Something that gave him joy. He approached his parents but stopped when his eyes set on someone standing by an empty market stall.
Someone who was more important than any of the others.
The only woman in the world he loved.

Lynora Lannister.
His sister.

“Planning to actually purchase something in this kip?” He asked, with a wide grin, as he walked towards her. His smile was contagious to her. And vice versa. “Let me guess… you’re looking for a boy who won’t go off with some other bitch?” He asked, curiously, before plopping himself on a stool meant for the non-present merchant.
“Or better yet, you’re looking for someone to fix your dress? It’s in absolute tatters.”
It wasn’t.
They both knew that but he teased her still.
“Or, you are just standing over here waiting for your favourite little brother?”

He stuck out his tongue at her.
She was his everything. He better have been hers.

Spoiler: Gerion's MENTIONS

ailurophile
Arcanist
RayPurchase
Gwyn & Robert can tag in whenever ya'll want!

Kinvara
Sorceress




​

She listened to him.
Not saying a word as he told her of them. Of the dreams. Dragon dreams. They had to be. She had learnt of them when studying at a temple in Volantis. Prophetic dreams. Kinvara could sometimes see things in her mind. Glimpses of a possible future, but only when she casted a spell. Only when she was awake.
This was something new.
Something special.

She nodded as he told her more.
A baby being born?
She wondered what it meant. The dragons made sense in her mind. As dragon had been fighting dragon for the last twenty years - and would continue to do so until the end of time. She knew this.

When he finished she did not immediately speak. She took a breath and simply dwelled on his words. Carefully trying to process each one. Each hint at something that might soon come. “Aerion, what you have… what you see… it’s a gift. You’ve heard of the sight, yes? It takes many forms. Forms in flame and forms in sleep.”
She walked towards him and placed the rose in his hand.

Carefully so, so that his fingers were not pricked by its thorns.

“From what I’ve read and from what I know, it isn’t uncommon for the blood of Old Valyria to possess this gift. In fact you’re not the only one who came to me with such vivid dreams. Your brother did. Maekar. He had them often.” She said, quietly.
Her bandaged hand ached a little but she ignored it. “I will try my best to help you see clearer. For these dreams are simply not as such. They are something more.”

Spoiler: Kinvara's MENTIONS

Mion

Rhaenys Blackfyre
Queen Mother




​

Rhaenys’ eyes became alight when Daemon appeared.
He was like another son to her. Another grandson even. A bastard, but Rhaenys knew the importance of bastards. Knew what they were capable of. After all, her entire lineage was one of bastards. A bastard can do twice better than a child born of legitimacy, she thought.
She watched as he and Vaella exchanged pleasantries. Then she stood up and wrapped her thin arms around him. “Where have you been the last few days?” She asked, referring to the fact they had not spoken to one another in what seemed like an age.

She let out a chuckle at his mention of Dothraki. “I wish I could tell you kiddies that I had a long and complicated love life but your grandfather was the only man to ever tame my black heart.” She said, cackling.

“Though many did try.”
She put her hand to her lips to stop the laugh from escaping, before she sat back down took a sip of her water - that of which had begun to warm under the King’s Landing heat. Her eyes studying Vaella and then Daemon. She wished they were in Essos. She wished they were treading river water. She wished they were still young and green.

She wished she had taught them the lute.

Spoiler: Rhaenys' MENTIONS

ailurophile
Braddington

 

[TheAncientCelt]

King Naemidon
Reluctance​

Seldom did sleep come easy in these trying times. Often, Naemidon found himself laying on his bed, the finest silks from Yi Ti to Asshai adorning the carefully plucked goose-feather pillows resting both under his head and feet. Long has his shape been memorized by the mattress itself, to both Naemidon’s delight and misery. When exhaustion creeped on the king like a mangy dog to a butcher’s scraps, the Blackfyre ruler was oft able to drop onto his bed and wonder little before sunrise met him. However, in every other occasion, it left Naemidon rigid on his mattress. Any attempt to shift into a new position felt hollow in his well worn bed.

Though, it would be an excuse of a lesser man to say that it was the bed itself that kept Naemidon Blackfyre from rest. True as it may be that the mattress needed replacing a decade ago, it was not any physical necessity that had his violet eyes staring emptily from the familiar position. Dressed in a crimson shirt of Asshai - a gift he received from Kinvara just months prior for his name day - and brown trousers far too worn to be anything but bed chamber clothing, he remained restless. His body ached, demanding respite from usage. A chance to recover from another day of arduous labor, but the mind was fresh, the mind was determined, as it sifted through countless problems. None so much as solved, only addressed in brief, before Naemidon fell onto another mental sword, another plight that had his kingdoms in a fervor.

Late into the evening - or early into the day as a maester would refer to it as - Naemidon had worked through several key issues already. He allowed a modest amount of his mental energies to be devoted towards mourning and regret. For Maekar, for Daena, and for himself. A pitiful statement to ever admit, let alone indulge in, yet Blackfyre embraced it in the solitude of his chambers. Working past his grief, Naemidon’s mind whirled to the crisis known as the Neck. Particularly, Seagard. ‘An important city, losing it opens up the Riverlands to all manner of threats.’ The grimm thought was not a stranger to his mind. Afterall, Naemidon had lost Seagard six times already. But it had to be reclaimed, lest the Riverlands finds itself suddenly plagued with “pirates” that happened to sound, act and behave like Ironborn reavers.

The loyalty of the Ironborn was fickle. Early into his kingship, Naemidon understood that he could not persuade them through force as he had others. Their islands were distant and his naval capabilities laughably inferior after the Velaryon’s schism and the royal fleet was sundered. Half fled North, to follow Breakoath into a white oblivion that the Stark’s referred to as Winter. The remaining ships fell into the watery halls of the Drowned God, forever out of reach for the Blackfyre cause.

With force now out of his hands, the game of appeasement had to be played. A dangerous one, where the relationship between master and vassal must be gently stressed. The Ironborn would never commit to his war, it neither interested them nor benefited them greatly. Naemidon merely needed to keep them out of the Northerner’s hands. With a growing, discontented growl, he knew that was a losing front as well. ‘Constantly, I hear idle rumors of Ironborn reavers up and down my coasts.’ The Royal Navy under Lord Butterwell was impotent and the Redwyne Fleet, while massive, consisted of merchant vessels primarily. ‘Unless I mean to invade those ghastly isles, the Redwyne fleet is best kept in reserve.’ It also put enormous trust in House Redwyne, who so far had no particular reason to keep any oaths to Naemidon. ‘I’d be surprised if they didn’t flirt with known conspirators.’

To remove the temptation from the Ironborn subjects of his, Naemidon would soon send ravens out to both the Vale and Westerlands, requesting their support in retaking Seagard and manning it. The Riverlords had bled recently, they would need time to recuperate before Naemidon brazenly asked for more conflict from them.

The matter of Seagard was not all that weighed on his mind. Nor was it the most important. Increasingly, by the day, yes. But not yet pivotal.

The other day, Naemidon became aware of the growing issues abroad. Not to the North, either, but across the Narrow Sea. The Greyscale outbreak had been deemed a plague by several cities, the greatest of which was the Free City of Pentos. Closest to King’s Landing and an ideal trading partner for many merchants and fishermen, the Prince of Pentos was murdered - per their tradition - and the city closed its ports. Guarding the roads and gates as well, the nobility that truly ruled the Free City found ample reason to fear the growing menace of Greyscale.

Not only did this mean that ships would now have to divert elsewhere, both coming and going, but his local citizenry would be more discontent.

‘And angry masses can be misled without much effort.’ It wasn’t an overly complicated scheme, to redirect the animosity brewing in the city and lather the Blackfyre dynasty and their chief allies as those at fault for the newest turmoil to grip the city. Afterall, Naemidon conceived it immediately and so surely others would too, another crack in his armor, weakness that would be dealt with swiftly and without distraction.

He would discuss with Durran Baratheon a method of coping with the sudden loss of trade. Mayhaps the man would personally venture to Pentos, see to negotiate with them to allow Westerosi galleys through? ‘We barely have any reports of the infection, afterall. Few islands, far between one another at that.’ Not that Naemidon trusted every rumor that ventured to his court, regardless. Words were wind and Naemidon trusted not the wind to direct his ships, let alone his kingdoms.

The hours passed, and Naemidon felt his eyes shut twice, falling into a black slumber. Awakening both times without any recollection of dreams, the Blackfyre king peered from his bed to the nearby window. The night sky was stunning still, stars acting as lighthouses, distant, ambient beauty untouched by the hands of man. A crescent moon hung overhead, blocked partially by passing clouds. Numbly, with tiredness clinging to his mind and aches accompanying each moving joint, the Blackfyre king climbed out of bed and pressed himself against the window.

From his youth, Naemidon resonated with the night. Battles were never fought at night, instead celebrations were oft had in the Free Company. Safety was ensured as was rest. Beyond that, it signified that his father and uncle would be back in the town of tents the Golden Company pitched where ever they went. As a young boy till he reached the middle of his adolescent years, Naemidon had been ecstatic. His uncle and aunt would join them for dinner, bringing along Daena. Naemidon and his younger brother Daemon would be privy to their father's attention, rising to the exhaustive task of impressing the man.

For King Naemidon, the night always suggested something better to come. A familiar, warm glow reverberated in his chest. The crisp, night air of the Disputed Lands would forever be imprinted in his mind. Fire pits, surrounded by men such as Mudd or Costayne as they dug into one another relentlessly, memories of a time long past.

The night comforted him with these memories. The time he spent with his family, back when he still had one.

‘And do I not now?’ The thought caught him off guard, Naemidon’s lips tightened.

Daena was gone. The only woman he felt complete around, whose life he treasured more than his own. Long, had her body been burned away and skull decorated with the gold of Bittersteel’s legacy. Maekar followed his mother into the afterlife equally as eager, leaving Naemidon alone.

‘And what of the other children? Their mothers? ’ The combative voice - perhaps his own conscience, acting up in these late hours - riposted.

An ugly expression crossed his face, half between a snarling dog and a dying horse. The Blackfyre’s that wandered this world were of his blood. The wives he took had shared his bed on numerous occasions, sharing intimate moments that only man and wife had. Yet, his thoughts were mixed when he regarded his other children. They were strangers to Naemidon. He watched them grow from a distance, duty to the realm and dotting over Maekar always an able shield when confronted with a crying toddler.

His wives were worse, in some ways. Their loyalty to Naemidon was shallow and directed by the patriarchs of their houses. Each compliment, attempt at worming their way back into his chambers, was another jab at their rivals at court. There was no true love to be had in those marriages.

But the Blackfyre King could not seem himself ever confronting a child of his that still drew breath, only to inquire of their day, or aspirations. Nor, could he seem himself vulnerable before them. What was needed to grow such a relationship had long since evaporated in the constant drought that was otherwise known as Naemidon’s affection. And, in some respects, he felt himself saddened at the thought. For what father would want to be divorced from the going-on’s of his children?

‘And here I am, making myself more pitiable by the second.’ A revolting notion. Never once did the King demand pity for what transpired in his life, he opposed the concept that he was weak enough to require it. ‘Regardless, I keep returning to these thoughts.’ With a huff, Naemidon banished them, breaking his eyes off the night sky.

If he could not rest, he would see himself active, working towards some goal. Clearly, lingering in his chambers alone only encouraged the miserable, self-absorbed despondent attitude. Finding a candle on the far side of the room, Naemidon encouraged the flame to grow through a few quick puffs of air and stripped from his bed wares. Dressing cordially, albeit not exactly fit for court, Naemidon stepped from his room and into an adjourning hall. Two guards were posted at the far end on either side, their golden armor signifying them as successors to Bittersteel’s legacy. Holding the candle high, Naemidon made no attempt to silence his foot falls as he approached two of them from behind.

‘How tragic would that be? Cut down by my own men over simple confusion.’ If Naemidon perceived the ‘King in the Mud’ as a pathetic title, his own legacy would be but inches from that detestable low.

“Sers.” He offered, his voice low and rumbling, as if unused to the sounds it could produce. ‘I’ll head for the kitchen first then, for cider.’

“Your grace.” One, a fair faced man of tender years. Clearly, this man was appointed to the night-time shift due to his father’s influence, or lack there of. The other man muttered the same greeting, both stepping to follow their king.

“You may remain where you stand.” Naemidon instructed. It’d not do to have Mervyn hear that his men were gone from their posts, even if he later straightened the story up. Nor did Blackfyre require guards at this early hour. “I won’t be gone long.” He lied.

Little attention was paid to the guard after Naemidon found himself turning a corner. The Red Keep was built not as a simple fortress, but a maze to confuse enemies and allies alike. Maegor’s holdfast was difficult to learn, but throughout the years, Naemidon had near mastered the domain. The lower levels were mysterious, he’d admit. But never would Naemidon dwell alone in the lair of Ser Kevan Bar Emmon, the king’s justice.

Bounding down countless stairs and crossing more vacant halls of the familiar, blood-brick that castle was built from, twice more being accosted by worried, patrolling men in golden uniforms. Once in the kitchen, Naemidon was quick to fetch himself a pale of cider. His scratchy throat shuddered with the warm juices flowing down it. Taking the pale with him, the King of the Six Kingdoms paced outwards. Where to? He wasn’t quite sure himself. His journey through the Red Keep had taken time, the Sun now sprouted out on the horizon, if the dim light that dipped through windows declared anything. The day was soon to start, Naemidon would have precious little time before finding all manner of leeches assaulting his person.

The pestering question of ‘what next’ was soon answered. Traveling a floor up, Naemidon moved into his private solar. Used oft for larger gatherings of lords and entertainers, the Blackfyre King found it appropriately vacant. Pale of cider in one hand and a candle the other, Naemidon found a table and comfortable looking couch to drop on. Work. . Work was on the mind. Requests. Demands. Reports. Worries. The stress of Six Kingdoms fell upon Naemidon in that moment, and the King blinked rapidly. ‘I’ll let Prince Mors handle court life again today.’ He decided. If the Prince was finding himself ill suited, then Lady Kinvara would be his replacement. Naemidon felt himself too weak to approach the needy and ravenous subjects of his. His candle flame flickered in its death rattle, the hot wax collecting at the bottom of the iron handle. It didn’t matter. Light was upon them, just an hour from waking the world.

Rising from the couch, Blackfyre looked about the solar. Scrolls and letters collected dust at the far end and the King decided to stay clear from them. Instead, violet eyes found dusty tomes, written by maesters far more accomplished than the current occupant of the Red Keep. With rare mirth, Naemidon gripped one in particular.

‘The Doom of Valyria - Archmaester Archibold’s Histories’ It read along the spine.

A morbid favorite of Naemidon’s, he found himself seated once more, licking his fingers as he sifted by chapters. He’d read it three times before, the contents far from mysterious. Archmaester Archibold was an appeasing writer and historian, but what truly caught Blackfyre’s attention was the message hidden between words.

‘The death of Valyria allowed for the growth of the Targaryen’s.’ Fire devoured the dragon lords and gave one house the potential to soar across the skies.

‘And, so House Targaryen crumbled for House Blackfyre.’ That was the message he grasped at years ago. A satisfaction that his voyage across the Narrow Sea was not mere accident, or cosmic fortune. It was declared, fate even. What happened to the Targaryen’s was another continuation of what the other Valyrians suffered, the Gods had decided it was the Blackfyre line’s turn to rule.

‘And if the Gods have favored me to rule, what force on this continent could oppose them? Oppose me?’ It was a boost of confidence, strength, that kept Naemidon’s head a little higher, his eyes keener and grip on the kingdoms tighter. Finding a chapter he was engrossed with in the past, Naemidon proceeded to block out the world from the Solar. It was Mors’ concern today, his was the cider and literature at his fingertips. The rare smile of his returned as the day grew long.

------

A Letter to House Tyrell

Spoiler: To Kek Tyrell

Lord Tristan of House Tyrell,

It is with the most gracious of thanks that we, Lord and Lady of House Yronwood, accept your open invitation to attend the festivities at Highgarden. Long has your land been rumored as the finest that Westeros has offered, greener than Spring grass or a young squire. To gaze upon its majesty would fill us with deep splendor and delight.

My lady wife and I, Lord Petyr Yronwood-Dayne, have recently ventured from the Free City of Lys. Our journey has made us weary, and it would be our most humble request, if House Tyrell may hold us in her splendid walls of Highgarden. The pavilion that most set for their houses, while respectable in its simplicity, does not please the finer half of my soul, Lady Yronwood. Without worry, we shall provide our own servants, to not give yours added labor they did not request.

With open and warm hearts,
Lord Petyr and Lady Ynys of House Yronwood,
We Guard the Pass.

Added Request; Lady Ynys Yronwood has experienced an emotionally trying episode abroad. It would be my most humble request if Lord Tristan of House Tyrell were to acknowledge and accept my lady in this turbulent time. Forever grateful would I be if your own Lady wife and her associates accepted Lady Ynys without scrutiny. Offering sisterhood, equal to the bond of men who fight on the field of battle together, instead of ire and cruel japes.

Sincerely,
Lord Petyr Yronwood-Dayne

​

 

[RayPurchase]

Robert Reyne
Lannisport​

The sun was near enough set as Robert sat in his pavilion. The night was punctuated by cries of drunken laughter, music, conversation, and a hundred other individual noises, the sound of a city alive and well. Even at its quietest Lannisport was a bustling hive of commercial activity, the principle port and city of the Westerlands, through which the gold and silver of the mines were channeled through, if gold was the blood of the Westerlands, then Lannisport was the beating heart. Tonight however, despite the late hour, the city was busier than ever the commoners packed the streets, cavorting, drinking, dancing and haggling, merchants hawking their goods at the tops of their lungs, it was near chaos. Of course the main docks were quite removed from this tumultuous affair, the lords of the Land having set up their camps away from the chaos of the masses. He had arrived that afternoon, straight from the capital, there was not enough time to return to Castamere, to do so would have missed the festival entirely, and that would have been a wasted opportunity, for what he was after was bargains. Not what the merchants were trying to sell mind you, mere trinkets and baubles. No. His sights were set within the Dockyard itself, he glanced between the different pavilions, Crakehall, Brax, Plumm, Lefford… the great nobles of the West were all gathered, under the ever present eye of the Bronze Lion. These were the deals and bargains he was interested in, the Houses of the West gathered all in one place, what words could be spoken, what deals could be wrought, the possibilities were truly endless.


Robert sat at a small desk set up inside his Pavillion, in his hand was a letter, sent by Castellan Doggett, it had been awaiting him when he arrived at Lannisport, as well his completed Pavillion and additional supplies. During his absence things had been proceeding as instructed, 500 Reyne levies had been positioned on the southern boundaries of his holdings, drilling and maintaining a state of alert. There had been no true hostile actions as of yet, however the projection of force is what mattered most, and for now, despite the expense of keeping some 500 men paid and supplied, it was being maintained. He lent forward with the letter, holding it above the candle until the flame caught, the letter browning and curling as the fire took hold, he placed it carefully in a small metal bowl, and waited a few short moments until all that remained was a few blackened pieces. He arose from his seat, smoothing down his clothes, his choice of clothing as equally dark as the night sky, colour coming from the red lion emblazoned on the left hand side of his doublet, a red lion rampant regardant, a symbol of his house and a clear indicator of who he was. He emerged into the night air, two of his retainers flanking either side of the tent, he would have no need of them to follow him about however. None of the lords would be so brazen as to attack each other, not here in the middle of the docks. His eyes flicked between the different tents, as well as the Lannister guards. Or if they did try such a thing then the hornets nest they kicked up would leave them wishing they had never tried such a thing. The one thing that clearly stood out was the amount of blonde lockes dotted around the dockyard. Lannisters, truly the largest Herd of Lions about, no longer a Pride of Lions mind you, that Pride had been lost with Casterly Rock. The proper thing to do would be to pay homage, attend upon them and redeclare fealty and loyalty. That could wait until later however, such things were not of great concern to Robert, and so it was not towards the Lion that he attended, but instead to the Boar. House Crakehall was one of the principal houses of the Westerlands, admittedly they could not field as many men as House Reyne, but their power was not to be sniffed at. If things had gone as they should have, Reyne and Crakehall would be bonded together through blood, it was not to be however. The hairs on Robert’s neck stood up as his thoughts went back to that fateful, bloody night. He could still hear the cries, the blood on his hands, always on his hand, as Lanna and his child had both been torn away from him. Lord Crakehall was dead now however, and power lay his his eldest and now only daughter, Gwynesse. The two sisters had been close, and now Gwynesse was Lady of Crakehall. They had not spoken much since the death of Lanna, and this would have to be handled carefully, the blood bond was gone, but the foundations of an alliance remained, it would have to be nurtured carefully.


He approached the Crakehall pavillion, spreading his arms at the two guards, revealing that he was carrying no weapon. It did not matter if he was, Gwynesse was apparently quite skilled herself with the blade, he was quite certain that he would outmatch her, but certainly skilled enough to last until her guards arrived. He entered the tent, ducking under the cover. A smile sliding into place, not too broad, but welcoming enough.


“Lady Crakehall, dear sister, my heart is gladdened to see your banners flying here in the heart of Lannisport, a familiar and comforting sight indeed. It has been far too long since the Red Lion and the Boar have been under one roof. How do you fare on this night of festivities the Lannisters have so kindly laid on for us,”


His tone was serious but light, appearing to genuinely appreciate her presence, that is until his mention of the Lannisters, the line heavy with sarcasm.

Spoiler: Interaction

Arcanist Gwynesse Crakehall

 

[Arcanist]

Olyvar Redwyne​

Olyvar had taken to standing at the window of his brother's--or, well, his room now, and staring out into the vineyards now far from the castle. He watched as the workers went about their business as they had always done, every day Olyvar was stuck in here. He watched a woman through the heatwaves distorting her figure, plucking grapes from a fertile vine, dropping them into the basket she had tied around her waist. Summers at the Arbor were pleasant, if you weren't one of the poor sods working in the vineyards. The sweat was blinding the poor woman. Every minute she paused, wiped the sweat running into her eyes, before she resumed her work. Though, the sweat had clearly gathered elsewhere, as her shirt practically clung to her body, her breasts, anything it could. Olyvar caught himself staring at her, for too long. He found himself missing female company, despite his own insistence he keep away from it. Apparently becoming a Lord was one way of practising celibacy after being surrounded with sailors and fighters. Olyvar's nose wrinkled at the thought of such times. Times before he was forced to take the title.

He pulled his gaze away from the woman when he heard a sharp knock at the door. "Come in," Olyvar responded in a raspy tone, though, quickly cleared his throat as the door opened, and the familiar rattling of chains. He glanced up, a small smile on his face. "Maron."

"Forgive me, my Lord," the Maester bowed out of a sign of respect. "Do you have a moment? I wish to speak to you on a matter."

Olyvar found difficulty in suppressing a frown. Not this again. Or at least, he hoped it wasn't what he hoped it was going to be again. He nodded. "Of course." He watched the Maester shut the door behind him, before he advanced further into the room. Olyvar hadn't moved from the window, but shifted his body to face Maron, his full attention on him. Don't mention the betrothal. Don't mention the betrothal. Don't--

"There have been rumours, relating to the Iron Islands as of late,” Maron began and continued, despite the incessant blinking coming from his Lord. “It seems they wish to make themselves known as a dominant force among the seas again. There might be reason to suspect they could begin their raiding once again.” There was a pause between the two men. The Maester watched Olyvar’s lips, twist, before the Redwyne couldn’t help but let amusement break out onto his face.

“Now? After twenty years?” Olyvar laughed, bemused by the thought of Ironborn leaving their beloved islands after hiding away there for so long. “Whilst Greyjoy prods at both Targaryans and Blackfyres from his coves?” He scoffed, turning his gaze back to the window with folded arms. He struggled to find the woman harvesting from earlier. “The Kraken is nothing more than a squid struggling on land. If had any sense, he would have landed on the Arbor and the Shield Islands long before now.” Olyvar could feel Maron’s lips lower into a frown at him. Glancing around at the Maester, his feeling was correct. Only, his forehead wrinkled in a much more concerned manner.

“My Lord, if the rumours hold any seed of truth--”

“If, Maron,” he corrected him, still finding it preposterous that there would be such truth in rumours.

The Maester cleared his throat, continuing, “The Arbor will suffer. They will tackle us, and the Shield Islands, until there is nothing left to plunder this side of the Reach.”

Olyvar sniffed, before he retreated from the window, approaching the Maester. “We have a powerful naval force, right on our doorstep, Maron. I’ve seen it in action myself, as you well know. They’re well-manned, well-maintained. They’re equally devastating in battle,” he explained, though, he knew full well no explanation was needed. He just needed to reiterate that such information was simply fact. “Raid ships against a Redwyne Fleet? I know where I would put my money after the Ironborn have sat idly with their ankles in the water for all this time.” The two men locked eyes for a moment, one assessing the other, before Maron was the first to break the gaze. “Even if they were to attack, I don’t expect them to gather every man on those islands in time.”

Olyvar sighed, before he wandered past Maron, thoughtful, for several moments. “We don’t have time to worry about squids. Not when the Reach is rife with unsettled Lords, tired of the Dornish bullying them.” He turned back to Maron, a familiar glare in his eyes, one seeped with vengeance and fury bubbling beneath the surface. “They pushed my father to the edge. My brother’s blood is forever stained on their hands. Missing this tourney in Highgarden would be a wasted opportunity.”

The Maester seemed to give a meek nod, defeat clear in his frown. What more could he do to convince him otherwise? Rumours were rumours, too, after all. Some were false. Others, however… “Of course, my Lord,” he responded quietly. “My apologies, I’ll take my leave. I’m sure you have many preparations to finalise.”

Olyvar nodded. “Yes. Thank you, Maron.” They both knew this conversation was over. Maron shuffled his way past Olyvar, to the door, letting himself out. Part of the Redwyne ached at the words he delivered. But his eyes were on the Reach. For the independence each and every one of those Lords and Ladies craved.

Spoiler: Interactions

Yarrow

Gwynesse Crakehall
​

The Gilt of Crakehall had been faced with a choice. She could drop all her responsibilities, uproot herself from Crakehall, and make the journey to Highgarden to infiltrate the tourney in true Gwynesse fashion, or continue the long tradition of attending the Night Market, and appeasing the so-called Lions of Lannisport. She opted for the latter. Duty called over pleasure, she was afraid. She had learned that not long ago, when her father had kicked the bucket, so to speak, and she was saddled with the title of Lady of Crakehall far sooner than she had hoped. At least now, most had to look at her with some respect.

Or, so she had always reasoned with herself.

What she wore as she meandered through the ports before the pavilion was not unusual; she opted for one of the long skirts she always kept handy, in case she needed to be a 'Lady', not a self-stylised fighter. Though, it had been the only 'lady-like' attire she had chosen to wear. And never heels. Her sister once attempted to teach her how to walk in them, with little success. Gwynesse had always been incredibly flat-footed, she claimed, and preferred the heels of her feet to be flat on the ground, as the Seven had most likely intended. Hence the boots that scuffled against the cobblestones and carried her along ever faithfully. She was comfortable this way. Not everyone around her was.

Stares were something she became used to. The whispers her ears often pricked up at. The sneers and insults that were exchanged behind her back. None of it was unusual, even years on, even when some people were forced to get used to this notion. She enjoyed acting indifferent to the comments. She enjoyed seeing the bewilderment in several pairs of eyes as she passed right here in Lannisport. A pair of women looked her over, only to do so again, as if they hadn't recognised the woman, and when they did the second time, were taken aback by her appearance. Gwynesse allowed a tug at her lips. Shaking the stability of what was the norm was an enjoyable hobby of hers, and she figured, if the Blackfyres were able to shatter what was 'normal' and 'right', there was no reason why no one else could. Though, that was a thought she kept to herself. Such a comment would bring more controversy to Gwynesse's character and her House.

"If I knew any better, your presence here would be more than you keeping up appearances." She heard a voice comment in a conversational tone behind her, a hint of a chuckle echoing in it. Gwynesse glanced over her shoulder at the man senior to her, still meandering along, her hands clasped behind her back.

"And whatever would give you that idea, Ser Luthor?" She asked, the sarcasm dripping from her words like honey, before she winked at the older knight, facing forward once again.

He hadn't stopped with that comment. "Nothing to do with that smirk on your lips."

"I'm not smirking. Do you see a smirk?" She turned her face back to his again, her lips pressed in a firm line, her brows tensed. The knight let his own smirk play on his lips, before he gave a hearty chuckle. Her eyes returned to the scenes around her; men wrapping arms around his comrades in a drunken embrace, stall owners with steely faces refusing to budge to haggling customers. Her eyes often fluttered to the wares on display either side of her, but nothing quite stole her interest. She supposed she wasn't actively looking for anything. Again, taking in the scenery of Lannisport. She enjoyed the buzz of the city at night, the people out in their droves. It's what cities were meant to be like.

---

Gwynesse had settled in her Pavillion - for now, at least - with a goblet of wine, swirling its contents and washing it crash against its walls. "My father always used that line on every merchant who showed up at this Pavillion," The Lady of Crakehall chuckled, bringing the goblet to her lips, only to have it lean against them. "'You can go looking for decent wares, but if you wait patiently enough, the best wares make their way towards you.' It still surprises me how much you can compliment these merchants, and they're silly enough to lower the price for you," she took a swig of the wine, letting the taste linger. "That, and mentioning you saw the exact same wine at a cheaper price elsewhere in the market..." She added, to the chuckling of Luthor.

"You call a good bluff, my Lady," he complimented, to which Gwynesse snorted at.

"Oh, don't make me blush," the Lady responded with mock embarrassment. She would have fully played the part of the blushing maiden, only, to see the flaps of the Pavillion entrance part. She assumed it was another merchant come to swindle her money and time, only, she gave pause to the man who entered. The colours of his attire, the sigil of his House would have given Gwynesse an idea of who he was, if she hadn't recognised the smile plastered over the heavy scowl that lay permanently on his face. She hadn't seen the face in half a year gone, but it was a face that was forever burned into her memory. A face and figure that would forever remind her of her sister. She swallowed back the lump in her throat, discreetly, before she rose to greet him, setting her goblet down on an end table. At least Robert made the effort to smile and make a light greeting.

"Lord Reyne," Gwynesse approached him, a smirk slithering onto her lips again at the sarcasm in his tone. "I would keep your voice down. We wouldn't want our beloved hosts of the evening overhearing such a tone." The Lady was not oblivious as to why the Red Lion had made its way to the Boar first. Her sister - his wife - may have been dead, but the ties between their Houses were not completely severed. In place of wares, it seemed opportunities were coming to her. Whether they would be the best, time could only tell. She certainly wasn't turning him away. Gwynesse gestured to the sofa, insisting, "Come, sit down. We have much to catch up on. Luckily, I swindled a merchant out of his wine, so we'll hardly run out as we talk."

Spoiler: Interactions

RayPurchase

 

[Akio]

Mors Martell
Hand of the King

​

He and Meryn continued to chat small talk over the rest of the feast before it broke up and afterward, he saw to some of the clean up before leaving it to the rest of the servants as he went to his room exhausted by the day events. The funeral had been draining for the Hand between the chaos of setting it up, to seeing Maekar be dipped in gold, to managing the feast itself that he hadn't truly got to reflect on the events. It had been 20 years since he first met Maekar, back during the conquest of Westeros not long after the capital fell that he had met a young boy. Crippled but kind, intelligent, brave. He was not sure if he would survive the war, or the after. But he survived and improved and even when Nae Nae forced him to fight when he was clearly not capable he preserved. A talented boy, a brave man, someone he would have served as king. But so were the twisted malginations of fate. Mors went to his desk and pulled out his personal bottle of Dornish Red he rarely touched and a small jewel-encrusted cup and poured himself a small amount of the red which quickly filled the cup with little splash before he set the vase containing the rest aside and took the cup as he strode to his window with the cup. Looking out onto the city he would think once again of Maekar and raise his glass outward to the fallen prince in a final farewell. 'Farewell Maekar, my King. May you forever reign in peace among the stars.'
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next few days after the feast was a blur of activity. While the funeral was over now Mors work had only increased. Maekars death had proven he had been neglectful with some of his duties as Hand of the King. Maekar should have never been put into a situation where he had to face the red dragon and some areas of the court had clearly fallen into misuse and disappear. During these first few days, he did not directly change anything. Rather than that over the next few days he and other trusted servants were sent to quietly observe all facets of government. Finances and economics, the garrison and assets of the military he could look over now such as what remained of the golden company, various political states, the rumbling of the common folk down in the city. All were looked over with a fine tooth comb as he used the various experts and the power of his position to best gage the position of the realm in its entirety that he could in a short amount of time. He didn't like much of what he saw. Excess and waste were becoming increasingly common at court, the royal navy was still entirely in disarray, the war effort, while it had gone back and forth, had only managed to stonewall the Red Dragon after they retreated to the north and even suffered some defeats such as Seaguard. The Riverlands was a constant battleground and it was affecting its effectiveness in providing its tribute and creating a spread of refugees to Kingslanding. In addition to other issues, he began to realize he hadn't given enough focus, the political climate of the realm was still remarkably unsteady even after 20 years in certain places. And now there was this letter in his hands. He had been reviewing the great amounts of information being sent to him when one of his servants brought him a letter from the ravenry.

It was a letter from his daughter Ysilla back in Dorne and if he had been hoping for good news or that it was just a personal letter were quickly disappointed as he read in silence. Trystane Drinkwater was dead, murdered in the reach and it matched up with other information he had heard. Dornish soldiers laying slain and unburied in towns when doing their normal patrols and even worse the massacre left on the steps of House Hightower that included one of the lordly Ullers. Someone in the Reach, this supposed 'White Knights,' were beginning to make waves in the Reach and attacking his and the crowns soldiers. He could not ignore such a direct challenge and after a moment reached for a quill as he began to write two letters, one to his daughter and one to the leader of his forces in the Reach.

Spoiler: Mors Letter to Dorne

My Dearest Daughter

Thank you for bringing this to me. I write to you directly now to hear my words. I have recently become aware of similar rumors and your words confirm to me their truth. There is worse news, some you might have heard of and others without.

Ser Ulwyck Uller is dead and men of Dorne and the King have been killed by those who call themselves the White Knights.

They went as far to leave the bodies of our people on the steps of the Stary Sept. Whether they mean to provoke us or start a war we will take action. I want you to muster an addition 3000 from the lords and send them to fortify the Princesses Pass, work closely with your Uncle and Lord Yronwood as they know the area well and will be able to help provide some of the manpower.

I am ordering our forces in the Reach to hold positions at defendable Garrisons while I speak to the small council on this matter and seek leave to intervene in the matter or dispatch trusted servants. There is much work to be done in the capital so I may not be able to personally intervene right away but we will not allow this to go unanswered.

I trust your capabilities, do not move further from the pass however till I have spoken to the King. Once preparations are set I will write again to check on your progress.

I know you will make me proud.

Mors Martell, Hand of the King and Prince of Dorne

Spoiler: Mors Letter to Starpike

Commander Roland

By order of the Prince of Dorne all forces are to pull back to defendable castles and holdfasts. Though deep in reach lands are to station themselves into the various reach lords castles, see to your own supplies but make it clear that they are required to house you by orders of King Naemidon Blackfyre.

Further orders will arrive within a few days time.

Mors Martell, Hand of the King and Prince of Dorne,

He had finished and sent out the letters and had only just settled back down after finishing them before Meryn suddenly came into the room. Before Martell could have even summoned a greeting he said something that shocked him to his core. The Grandmaester was dead. How? He was an old man but he showed little inclination of dropping dead at any moment. He began to rationalize to himself anything could happen and perhaps the old man had just passed peacefully but either way it was not something he could just guess and he took a breath and turned his sharp gaze towards the Master of Whispers. "How did he die Lord Meryn, and what news do you have to share?" He said somewhat worried as he brought himself to stand. Mors Martell was not an overly tall man, being sandy dornish they weren't exactly known for their height but he still had a presence to him with a lean but firm frame and with incredibly sharp blue eyes that gave anyone under his gaze a feeling of intimidation. One could get lost in his eyes. "What has occurred?" He said beginning to realize something was wrong. ​

 

[ailurophile]

Lynora Lannister​

"You, little brother, are awful." Lynora smirked, reaching over to brush her fingertips lightly across Gerion's cheek. There was something so undeniably beautiful about her brother, and it made her proud, as though he was her own son, or her lover.

However she thought of him, he was always her other half.

She'd been waiting for him, of course she had. What else was there to do? Exchanging simpering pleasantries with her cousins, trying in vain to have a coherent conversation with her grandfather, or worst of all, being trapped with her uncle and forced to listen to him tell her what a woman she'd become-- all of it made her skin crawl with disgust. How could a family that should have been so great ended up like this?

Sometimes she thought that she and Gerion were the only ones who mattered.
Most of the time, she knew it.

"What kind of coward would run away with another bitch if I offered him myself?" She laughed and tossed her head proudly. Though her brother's jab about her dress had been a clear joke, she still found herself smoothing the skirts. Leaning down, she smiled mischievously and playfully added, "I'd like to think you'd chase him down and defend my honour, anyway, my love."

There was no man, living or dead, who Lynora loved more than Gerion. It was not a love she was used to, there was no urge to write him letters and poems, more the feeling that if they were to be separated, she'd wither without him.
To Lynora, Gerion surpassed the sun itself in terms of importance.

She'd loved many men before. Usually for a few hours, the lucky few captured her attention for a few days: they would flirt, they would get between her thighs, they would profess their undying love, and then she would throw the hearts they had bared into the mud. Nothing excited her more than knowing she had control. Nothing made her laugh more than the lengths men would go to prove their devotion. How many plans to run away and begin a new life across the seas, where they wouldn't have any money but all the love they needed, had she been explained?

Her bed had probably seen more heartbroken tears than cum.
Which was saying something.

"I was waiting for you. You took your time, though, I'm not sure I want to spend time with you anymore," Lynora sighed theatrically and straightened up, turning around and folding her arms. A pout settled on her face, though Gerion couldn't see it. This expression was usually a dire warning to those around her, but mercifully for now, it was for play. "I really was beginning to think you were going to let me suffer all on my own."

For a moment, she wondered where he'd been, although she felt she knew.
Which was a relief.
At least that couldn't replace her as the most important woman in her brother's life.

TheFool

 

[Mion]

Aerion Blackfyre
​

Wh-what?

The sight... Yes he had heard of it before, of course he had. Everyone with dragons blood had probably been told those stories a few times. How Daenys the Dreamer saw the doom from within her dreams. How she convinced her house, House Targaryen to flee from Old Valyria to Dragonstone.

But then... If what I see at night are visions of what is to come...

These visions. They were not a recent thing, they had plagued his nights for as long as he could remember...

Then... Have I ever truly dreamt?

It was quite a sad thought, although Aerion did not mean it to be. To not experience what it is to dream... He couldn't help but feel the wish to finally do that. Well... I suppose wishing for a rest is pushing my luck enough as it is haha.

Maekar... So he had these visions as well. Although his brother was gone that piece of information made him feel just a little closer to him. He held the rose that was given to him in his hand, gently, delicately. He gave the flower a sweet look.

"Thank you my Lady... If these dreams of mine can be of any help to you, then that will be truly great!" It would mean they could be something more than a pointless agony. Something that could help his new teacher. Something that could even help the realm, help his father. To easen the burden on his family, if only by a little.

The young prince had put all of his faith in the Lady Kinvara. For already she had helped him far greater than any master had. Drink this. Try that. Nothing that those people suggested helped him any, but Kinvara knew what these were. And she had helped Maekar with them as well.

"I-i know that you are very busy my Lady. But if possible could we meet again later today? M-maybe that could be my first lesson haha... But even if not I would love to speak with you again if you would allow me my Lady!"

TheFool

 

[TheFool]

Gerion Lannister
Lion




​

He chuckled.
Standing up from the merchant’s stool, he took his sister’s hand in his and pecked it with his lips. “Defend your honour? I didn’t know you had such a thing, sweet sister.” He said, snarkily, in between little kisses. Gerion detested women. Everything about them was cringeworthy to him. Their voices and their tits and their lips - both the ones on their face and the ones under their waist. He hated it all.
There was one exception, however.
Lynora.
She stood, in his eyes, tall amongst a sea of ugly whores. He had only saw her this morning but, to him, she had grown more beautiful in their time apart. He gave her fist one last kiss before letting go.
“I could use a good chase though.”
He said, his eyes leaving her and looking at the crowd behind them. He wanted another boy before the night was through. That and copious amounts of wine.

“You don’t want to spend time with me? Me? Your dear little brother? The man who’d cut out his own heart for you?” He said, in a pretend shock. He put his hands on his chest and made a funny face - as if to tell her that he would never recover from her words.
He soon dropped it however and smiled, “I’d never leave you to suffer all of this, sweet sister.”

“I’m a lot of things but I’m not that evil.”
He grinned.

Spoiler: Gerion's MENTIONS

ailurophile

Kinvara
Sorceress




​

“Nonsense, my prince.”
She told him.
Her eyes staring into his. “While your dreams may help me give counsel to those around us - I will not take advantage of your gift. I will not use you as some tool to see things I can not.”

She looked over at the soldier who accompanied them. He seemed antsy. Has he been listening much? She wondered. A guard ran by them, in the same direction the others had. Followed by an old maid. Kinvara put out her bandaged hand so to stop the serving woman,
“What is going on?”
She asked.
The woman was plump and had a face red with sweat. “It’s the ol’ Grandmaester. He’s been murdered. People sayin’ it is poison that got him!”
Kinvara’s eyes widened.
What?!
She looked back at the golden company companion and then at Prince Aerion. “My prince we should get you to your room.”
“Can you take him there?” She asked the man in his golden armour.
He nodded frantically.

She let the maid run along and then put her hand on Aerion’s chest, where his heart was. “I will find you later tonight and we can discuss this more in depthly, my prince, but for now… please.”

“We do not know whether you are safe.”

Spoiler: Kinvara's MENTIONS

Mion

 

[MedievalFanatic2023]

Abbigail Lannister ​

It had been months not even a year since Erryk died. She detested they everyone was so happy and seemed to have already forgotten about him. She glanced noticing her to cousins Lynora and Gerion. She noticed Gerion seemed a bit too affectionate with Lynora's hand. Not something she took pride in with watching her cousin probably ends up smooching. Then again it was a form of love she did not have. She didn't really have anyone but her family she was still in her 20s though so I guess plenty of time being wasted away. The black market was okay she had not had much interest in it besides it being a tradition to show up. She tsked picking up a book she had brought with her to pass time. Abbigail was pretty though just the quiet shy type. She had blonde wavy long hair and beautiful blue eyes that matched the sky. She wasn't vain like her sister Johanna and wasn't ever going to be even if they begged her.

She opened her novel sitting by herself quietly enjoying the fantasy side of romance that she never endured. It was about a nice prince and a commoner girl who end up falling in love with fate. It could be pretty cringy if you didn't enjoy that kind of thing, but it had become a hobby for her to daydream instead of living the real thing. She had a passion for someday reading at least half of the royal library. Passion and motivation would make her, Erryk would want her to do something worth living for this long. Even if her father Emory married her off she would still have a passion to read. Abbigail was innocent to love and never experienced it even with the status she had she stood on the sidelines cheering everyone else on.

Who was it to dictate what was to happen? She stood up closing her book walking over to her two cousins. "You two seem quite intimate." She commented raising an eyebrow to the cousins most out of curiosity what they would say. It was something she could do besides reading her novel. She held the book in front of her chest looking to them with a gentle smile trying not to be well rude. That wasn't her intention for coming over. She wasn't fearful of her cousins they were individuals with struggles just like her.

Spoiler: Mentions

TheFool , ailurophile

 

[RayPurchase]

Robert Reyne​

Robert let out a humorless chuckle at Gwynesse’s mention of his tone. The Lannisters were most likely well accustomed to it now, the brooding lion of Castamere, skulking in his lair, biding his time to strike. The sort of things they would be telling their grandchildren to make them go to bed, lest Lord Reyne descend upon them.

“I’m sure they have heard far worse, in tones much stronger than mine, but you’re right, we are guests after all. Perhaps I could rest my cynicism for one night of festivities at least,”

He gave a brief inclination of his head as she formally invited him in. A good sign if there ever was one, a comfy seat, a goblet of wine and a promise of a catch up. It appeared that the Bull and Lion were still on friendly terms of the face of it, just a case of maintaining it now.

“You’re most kind, and I shall have to take advantage of your hospitality my Lady. There has been far too much travelling over the last few days, and a chance to rest my weary feet can’t go amiss, especially combined with good company and a large amount of wine,”

He eases himself down on the sofa, his eyes flicking over the decor of the pavillion. He also found his eyes flickering over Lady Crakehall herself, she’d forgone her usual armour for a more traditional outfit. To Robert it didn’t quite appear right, he could count the times he had seen her out of armour or more comfortable clothing on one, maybe two hands. There were definitely traits shared between her and Lanna, something in the eyes and the face, a hint of the wife that he had loved and the wife that he had lost. He had not seen Gwynesse since after Lanna’s funeral, and even then he had not been in much of a talking mood, his normally stoney silence only solidified. The topic would have to be breached at some point, to ignore it would simply create a divide.

He picked up a goblet of wine, taking a sip, allowing the wine to slowly run over his tongue, savouring the flavour.

“I must say you’ve done well. After some of the swill they were serving in King’s Landing, this is a refreshing change. Admittedly part of that may have been the sombre surroundings, the passing of Prince Maekar has clearly hit the King hard, it could be felt quite keenly. But how are you Gwynesse, it has unfortunately been far too long since we were able to meet face to face, something I must apologise for. If it appeared that I was trying to avoid you, I assure you nothing could be further from the truth. As ever I count you as a true friend and personal ally, even more so after the hardship and loss that we have both suffered,”

His eyes dipped slightly, resting upon his wine, still rippling within his goblet. The loss still hurt keenly, a grave tragedy indeed. Normally he would hide such emotions, but to do so with Lanna’s sister would only send the wrong message, this was quite possibly the only person he could, and should, share such feelings with.

Spoiler: Interaction

Arcanist

 

[ailurophile]

Lynora Lannister
​

"Oh little brother, light of my life, I'd rather permanently disfigure my face than be apart from you," Lynora added her own profession of devotion to reciprocate Gerion's. She mirrored his smile and couldn't help but give a mental sigh of relief. It wasn't as though she didn't believe Gerion would never leave her to suffer through anything, even something as trivial as the night's event, but it was nice to be reassured.

As perfect as she knew she was, men's assurances still meant the world to Lynora.

"You're evil enough to be exciting." She concluded, playfully batting his arm. "Now, what stupid thing shall we--"

She fixed Gerion with a fatal look as she heard a voice that was not his. It was a common look the two often shared, one that meant chaos for whoever had caused it. Usually, it was something someone said that they overheard, and the target would go by blissfully unaware. Unfortunately, this would not be the case for their cousin.

Lynora turned.
Smiling.
Not the sweet smile reserved for her brother.

"Cousin." What gave her the right? "A strange observation. Although, if all I did was read about intimacy, I suppose I might try and see it everywhere as well."

That smile again, this time followed by a forced laugh.

"Don't look at me like that, I didn't kick a puppy! It's a joke, sweetling."

The one person who knew Lynora well would know that nickname was only reserved for the unlucky few that came close to incurring her wrath.

TheFool MedievalFanatic2023

 

[MedievalFanatic2023]

Abbigail Lannister​

She looked finally being acknowledged she suddenly didn't know if it was the right thing or not. She sighed hearing what she had to say. When she heard what her cousin said and shook her head. "It's not nice to talk about what I read that way. I don't just read intimacy even though I wish I was as lucky as you, but I don't see that as your problem. So I am sorry I interrupted." She said bluntly her tone quickly changing. "And as for looking at you. Yes, you didn't kick a puppy it's more like you kicked a baby and ran for amusement." She insulted as she wasn't the one who insulted her but was just curious, to begin with.

She turned quickly not in the mood for an argument since that wasn't how she did things. She knew Gerion would hear what she said but screw him Lynora shouldn't have said something like that to her. Abbigail had self-worth and would not let these comments tear her down. She didn't tend to talk to others often, but when she did it would blow others away. Men weren't her amusement like her cousin Lynora's favorite thing to break hearts. She walked away from them a small smile on her lips hidden away from shadey insult to Lynora.

 

[Arcanist]

Gwynesse Crakehall​

Gwynesse let out a short snort. "It's for the best, I'm sure." It was certainly not untrue. At least Lord Reyne's sarcasm was tame for a Lion who could pounce on the Lannisport Cubs at any point. Much more so than the profanities thrown at them in the streets, or the crippling rumours that circulated the Westerlands and its Houses two times over. Anyone unwise would have done much more damage in the man's position.

The Lady watched Robert take up her offer, making his way to the sofa as he kept up polite conversation in her presence. She had followed, only pausing to wrap her hand firmly around the decanter of wine she bargained out of the merchant, and grabbing another goblet that had been left for her on her arrival. They must have thought she needed two for herself; one for each hand, naturally, but she was glad the goblet was landing in another person's hand, rather than her left. From personal experience, Gwynesse knew it was an event that would be passed around in whispers, another blemish to add underneath her name. She watched the crimson wine flow steadily into the goblet, answering him as the liquid poured. "I'm glad you decided to relish in my good company after your travels. It isn't as entertaining drinking wine on your own, I find. And," she finished, plopping the decanter down the end table beside her, before lifting her own wine once again. She handed the wine to Robert, with something of a grin playing on her lips. "What better company would you find than with a Lion of Castamere?"

Though she fell into company and conversation with anyone quite naturally, she was acutely aware of herself in her company with Lord Reyne. She had tugged at her skirt to straighten it the second Lord Reyne's eyes had focused else where in the lavish pavilion. She was not uncomfortable, by any means, but she would have agreed with anyone that it was an odd sight to see the Gilt of Crakehall bare of a breastplate and accompanying armour. But there was no need of it this evening, or so she hoped, and comfort took precedence, in this case. After all, she would no doubt find herself exploring the pavilions and Lannisport once more, and she'd rather not have that armour weigh her down. Gwynesse could sense with Reyne's stealing glances, a sense of nostalgia, a despair locked away inside of him. Gwynesse still earned comments - albeit, surprised ones - that she shared features with Lanna, even as they had grown older. She always pondered why it was never the other way around, that Lanna shared features with her. She never thought long on it.

Gwynesse fell back naturally into her relaxed nature. "I'm surprised at that. I would've expected King's Landing to have the finest wine that people would have kept returning for, despite the constant pissing in between several cupfuls, that is." For a moment, the Lady had forgotten herself, her crude and blunt manner making itself apparent. She had at least learned not to be so crude around the nobility; but her days of fighting alongside other men still lingered in her. Though, it was her brother by way of marriage. If he hadn't expected it by now, he was in for several surprises. She had moved on, though, shaking her head at his address of her. "Gwyn, Robert. Gwynesse does become something of a mouthful for people." Gwynesse chuckled, taking a sip of her wine as Lord Reyne had assured her his distance from her was not purposeful.

And as expected, Lanna came up, in a roundabout manner without directly addressing it. She paused, feeling the lump in her throat return, and she had taken a larger gulp of wine than she had intended to make it disappear. Gwynesse eyed the Red Lion beside her, watching his gaze fall to the cup in his hand, his grief that had been locked away rising to the surface once again. Something in her resonated with it. She knew he found it difficult, no less than she had. "I wondered, when I heard about the Prince," she began, quietly, her voice barely rising above a murmur, "if the King felt as strong a loss as what we had felt. What I had felt. I'm sure I'm a bitch for thinking it, but thoughts come to you and you can't stop them so easily." Once again, her crass nature overtook her mouth, much like her thoughts could overtake her. But she hadn't cared for her mannerisms in this moment. Lady Crakehall glanced over to Lord Reyne, before a hand rose and rested firmly on his shoulder, regardless of whether he invited it or not. "Loss may have taken the place of marriage in binding our Houses. But that is what we make our strength." She could feel her fingers tensing on the man's shoulder, an automatic response in speaking of a loss that was too fresh for them both. "House Crakehall will always be a comrade and friend to House Reyne. I want that bond to remain. It's what Lanna would have wanted." Gwynesse finished, the lump in her throat growing ever bigger at speaking her name. Such things needed to be heard in times like this.

Spoiler: Interaction

Arcanist

 

[Akio]

Hrothgar Harlaw
Lord of House Harlaw

​

When Hrothgar was called into Erich's chambers he already had some measure of expectation to come. Hrothgar perhaps spent more time around Erich and his campaigns then he had around his own father and it could be said had a familiarity with him. On top of that having some knowledge towards the planning and preparations that had been made, there was only one answer to why he would be called now. Pyke was a rather imposing and dreary castle, made of grey-black stone which seemed to give the entire castle a dark and rather intimidating feel. Though the outside could prove rather colorful in some places due to green lichen growing on the walls, nurtured by sea breeze that could war stone and metal and yet provided live for these little things growing all over the walls. The additional color hardly made the castle more welcoming, instead giving it a damp and gloomy feeling as even flame seemed to burn low here in the Storms Gods gaze.

It was little like his own home of the Ten Towers which was built specifically to counter the dampness caused by living so close to the sea and of lighter stone with more wide open space between the aftermentioned Towers which gave the castle its namesake. Even less if he were to compare it to the castles on the mainland, several of which he had seen while raiding and trading. The palaces of Essos were even more extreme. Yet it could not be said he was uncomfortable in this place. The Isles bred hard men and he had long lost any distaste for the castle. And in the end, he knew the strength of its walls was quite significant and while it didn't have the strength of the Eyrie or the fallen Casterly Rock it certainly was not an insignificant part of the strength of the Ironborn. If not for places like these they would not be what they are.

And so he quickly found himself striding through the halls of Pyke to the outer bridge leading to Erich's chambers. Anyone, whether the tralls or other Ironborn upon seeing him near immediately paid respect by either deep bows or inclining their heads to him depending on their position and pride. Hrothgar was not only a lord but was nearly as revered as Erich was especially in some of his achievements in the most recent years. Known as the Left Hand of the Reaver and one of the greatest fighters on the Isles few would show him any discourtesy less they provoke his anger. On the Isles, such insults could only be paid for in blood. Once he made it outside he strode across the rope bridge separating the main keep from the Lord tower. Only a rope bridge separated him from the cold sea but he moved without fear. How could one such as he fear death, he was not the most deeply religious man but he still held to old believes and knew if he fell only the Drowned God be waiting for him to welcome him home. Once across it was only a few rounds of steps till he was in front of the Lord of the Isles.

Erich was not a young man anymore, he had been ruling over the isles since he was a boy, but it did not diminish his strength. A powerful form a near matchless warrior in the past he still had that strength to his form, with powerful muscles and a hard frame giving him an imposing sense of power. A hard man and while Hrothgar had long since met and perhaps even surpassed him in strength he still felt a large amount of respect towards the elder man. After all, this had been the figure he strived to match for nearly all his youth.

Knowing his temperament he stayed silent through most of the exchange between father and son and naturally the death of a single thrall went unmourned by him as he took the moment to observe the two boys. Hrothgar had stood at their father's side since nearly before they were born so much like their father he had a comparative understanding of the people they were. Loren was opinionated though often gloomy and demotivated. But after all that he had a good head on his shoulders and had never left the isles completely despite some obsession with the Green Lands. Despite his somewhat lackluster attitude, he was rather capable if he wanted to do something. Urragon was Ironborn through and through and had little fear in his body. Too bad he was dumber than a box of rocks. Erich was brash often and quick to anger and action but Hrothgar would not be able to call him stupid but Urragon was a different beast altogether and while for a normal Ironborn that would be enough, he would be hard pressed to keep the Ironborn together without some level of thought.

Loren eventually stormed out which was not unusual but even if he tried to leave he might find it hard pressed as Hrothgar had set his own men to watch the harbor as he would not allow the young boy to leave this time, not without speaking to him that was. Once he was gone he turned to Urragon, less Erich lost his temper. "Get going Urragon, you have a lot to prepare for and little time to waste." He said in a gruff tone that left little room for argument as he kept his face straight till he left. After he did he felt his lips twitch in amusement and turned towards Erich as his body relaxed to a sort of casualness as he regarded Erich. "He sure is your son alright, just as opinionated and as stubborn as you can be. If only he could show that motivation all the time." He mused out loud as he crossed his arms and gestured towards the map. "Before I take my leave I would like some permission to speak on the plan." He said asking for permission rather than simply making his opinion known. Erich was proud and he knew he was more likely to listen if given deference and he was his Lord and deserved respect. He had also waited to speak until Urragon left, knowing that anything that would even perhaps be seen as questioning his notions would be unappreciated while in front of company even with their familiarity.