To the Smith, I pray for my lands and people. May your hammer build us wonders, may Sweetport Sound find prosperity in your works.

Dorin knelt at the stone altar, a pot of flowering plants on either side of him. His eyes were closed, hands resting on his thighs.

To the Crone, I pray for your light. Show me the way forward, so I do not stumble and fall again.

He would need wisdom if he was to continue in this path. What else was there to say? He needed to be able to trust himself.

To the Maiden, I pray for those I will need, give me the wit and will to sway them to my side.

If there was any hope of salvaging something from all this mess, he needed the support of the other Lords and Ladies of the Narrow Sea.

To the Warrior, I pray for the strength to never need to wield a blade again.

The forces of House Sunglass had not marched into battle at King's Landing, where King Laenor's throne was won. They had stayed on Dragonstone with the soldiers of Dorin's liege.

To the Mother, I pray for my family. Have mercy on them, keep them from the Stranger, and let my children grow up to be like their mother.

They were coming home soon, his family. His old mother, his septon and mentor, and his two daughters. Mooncrest had been kind to them, and the war was over now.

To the Father, I pray for your guidance. Let me be the father that I best can be, give me your justice and temperance and patience, all for Joanna and Rohanne.

He hadn't been there for them in recent moons. He promised himself that would change. The fighting was done, half the dragons were dead. There would be peace again.

To the Stranger, I pray for one more day. As I will tomorrow, and tomorrow, and every day after that until I am old and grey.

Dorin opened his eyes and breathed. The smell of the flowers filled his head, and he stood from the altar with a smile forming on his lips. He ran a hand through his hair and turned around, passing through the rest of the sept. It was a new building, grand and vast. Sunlight filtered through dome in the ceiling, sending a pattern of light cascading onto a pool of water. Some of the new septons and septas had taken to calling it the Sept of Daylight, and Dorin was not against the name. It did feel a bit indulgent, considering the name of his house, but it was his house's coffers that built it here on Sweetport Sound. Perhaps he deserved to indulge a bit.

Near the entrance of the sept, his sword was held hilt-up on a display stand. The sunlight that hit it lit the blade golden, a glow from within the strange, glassy material that his maester still hadn't made sense of. As he left, he took it from the stand and slid the blade into the black scabbard on his back.

The sea greeted him as he stepped outside, crashing against the long beach that stretched to the port. A ship was following the coast of the island, a small thing flying no sigil on its sail. A trading vessel... Laurei would be able to tell him what port it was built at just by the look of it. She was back at the manor, no doubt expecting him soon. She had found some game from Lys—or perhaps it was Volantis—that she had insisted upon teaching him. It was a bit of a jumble to Dorin, all the wooden pieces representing elephants and dragons, and so far she had been roundly beating him each time they played. Still, it was fun. If they had found it at Dragonstone a moon ago, perhaps the wait wouldn't have been so tortuous.

It hadn't been entirely a waste, of course. He hoped the war-time friendships he had made with the other houses on the Narrow Sea would continue. Some had promised to visit Sweetport Sound, or invite House Sunglass to their lands. Chances to turn those friendships into alliances, perhaps even a league, like Maelor Targaryen had wanted. A Sunglass could hope, at least.

________________________________________________________

Dorin held his wife's hand tightly as the ship approached the docks they stood on. The gangplank dropped, and out came septon Cassandor, the old man rubbing the wisps of hair on his chin as he stepped onto the docks. Dorin met him with an embrace.

"My friend, how was the trip?" Dorin asked warmly.

Cassandor gave a tired smile. "Long."

The noise of an excited child snapped away Dorin's attention before he could respond. With a nod to the septon, he turned back to the ship's plank where Joanna was being led carefully onto the docks. As soon as she could, she sprinted straight into him.

"Seven above!" Dorin laughed. "Tell me, what was the Vale like?" He grabbed her hand before she could run a circle around him.

"There were hawks, father! Everyone had one, they use them to hunt! One knight let me feed his *jurr-*falcon! Can I have a falcon, father? Please!" The young girl looked up at him brightly.

"We'll have to see about—" Joanna cut him off before he could finish.

"There were also these lady knights! Cavaliers! They said most of them were away, but Septon let me talk to the ones that were there! They were so tall, and they had swords just like everyone else!"

"I'm sure they were incredible, dear." He glanced over at Laurei. "You should tell us all about them, but go say hello to your mother, first."

Joanna was gone from him in an instant, wrapped in Laurei's arms. For a moment, he let himself turn back to Cassandor.

"Cavaliers, hm?"

Cassandor nodded.

"Well, perhaps there's enough in the coffers to hire a falconer for the household... and, I suppose, a master-at-arms," he said with a smile. For a moment, he remembered Sweetport Sound's last master-at-arms. That old man had died in the Conquest... but no, no use dwelling on such things. His family was here, and House Sunglass had a future to take care of.

Men would come to speak cautionary tales of the repeated follies of House Grafton in the years to come after Rhaenys' defeat at King's Landing in the twenty-fifth year following her husband's conquest of the realm. While it had begun to dwindle ever since Aegon had established that city of his at the estuary of the Blackwater, the death of the supposedly sage Lord Mathos and then his successor, the considerably bolder and more foolish Lord Marq. Having fought for the victor and thus in a way proven his loyalty to the realm, Marq Grafton had been permitted to rule in Gulltown with Ser Jonos Arryn acting as a sort of hand to him, though in truth much of the power was rested upon the falcon instead of the beacon.

With much of Gulltown's populace dead from siege and the sword, the already diminishing amounts of trade flowing in from abroad had all but vanished, only made more rapid by the sudden deaths of both of the Grafton siblings within three years of the war, with Marq dying of an abundance of strongwine and Maris being lost at sea somewhere east of Norvos during a great storm. With only minor cousins to claim the title, the titles, lands and incomes of House Grafton reverted to the Crown and were granted to the senior branch of House Shett as they had been before the Andals had arrived in the Vale, though Gulltown was no longer the great fief that they had once been.

The reasons for why Lord Mathos Grafton had declared so hastily for King Aenar, and why his heir had betrayed their cause so easily would be the subject of debate among some maesters dabbling in history over the years, yet few outside of the Citadel truly cared.

Many forgot that, despite House Tyrell’s “recent” seizure of Highgarden, the rulers of the Reach could trace their lineage back to Garth Greenhand, or at least one of his daughters. And yet, they were content to serve as stewards, essentially ruling the Reach while the Gardener kings drank and feasted and hunted.

It was a skill, truly, to rule without the pomp and circumstance. To hold sway over an entire kingdom, without wearing a crown. Yet, as ever is the case, history abhors peace and quiet. When the dragons landed at the mouth of the Blackwater, when they destroyed Harrenhal and made the Storm Kings bow, perhaps House Tyrell sensed an opportunity. The whisperers would say Harlan Tyrell had, through guile, convinced King Mern to ride out, to die in battle against the Conqueror and his sisters. It had all been a gamble, a chance to seize power while the Gardeners had nobly lost their lives upon the field of glory.

Utter tripe. Harlan was not a gambler more so than the High Septon was the voice of Red R’hllor. Any who were present could have testified that none argued more against open combat against the Targaeryens than the steward of Highgarden, that Harlan had tried his best to reign in the king’s worst impulses. Yet, none would testify, for none stayed behind to heed his warnings, not even his own brother.

Yet, when the largest army in Westerosi history was smashed, when Talbert Tyrell limped back home, and Harlan was rewarded with the Paramountcy of the Reach, those naysayers were either dead, cowed into silence, or silently fuming.

Harlan was a builder, an investor. He did not take stock into gambits or long odds. When he backed Aenar and Rhaenys, all of the information available had suggested that their combined might would be enough to defy Visenya, to win the crown.

Gareth, perhaps, could have told him the truth. Rhaenys was an idler, prone to fits of rage and fury at the slightest provocation, yet could not be bothered to come up with strategies of her own, convinced that her position was utterly secure. Aenar, by contrast, was full of energy and vigor, wielding Blackfyre like it was his birthright. And yet, by the time he took control from his mother, it was too late.

Many would wonder why House Tyrell had only permitted House Meadows from participating in the Brothers’ War, as the maesters were wont to call it. The whisperers would argue that House Tyrell had betrayed its oath to King Aenar, that they were turncloaks, dishonorable.

They were only partially correct. True, Harlan would have liked to support Aenar militarily, but fortunes are not made on preferences. When Talbert at last returned at the head of the unharmed Reach force (although the issue of the arson committed against the Redwyne fleet would sour relations betwixt Lannisport and Highgarden for ages to come), Harlan at last received a full accounting of the interactions.

The choice, while preferable, had become obvious. The rumor began that storms had delayed the Reach armies return, that their forces could not arrive in time to support Aenar and his mother, that the Reach would serve as a bastion for his cause should the battle go well.

Harlan knew it would not. The numbers were telling, both of troops and of dragons. Aenar could not win. Rhaenys’ death was an utter tragedy, and represented a true paradigm shift. Aelor Belaerys’ death was a second earthquake, the loss of status of the Riverlands an incredible opportunity.

Gareth opened the gates for the new, or rather true, king to enter. He had secured the false king Aenar, and was rewarded with his life and the preservation of his title as master of whispers, despite the objections of the Dowager Queen, Visenya. His marriage to one of Lord Belaerys’ daughters was even confirmed, though both Harlan and Gareth knew it was to preserve House Belaerys’ position following the loss of their dragon rather than to affirm some alliance.

Gareth continued to serve, even when the rogue Lord Confessor helped Aenar escape his prison, alongside the still alive Gregor Lannister. He continued to watch, even as they fled to Essos, founded a mercenary band, waiting for them to attempt the crossing of the Narrow Sea.

Harlan, by contrast, used the intervening years to continue to bolster the Reach’s economic power. With much of the realm’s military forces devastated, and many smallfolk levies not returning home, he ensured that Westeros would rebuild and prosper with careful planning, investments, and fair dealings.

All backed by Tyrell gold and integrity. Harlan never sought higher office or power, though he freely gave advice to the master of coin and king whenever they asked it. He was a steward until the bitter end, dying at the age of eighty and three, hunched over the latest reports of grain harvests in the Grassy Vale.

Gareth succeeded him, and resigned as master of whispers. When asked who he would recommend as his replacement, he suggested his own son, Ser Valarr Tyrell, known by many as the Silver Rose for the streaks of pale hair throughout his otherwise brown mane. The Silver Rose would prove diligent at his office, just as his father was, watching the death of Gregor Lannister and the rise of the Red Prince with trepidation and preparation.

And thus did House Tyrell continue to spread its power. Not through overt means, or loud declarations, not through ostentatious gestures or grand displays.

But through diligence, quiet determination, and the patience to deal with never ending whispers, doubters and detractors.

The sun might shine hotter, the winds may yet blow, and the rain might not fall, but House Tyrell would continue growing strong.

26 AC

Gregor Lannister peered at his reflection in the water and marveled at how well the goldsmiths in Tyrosh had done at giving him his prosthetic eye. There was incredibly intricate details in it, and this would be a truly menacing item to use to his advantage in the years to come.

It was almost enough to make him forget the sound his real eye had made when it sizzled and popped inside his head when Vhagar unleashed her flames down upon his head.

“They’re here, Lord Gregor.” a knight said, gesturing towards the water further down the coast. “Shall we go and meet them?”

“Yes.” Gregor said, rising from the puddle’s edge. “Yes we shall.”

A Lannister galley was anchored off the coast, and the rowboat they took ashore was properly gilded as were most things in their house. Tybolt had a grim expression on his face as he stood at the front of the boat, only brightening slightly upon seeing his father.

“I heard you were dead.” his son said, embracing him as he leapt off the boat. “They couldn’t find your body after the battle, and Meraxes’ death throes threw everything into chaos. When word reached me you were in Tyrosh…”

“Do you have the coin?” Gregor snapped, curtly.

Tybolt was startled, but gestured to a chest the men were currently hauling.

“I was able to take half of it.” he said. “And most of the men as well. It’s chaos over there. Lannisport wants nothing to do with us now, and I hear that Jason isn’t dead after all. What is the plan?”

“I believe *I* will be in charge of that.” came a drunken voice, sauntering over to them.

Aenar Targaryen appeared, flanked by a Tyroshi sellsword he’d taken a liking to and made a member of his Kingsguard. Despite all that had happened to him, he retained the Targaryen arrogance that only members of their accursed bloodline were capable of.

“Well done on getting the gold, Lannister.” the king said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Now we get enough scorpions to blot out the sun, and sail right back across the Narrow Sea. I hear that some of Baratheon’s forces survived their stormy encounter. Let’s pick them up too and take my throne ba-”

He never saw Gregor’s fist coming.

As the king collapsed into the water, the Kingsguard made for his sword, but took a look at Tybolt’s withering gaze and thought better of it. This seemed like a private matter between the king and his hand.

“You fool.” Gregor hissed, holding the king thrashing in the shallows as he tried to get air. “I went west to depose my nephew, while you and your bitch of a mother sat in the Red Keep and lost us the allies we already had!”

“When I came back to serve you, as Visenya Targaryen made it clear I was a dead man walking, you stayed in the Red Keep as your soldiers burned. When I lost my eye and the battle was a forlorn hope, I came and rescued you. And despite all of this, you think you can command *me*?”

“Let me tell you something, little boy. Your time as a force to be reckoned with is over.” he snarled. “I lost everything because of you and your family. By blood and by blade I shall take it back piece by piece. But we will do this my way. You will never take anything from me again. Do I make myself clear? You answer to me now, Your Grace.”

The thrashing became less intense, and Gregor released his grip so that the king could splutter in the water and be seen as the powerless fool he was for all present.

“And now that this is all settled…” he said, brushing the sand off of his tunic as the former Lord of Casterly Rock straightened back up. “I have a great deal of work to do.”

***

It was fucking freezing up here.

Lancel Lannister almost wished he were dead. He was sure the Seven Hells would be warmer than this, at least.

But no, here he was at the end of the world, a prisoner in all but name. How had it all gone so very wrong?

Well he knew how it did in the abstract sense. His traitorous uncle had made cause with his traitorous distant relation to open Lannisport and then the Rock. He’d been ripped out of his bed and made to spend moons worth of time in the dungeon. Unpleasant, but he’d been confident that it would all be sorted out, as he’d been very open about his support for Visenya Targaryen.

Then he’d heard that his uncle had gone back to Rhaenys and had died in the final battle! Once again, he couldn’t help but win. The Greatest Lannister of All Time did it again! What had his actual crime been? Imprisoning a bitch that spat on him? All legal. Being a cunt? Nothing that couldn’t be solved with a generous donation to the new king.

But then that ungrateful new king had sent him to the Wall without even so much as a warning! He’d been hoping for a desperate Trial by Combat, but they’d been too smart for that. He was shipped off to Eastwatch faster than he could blink, and now found himself surrounded by these stupid, ignorant commoners that wore the same shade of black he did.

“Many of you were criminals before you came to the Watch.” some lordling in fancy black said from a dias. Was it a Stark? Maybe. He was in the North after all. But whomever they were, it was all drivel that he would figure out another time. He was must more interested in the man next to him that the gods had clearly forgotten about shortly after his birth.

“Gonna guard the realms!” he said cheerily, as the Lord Commander finished his speech.

“I’m sure you are, dumbass.” Lancel muttered, rising to his feet.

“Wha?”

“I said I’m glad to be your friend.”

His new ‘friend’ dawdled off, and had to be guided back to where the rest of them were receiving their assignments from the maester at Castle Black.

“Ah, there you are.” the old man said, peering at the sheet in front of him. “Brother Lancel?”

“Aye.” Lancel said, his eyes narrowing in distrust.

“Bright boy. All your instructors thought so. You’ll be going to the Stewards.”

“Of course, maester.” he said with a mock bow. “And my first task?”

“Report to Fern in the armory.” the old man replied. “He can’t polish the armor like he used to in his old age.”

As the former Lord Paramount of the West slowly shuffled his way over to the armory, all he could think about was whether he’d feel pain if he jumped off the Wall.

***

It seemed as though the Wolf got to do the bloody business the king couldn’t be seen doing.

Jason Lannister had languished in the Dark Cells for weeks now, going over the fight in his head. The Bronze Bull was in an entirely different realm of prowess compared to people like himself. He’d been grateful for the strength he naturally possessed, it made the imprisonment he suffered less painful, but no less humiliating.

“Jason Lannister, kneel.” the Lord of Winterfell said, the Hand of the King pin gleaming brightly on his chest.

Jason did so. He was a beaten man, and was going to accept his punishment with honor.

Ice was being drawn. Nothing on earth made the sound that Valyrian Steel did as it left its sheathe. At least he was being killed in private, without the public screaming for his head. He just hoped that Tybolt was still alive to carry on the family name.

The blade descended, and clove right through the chains that bound Jason to the floor, leaving him free to fully move about for the first time since his imprisonment.

“Jason Lannister.” Stark intoned. “Upon the order of King Laenor of the House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I hereby pardon you of your crimes and install upon you the title of Lord Paramount of the West.”

He wasn’t sure if he’d heard him correctly. Pardoned? The new Lord Paramount? Was this all just a hallucination? A cruel trick his mind played on him for his last hours of thought?

“I… I’m a traitor.” he croaked out, voice hoarse from a lack of water. “What did I ever do to deserve this?”

“Nothing.” Stark said, his eyes containing the promise of a winter without end. “You have done nothing. You are a traitor twice over. Your father is even worse, and your brother has stolen half your gold. And that means that His Grace’s mercy will have even more weight to it.”

“And just like that? I get control of the West?”

“Well, there shall be a council to help you rule and prevent further rebellion.” Alaric Stark said, the faintest hint of a chuckle in his tone. “I would not recommend defying their collective will, or the king’s.”

Guards were signaled to come forward, and placed Brightroar at his feet, freshly cleaned and ready for further use. Next to it, was a fresh tunic and a ring with the Lannister sigil. Most important though, was a piece of paper that indicated he truly was the Lord Paramount by the will of King Laenor.

“I don’t know what to say.” he eventually replied.

Alaric Stark didn’t even bother to look at him, merely turned away and left a single torch behind for Jason to make his own way out.

“You don’t say anything.” the Hand advised. “You simply earn this.”

And as the new Lord Paramount of the Westerlands knelt in the muck in the midst of the Black Cells, he made a solemn vow before the old gods and the new that he would. Even if it took him the rest of his life.

6th Moon, 26 AC.

On the dawn of the final day of the moon when the light was thinnest, the rays of the crowning sun sent shards of silver across the fields before King's Landing. The city loomed in the distance, the great towers Orys erected watching them from miles away. No doubt somewhere there, the king sat, he watched, Aenar I Targaryen was not on the field, but he was watching, all knew that. For Laenor I Targaryen did the same.

And in the fields, where tens of thousands mustered, there were hundreds of colourful banners representing hundreds of houses. Furthest from the city, where three dragons loomed, were banners painted with silver and blue, the sigil of Laenor Targaryen. Among them, the Starks and the Boltons and the Dustins and every other Northern lord besides them... all except for the Manderlys. Then there were the Riverlords, many suspected they would not have rallied at all, to either side. But even so, they came under house Belaerys. And finally, were the proud and stout banners of house Arryn, and not a single banner of the Vale was missing.

Across the field, the assembled banners of the Crownlands, those who were not Riverlords, nor of Duskendale. Beyond them, the rising sun of Dorne, absent the Daynes, absent the Yronwoods. But none were so patchy in number as the Westerlands, where all but the Leffords and the Westerlings and the Marbrands were waiting, grimly and glisteningly under the banners of the violet dragon, led only by one such beast, the biggest though.

No parley was offered, none was asked for, for both sides were headed by a king who claimed the throne of the conqueror.

And so, battle was launched and over a hundred thousand men and women clashed in the fields of green. The battle might have been clearly favouring one side, but all knew that it would be a horribly bloody affair, but the first flanks to meet were those under Samwell Stackhouse for Aenar and Baelor Belaerys for Laenor. slowly they shuffled to face each other. The mass of levies from the Riverlands crashing against the few Reach levies present, supported in large by the forces of the Crownlands. Spears splintered against shields and axes hacked at armour, the lines holding strong and firm, and stuck as such for what was to be hours as reserves were funneled in. And for a moment, it seemed as if there would be a decisive shift as the lines shifted for a time, small bands of knights piercing flanks and breaking for the command tents. The best fighters on both sides had made for the best warriors they could spy, and Gerold Sadlyn found Baelor Belaerys, capturing the commander. While on the other side Robyn Umber and her Bear Little Mormont captured the slayer of falcons, Strong Willow. and as Baelor was taken from his command post in a daring raid, all might have seemed lost on the right flank of Laenor Targaryen, if not for a nameless knight of an unknown house in ill-fitting armour. That strange figure took command and in the chaos none questioned, and so, Baelor's plans continued to be called forth. As more skirmishes continued, Robyn Umber, the enormous Skinchanger and her bear captured Sadlyn and later freed Belaerys and the right continued in Lae's favour.

In the Centre, Gregor Lannister led Aenar's men against Lyn Egen. It was here that the battle was decided by dragons and duels. For the lord commander Ned Bracken came for the head of Lyn Egen. He was instead found by Halys Dustin, and the Northman found him, and together they fought for a time, but it was a quick time, and it was a victory for the Bracken, who, spurned on by success sought the commander again. an Egen he found - Marsella - and together, a mirror of their first duel only half a year ago, they fought until the lady of Mooncrest won, and she accepted the surrender of the lord commander. However, it was Godric Royce who was sent for the heads of all others, and he captured Jason Lannister with relative ease. But in the waning moments of the fight, curtained by the flames of dragons as they incinerated the tents of Gregor Lannister's command post, Gregor found Patrek Staunton, and the two fought until the flames died out and the battle faded. As the centre too fell to Laenor, none knew the truth of who won, but neither men were dead. The most important thing however, was the fall of Gregor Lannister, but none found his corpse.

The Left flanks were however nothing so noble or legendary. For in the opening moments, a break opened in the lines of Dandon Meadows, shattered apart by Courtnay Arryn and from that point on pressed hard. Among the lines, filled with men of the Vale, a chant was heard for every life taken, for every man who faltered before them. For Ronnel. No grand duels took place, for the majority of the best warriors, men from house Meadows, were dead or captured.

And all the while, in the skies, dragons scorched the land.

And painted the skies in red were two great beasts, Veraxes and Meraxes. Two of the largest creatures alive fought, and Veraxes was mauled. The great, fat dragon was killed and with it, Aelor Belaerys. As the battle ended, a second dragon fell from the sky as Vhagar and Quicksilver together killed Meraxes.

As the day came to an end, and Aenar's forces routed or surrendered, bodies were counted and horror was thick in the air. Seventy thousand dead, the lion's share among Aenar's men.

But Laenor was not slow, they came upon the city, and their army marched them inside. The red keep was seized, but Aenar was not found, nor his dragon. But Meraxes and Rhaenys were dead. Gregor Lannister missing, their army broken... the violets were beaten and the war in one great burst of violence, came to an end. And in the aftermath, Laenor Targaryen sat the throne.

And as night came, and the counts of dead and missing were reported, prisoners stored aplenty, levies dispersed, the king, now victorious was left in their new room, guarded by their kingsguard and they wept. For they had won... but they had never wanted a crown... not if it came at the price of seventy-thousand lives.

​

​

He did not wear the cloak of his brethren as he rode west. With all the mud that soaked him he looked more a robber knight than anything else. The people on the road were frightened of the war and gave him a wide berth. For not the septon that rode beside him he was alone. It had been some years since that had happened. Protecting the prince and before that his kin.

They had rode hard these last weeks, from Duskendale where the summer queen denied them a siege. He would take no part in slothfulness. War was about how fast one could kill their enemy. And yet everything was going so slowly. The king, his allies. Even his own uncle. The man who would bring vengeance on Blackwood instead rode with them, the bastard. The time was nigh. And yet.

Ned's stallion was near the end of it as he crested the hill and saw the city. How long had it been since he'd seen Lannisport? He might've still been a squire then. Now he was Lord Commander. One of them, at least.

They had dismounted their steeds on the hill and walked them the rest of the way. He would seek out his kin here.

Aaron was nervous, something which he had not been for a long time. He had mastered the art of lordship of Griffin's Roost. Ten years of being a lord will do that to a man. His head was abuzz with conflict, to accept marriage or to decline.

He had been the oldest, he had plenty of sisters and brothers, and he had expected that he could marry for love. But it had been years, and he had yet to find someone he could truly connect with. The fact that he was known as "The Dark Griffin" did not help matters. Potential brides were not exactly eager to ask for his hand, nor to interact with him.

Interaction with potential brides had been difficult anyway, Aaron had not left Griffin's Roost for some time, preferring to spend his time hunting, climbing, painting, or discussing life with his youngest brother Koryn.

He had written the letter for Kyra and had dispatched 50 of his men from Storm's End with the message, and clear instructions to escort her back to Storm's End. After doing so he had changed into the clothes he currently wore and had given himself a pep talk.

Now here he was, in front of Ravella Wylde's quarters. The guards had let him through, knowing about their lady's plans for the evening. He had opted to wear formal attire, not wanting to give off the wrong impression, he decided not to wear anything casual. Nor did he wish to show up in full armour, as he did not want to come over as aggressive.

"Father, Mother, Gods protect me." He knocked on her door. "Lady Ravella? It's Lord Connington, here to see you."

Continuing off of the events of a previous thread here - the events are pasted below, and a further summary is therafter.

Standing at the entrance to the cavern, Alyn pondered how many smallfolk had ventured into these caverns. He was not privy to the secrets the Targaryens had kept, but his family's treasures did afford him the histories of Old Valyria. Tales of Valyrians and the transformation of a culture of farmers to kings with the taming of dragons.

He was a fanatic for geography. More learned than most would expect of someone who had traveled as a squire to a tourney knight. He wondered how deep the caverns went. He wondered if there had been any Targaryens who had ordered the mapping of them. How had time delivered change? He knew of wyrms - were dragons changing the very island itself?

Alyn had grown up with the stories of Old Valyria paired with the occasional sighting of a dragon overhead. Claw Isle was a more distant island within the Crownlands, but he always took pride in heritage.

Still, his family were essentially the second-sons of the Crownlands. Second to the always favored Velaryons. And that left him with an almost insatiable curiosity. And now that he was an adult, it allowed him the chance to explore it.

So he took his first steps into a black chasm. He figured he might have to climb, and checked some of his belongings - a sword, a dagger, rope, mead, a satchel, a torch, and flint to start it.

Perhaps he was a fool to have tried this, he thought. He knew these were the lairs of dragons, but he also knew that smallfolk would grow curious and that there were likely dozens of paths. Or perhaps he was dreadfully mistaken.

He ventured knowing not what he would find. Ideally, something he could bring home or ask the Maesters about. If he found something like a Valyrian steel dagger, would the Targaryens demand it of him he wondered?

Then there was the heat. Growing heat. He wondered about the volcanoes. Until he eventually heard it.

It stopped him dead in his tracks. He tried doing a mental tally of what possible dragons could be here. Hatchlings. Quicksilver. He couldn't keep track, but his feet took him further. In silent flight towards the heat and sounds.

His mouth was agape upon entering the main chamber. His heart pounding. He was even afraid to gulp. He came in expecting to find bones and sift through them with the idea that he might find some maps of the caverns. Or in his wildest imaginations, a dragon egg.

He knew enough to recognize Balerion the Black Dread. His eyes visualized the creation of the Iron Throne. He was in the presence of not just a king-maker, but a kingdom-maker.

This was the dragon that killed his uncle, Maelor Targaryen. The beast that conquered kingdoms. Ended wars. Made history.

With tears filling his eyes, he moved forward. He visualized his sister Iliyana, weeping. His father shaking his head. The two of them at his grave. In clear contrast, he saw his family being welcomed into the fold of the royal family. In truer fashion than any. The first Celtigar dragonrider.

And that did it. He would try to climb Balerion, bind himself to some area of his scales with rope, and speak in the Valyrian tongue. It was all he could do. A second-son seeking to prove everything.

He had done it, he thought. Climbing the sleeping beast and tying some of the rope to hold onto. Then, shouting in Valyrian, "Balerion. I bid you, wake!", he felt the dragon stir.

Its eyes opened, and head turned toward him. There was a moment of hesitation, as if it were wondering what to do. Then, the breathed a fireball at him. He was a warrior, but instincts did not kick in. The desire for survival was there, but it was mostly dumb luck what happened next. He took a step back, and his foot tripped up on one of the scales of Balerion's thick hide. Then he was falling.

A distant memory emerged. He was a boy in one of Claw Isle's towns, atop a roof. 8 years old, and watching from a household roof as some of the house knights went to recruit in town, until the tiles underneath him gave in, and he went sliding back. It wasn't his life flashing before his eyes, but that same trauma that had yielded him falling into a bale of hay was now meeting a different end.

Only, he didn't die. He fell some ten feet after clawing his way at the scales before finally sliding off, landing fine. A moment later however, Balerion breathed another jet of fire around the cave, and his fear quickly reignited. He took a few steps to run and he tripped on a half-eaten corpse of a cow and fell into it, one of the ribs bitten off had a jagged edge and it sliced into his thigh. His hands shot to clench at his bloodied leg, but he remained within the corpse of the cow, concealed. He didn't try and get up, and it didn't seem like Balerion cared to go searching.

Eventually, the dragon returned to slumber. He waited hours, then slinked away, making note of his way into this cavern. It was a grueling walk back to the castle. He did his best to clean himself up, he didn't know what the Targaryens would think of this, had they any idea.

Did he ride Balerion? He sat on the dragon, he supposed. Some might claim to have ridden him, from that. But no, that would be a fool's opinion.

Eventually he went back to Dragonstone and settled himself into his previous quarters, before looking for his brother, the heir, Dylan. He had a story to tell, and his brother would be the only one he'd share it with. Replaying the events in his mind, it hinged on Balerion's moment of hesitation. When they locked eyes. Did it mean anything?

u/T_Towers

#3th Moon of 26 AC

DUSKENDALE

From the red marble tops of Duskendale and from the white walled manors of the city, citizens and passerbys alike could gain full access to a most peculiar view. For an entire moon now from a nearby forest the sight of a dragon flying in and out covers the area - its shadow bringing terror to the fishing villages which cover the coast and leading the lamb farmers to scatter in all directions. Yet besides the terror of sight caused by the dragon, no fire has ripped through the area and no blood has been spilled. Yet. Instead the Targaryen banners flutter silently, its men camped amidst the trees and shrubbery of Stokeworth Forest. Their chatter, cheers and jeers sharply cut through the mornings and evenings but little action has taken place - strangest of all Queen Rhaenys has yet to make an appearance. Her men and her beast fixate their eyes upon Duskendale, but the expected siege has yet to materialize - which has given Duskendale much needed time. Time which mayhaps has been wasted.

During the moon, the sound of boots trudging along cobbled roads and squishing through mud have been followed by the banners of the Darklyns fluttering forth. And soon these very same banners took up their posts on the walls of the city, their captains shocked at the fact they marched and hadn't been opposed.

From those very same walls a certain Catelyn Darklyn had been observing, her eyes filled with worry at first. Yet this worry ultimately transformed into delight as she came to realize that no attack was coming - and she felt a safety of sorts wash over her. An aura of security and self confidence that was often developed by those who'd bested harsh odds once.

The entire affair had a strange start - and became even stranger still. Queen Rhaenys and her army kept their positions - even as the Duskendalers got to work in erecting two scorpions, weapons intended solely for the decapitation of the Targaryen dragons and their egotistical princes.

Yet inside the walls of Duskendale, further machinations were emerging. Lady Darklyn had just bore witness to the destruction of a dynasty - she could not imagine that the Targaryens would ever make a full recovery. Stagnant in a conflict of non moving pieces, the realm was slowly simmering away towards ultimate disintegration. From inside her walls, eager manor lords and merchant masters began to gather in council with Lady Catelyn. Some murmured that she ought to continue her current position - armed neutrality until the conflict is over.

Yet her minor nobles, eager to gain her wandering ear, began to whisper to her how the halt of Rhaenys and her army was a sign of providence that she had godly protection. And they weren't the only ones. The borough citizens and their holy men began to believe that Queen Rhaenys had been halted by the influence of The Seven Who Are One, who had spared Duskendale because the city had a holy destiny, and Catelyn was its anointed holy leader.

Such ramblings are the delusions of men, but in the absence of power and authority the minds of mortals can often wander into surprising places.

And Catelyn’s mind, already prone to the delusions of the supernatural and to wandering throughout her days, caves in.

The Targaryens were losing The Seven Kingdoms - clearly it was time to plan ahead and accordingly for a future where their short empire would collapse in on itself. So Catelyn Darklyn sends forth the first of many declarations which will undoubtedly follow her.

The Writ of Catelyn Darklyn, Lady of Duskendale, Lady Protector of the Dusklands and Mistress of Blackwater Bay

The Targaryens are collapsing, their armies scatter in confusion and their banners leave them day by day. Is it surprising? Even with their dragons, they have failed to solidify the Crownlands and they've fled in all directions. The war has become a slog of wait and doubt - and one I intend to defend the people of the Dusklands from.

Duskendale has escaped destruction at the hands of Queen Rhaenys - whose armies have neither the heart nor will to attempt an assault on our impenetrable walls. From all around the Dusklands, the common folk will see the apparent blessings that The Seven Who Are One granted us. They've crushed the spirit of the queen and protected us from attack.

And yet Queen Visenya has also failed to act, her armies are rumored at Maidenpool and yet she is nowhere to be seen. How are we to call her or her son monarchs of these lands if they fail to even make a hint of concern for the defense of the people of the area.

Yet I, Catelyn Darklyn, have shown my prowess through my patience and steel. Who is better financed, better protected and with scorpions? All lords of the Dusklands; from the Stokeworths, to the Rosbys and any who wish to join us…the time has come to join me in Duskendale.

The Targaryens are about to collapse, we must plan ahead for a future without them. They've failed to defend Aegon’s legacy. I shall ensure the legacy of the Dusklands though. Know that.

I, Catelyn Darklyn, declare myself the only rightful protector of the Dusklands through my bloodline and hereby declare that from this day forth, in the absence of the Targaryens, the time has come to forge a new realm - a realm of Duskendalers - in the days of the Dragon's Twilight.

Signed, Catelyn Darklyn

From the gates of Duskendale the riders quickly raced forth, carrying satchels upon satchels of their lady’s word across the Crownlands. Two women had failed to cement their hold on the realm. One woman was intent on cementing a hold on a realm. It would be a smaller realm yes, but her realm nonetheless. In the absence of the Targaryens and in the twilight of their days, Catelyn Darklyn intends to declare herself a Dusk Queen.

Trigger warning: Violence, gore, childhood trauma, loss of a parent.

15 AC: The Kingswood

The Kingswood was abuzz with activity. Lords and ladies from all over the realm had come to join the Royal hunt. Among them was a strange-looking pair. An older man, in his mid-forties, stood silently observing the whole scene before him. He was tall and broad, with fiery red hair and a beard. Next to him stood a smiling teenage boy, with hair black as night.

It would be a surprise to many to hear this pair was father and son just from the physical differences, however, those doubts would quickly be swept away if they for a moment watched their bond. It was a bond which could only be formed through years of love, guidance, and kindness.

Raymund Connington was a brave, kind, and honourable man. Those who knew him called him the Laughing Griffin, as he was jovial, good to his people, and gregarious. Aaron, his raven-haired son, was called the smiling griffin. An affectionate name that was given to him and his brothers by the smallfolk of Griffin's Roost.

"You see Aaron, those in power should always be fair to the ones they rule," Raymund spoke to his son, a small smile on his face. "As lords and ladies of the realm, we have a responsibility to govern to our best ability, and to be honourable." Raymund looked at his son, who looked up to him with big eyes, and a smile on his face. "I understand Father."

Raymund smiled and tussled his son's hair, he kneeled next to him. "And always remember, Aaron. It is a lord's duty to defend his people, therefore, you must be brave and serve as an example to your men and the smallfolk under your rule."

Aaron nodded. "Will we be joining the hunt today Father?" He said with childlike enthusiasm. Raymund chuckled and nodded. "We will, just be careful, your mother will kill me if I deliver you back home, bloodied." Aaron nodded eagerly.

"Father, why did you not take Jason with us? Or Coren?" His father looked at him for a moment. "You are my heir, Aaron. You will be lord one day, and what better way to teach you how to be one, than to take you to the largest gathering of lords and ladies in the realm." Raymund looked around. "Observe them, Aaron. Learn from them, and try to make friends with them, someday this might help you."

Aaron nodded and looked at his father for a moment. "Are all lords brave, honourable and kind?" Raymund shook his head. "No they are not, be careful of them Aaron, some only care about power, some are greedy, and some are cruel."

Aaron turned his head as he heard some shouting coming from further in the crowd. He wondered what the excitement was, but before he could get a chance to investigate, his father put his hand on his shoulder. "Aaron, remember. Do not be like those lords. Be brave, be fair, be honora-"

A scream pierced the air, soon followed by shouts and more screams. Men emerged from the tree line, and a rider on a horse was struck from it by an arrow. Raymund grabbed his son and shoved him behind him as he drew his sword. "Aaron! Stay behind me! Draw your sword!" Aaron did as his father commanded.

The first man was cut down immediately as he charged for Raymund. He fell upon the ground, his head following soon after. Then a second, then a third. All fell before his father. Aaron watched with amazement, as his father made short work of the monsters that had emerged. As he looked around he saw death, carnage, destruction.

His father screamed in pain, an arrow had pierced his leg. He fell to one knee, another monster came for him, Aaron jumped in front of his father and stuck his sword in his belly. He fell to the ground, an awful bubbling sound emerging from his mouth as blood poured from him.

Raymund rose slowly only to be struck by another arrow, this time it hit his shoulder. A second monster came from behind, Aaron turned around to strike but was too late. A hot pain ran across his chest, and he fell on his back.

He looked up, fighting through the pain to stand, he could only watch as the monster disembowelled his father. He saw his guts fall from his belly, he stared in horror at his father. His father looked at his son, his eyes filled with sadness, then through the pain, he smiled at him, and then his head was gone from his shoulders.

Aaron screamed, he rushed the monster and stabbed it in the groin, he kept stabbing it over and over again, and the monster groaned and screamed in agony. He cut its throat, and then a pair of monsters rushed at him, they fell to a knight.

The knight grabbed the young boy, still screaming and cursing and dragged him to safety. He looked at Aaron for a moment and opened his mouth to talk but only screams came from it.

25 AC: Storm's End

His bed was soaked in sweat. He poured himself a glass of wine and stood upon the balcony of his quarters. Cold green eyes stared across the moonlit bay. "I will make you proud Father...Mother...I will show them how a real lord acts."

Rain House, Grand Hall - Open

The unofficial spymaster of House Wylde and nephew of Lord Jon, Alesander spent his days trading secrets between toasts, hunts, and bedsheets. With a generally pleasant disposition and little true responsibility around Rain House, Ales spent his time filling in the gaps his kin had in their work. Sometimes he would oversee a shipment of grain; other times he'd be sent to convince an angry bannerman that their taxes were fair.

Of all his ventures, however, his brothel in King’s Landing was the most lucrative. He kept his hands clean publicly, with most of the smallfolk and more pious lords believing it could belong to any number of his lowborn associates. Those aware of his ownership were almost always patrons themselves, a fact Ales had used to leverage all manner of gossip, blackmail, and blossoming romance.

With the war, he was sure his recent visit to the capital would be his last, at least until only one king wore a crown. He still remembered the dragons grappling in the sky, claws ripping and teeth gnashing. Despite the awe, there was a banal nature to their dance. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but they seemed like two hounds taking any inch of flesh they could latch onto first, not the magnificent keepers of the Valyrian Freehold he’d grown up listening to stories about. He wondered if either creature knew what the Iron Throne even was, or if the chunks they tore from each other were merely their form of sport.

The thought ran from his mind as he crossed the threshold into the great hall, joining those who had already congregated. He took his place next to Aelinor, with Tristan on the other side, and then Lord Jon. The table held an assortment of refreshments and light food options, such as lemon cakes, cheeses, various fruits, and skewered lamb with a honey and rum glaze.

“My lords, I would not divide our lands for any castle or title,” he began. “But the wound in our kingdom must be healed. If a vote is desired, we will have one. If any man desires the Paramountcy, then they should speak, and we will hear. If the lords’ consensus is a bloody melee, then it will be had.”

“A worthy ruler for Storm’s End will be found, one we can all accept and welcome. When the dragon's war is settled I will ensure you rise up as Masters of Coin and Law. Your sons will be Kingsguards and your daughters handmaids, and my breath will be spent advocating for marriages in your favor. Our lands will prosper and your men won't be called to war unless their lives are paid for thrice over. Gone are the days of serving the crown only to watch favor be given to the less faithful. If neither King will treat fair then we will claim what it ours by our own hand."

“Before this moon’s end, the Gods must witness proper oaths of fealty,” he said. “If it would be my house, then rise and have them now. If not, then the one who would rule should make their case. When Rhaenys made her broken promises, she also named me Paramount in her own written hand. I realize now it wasn't worth its cost in ink. The true power of the Stormlands has always stood in those gathered here now.”

He fell into silence then, looking out over them as he waited for the first to speak.

Rain House, Docks - Closed to Grey (after the council)

The crew of the Whore’s Vengeance was louder than Ales remembered. Perhaps it was the lack of gold cloaks? Of course, Rain House was no stranger to the occasional pleasure barge, so the guards paid no mind so long as Madam Gilly paid her dues, and she had grown quite the reputation around Rain House for her visits. Ales was happy to offer her a fair rate for their long history, but business was business—a mutual agreement that had kept their friendship strong and pockets deep.

The Wylde made his way onto the boat, offering greetings and pleasantries to the cook and navigator alike. Most were faces he knew, while some were fresh additions. There were even some of the lords and ladies who had come to hold council with Lord Jon, acolytes of the Seven Sighs enchanting the best the Stormlands had to offer.

The main room of the barge featured a small tavern area watched over by a barkeep, free of any carnal displays. Hidden beyond, in a network of hallways, were various rooms where Gilly’s workers could take patrons to more private accommodations, each under tight guard. There were a few doors leading to these chambers, but Ales went for a specific one he knew would lead to Gilly’s own quarters.

“You sly dog!” the captain exclaimed as Ales entered the room, Madam Gilly in all her magnificence rising to greet her business partner. Gilly and Ales embraced, the former peppering the young Wylde with kisses. “I almost assumed your letter was a fake. Are you sure? Didn’t you say his sister was all high in the Queen’s court?”

“That’s exactly why,” Ales replied, letting out a sigh as he reached for Gilly’s wine. He poured them both a glass and handed one to her. “Trust me, I take no pride in it. I'd hoped his going to Essos would build a friendship with Beatrice. But if he might prove to be a shield against dragonfire… I will take any opportunity the Gods provide.”

“A favor like this one certainly creates an imbalance,” she expressed her concern, taking a drink. “I’m happy to do it for you, but the moment she asks for him, we’re off to Volantis, I promise you. I won't have a bounty on our heads, or Gods forgive this dragon you fear.”

“Of course, you know I’m good for it,” he nodded. “Once our House is secured, it should be smooth sailing. By the end of the next year, we’ll have you propped up in a nice estate in Oldtown or White Harbor.”

“A fine addition, but mine will always be the sea,” she laughed, pursing her lips. “Many of mine are eager to branch out, however. I have some in mind who might be a good fit. Jeyne and Loras seem eager to have a business of their own.”

“A toast, then, to lifting each other up,” he raised his glass and shared the drink. “Where is he now? No doubt with more flesh than he can handle?”

“I decided to be kind,” she smiled and walked to the corner of the room where a large trunk stood bound with a lock. “The stupor should last long enough for you to bring him into the castle. Still, I'd be sure your men don't drop him. I didn’t have a pillow to spare.”

Rain House, Tower Chamber - Closed to Grey

Ales had prepared a fine bedroom for Lord Arthur, one he might enjoy if he’d chosen it. There was a window he had to brick up, but aside from that, it was quite comfortable. The fire was warm upon their arrival, and the furnishings befitted his station. The Lord was put to bed with ease, and the fire had already chased off most of the chill.

Having asked to be summoned immediately upon Arthur's waking, Ales made his way to the room with Edric at his side. Ales wished to keep Arthur in ignorance for as long as he could, and so when they entered the room, he was garbed in the attire of a septon. Edric was dressed to match, not quite a poor fellow but enough to pass. Ales hoped Lord Arthur had as little sense as Beatrice made it out to be.

“Greetings, my son,” he said as he entered the room. “I beg forgiveness if our men brought any harm to you. We found you beside the road in a drunken haze and were unsure if the waking man would be as peaceful. Are you highborn? Your clothes say as much, but we found no surcoat bearing a sigil.”

“I am Father Osmund and this is Theon,” he offered, gesturing to Edric. “You are in the Shining Sept of Westgarden in the Reach, a home for the Seven’s wayward. Do you remember your name?”

It was a warm day in the rocky landscape of the Boneway. The sun, gentle in the morning, would be harsh at its peak. While it rose though it was a good day for a ride, the sky clear and perfect for falconry.

Gerold rarely got a moment of peace with his daughter. She had a commanding presence and would make a fine Lady, but to him she was still a little girl. Riding quietly together the two enjoyed the morning sun, hawks circling over head occasionally screeching calls that echoed off the cliff faces.

This may be the last moment of peace for many moons to come. Edric had already been swept up in the call for war, unsure as he had been at first he now pined for a position in the Kingsguard. Gerold was glad he didn't have two sons, it was enough for one to reside in Kingslanding indefinitely, were there to be a second he might wind up alone in Starfall.

"Daughter... what is your view of this war? We may speak plainly, the King is not here."

u/WhenInDorne

Gulltown, Vale of Arryn

3rd Month, 26 AC

​

The city of her girlhood had been all but laid to waste. Even worse, it had been laid to waste by knights of the Vale, instead of some foreign enemy from whom such barbarities might have been expected from. And all that had been caused by her scheming grandfather and foolish brother, the former now buried in the crypts beneath High Haven and the latter now ruling from that castle, even if only in name. She supposed that she should give thanks to the Gods for the mercy that the Lord Regent had displayed in forbidding the sacking of the city's interior and hanging any caught of rape or theft, yet she could not.

​

They were King Laenor's men now, or rather in her case women, and must strike out at the enemy to prove their loyalty to their liege and king. Though the armies of Gulltown had been devastated during the assault on it's walls, it's armada had been seated in the bay during the fighting, untouched by the horrors of war. Even more, a meager fleet consisting of Valemen had gathered in the harbor. That presented their cause with an opportunity that was not lost on Maris Grafton. What's more, all the captains and sailors of Gulltown were loyal to her instead of anyone else, be it her husband Jonos who now ruled the city in a sort of regency, Roland Arryn, or even the King himself.

​

The relationship between Maris and Ser Jonos Arryn had never been particularly passionate. It had been an union of political gain from the start, engineered by her grandfather so that House Grafton might have a line to the Eyrie's succession, and though Maris had grown fond of Jonos over the years, this recent business had soured her perception of House Arryn as a whole. She couldn't even recall when she had last spoken to Jonos. Yet, lest she be branded a rebel who stole away with the largest fleet the Vale and Mountain had to boast of, she supposed that she must let the Regent of Gulltown know what she was planning, even if she would not lower herself to ask for permission to sail her ships.

​

So, on one unremarkable day in the third month of the twenty-sixth year, Maris sought out Jonos in the throne room of High Haven around mid-day, having already given all the necessary orders for the preparation of the fleet. She was glad to finally sail out of the city.

(Takes place after Lyle II, but before Lyle III, so this takes place during the first moon of 26 AC.)

Lucas had been sitting behind his desk when Janna entered his solar. Still busy as he often was.

“You wanted to see me, my lord?” Janna asked.

Lucas kept his face impassive.

“Sit down, Janna.” Lucas said, his voice carrying the message that this was not a request, but a command.

His late father’s second wife clearly understood that, so she sat down in front of him.

Lucas let out a breath, in a way that conveyed his irritation.

“Let me make this clear, Janna. You did not fool me, not even for a second.” Lucas said, continuing as he saw she’d been clearly surprised by what he’d said. Clearly she thought too highly of her capabilities. “I allowed you to do what you did because it served my purpose of making Lyle commit to one of the two choices I presented him with. But let me make this painfully clear. You do not go over my head again. If you do, I’ll send you back to Sunflowers so fast your head will spin. Do I make myself clear?”

At the end, his voice was full of the cold fury he preferred.

Janna began to glare holes in his head. Lucas remained as he was.

“I understand.” Janna said, begrudgingly.

To say he did not get along with his step-mother was an understatement. He was the son of Lord Gareth Ashford in name and in blood, but at heart, he had been raised by his uncle Edmund and aunt Megga. Something that Lucas would not say out loud. It felt disrespectful to the memory of his father and mother, but the truth of the matter is that Gareth Ashford and Falia Leygood were practically strangers to him. His mother and father had both died before he’d reached three years of age.

Sure, he’d asked about them as a child, to know more about the man and woman who had brought him into the world. He’d learned how Lady Falia had been sweet and kind, with a beautiful voice that had been passed to him. He’d learned how Lord Gareth had preferred a warhammer similar to the one Lucas wielded. He’d seen a painting that Lord Gareth had commissioned about four decades ago. Lucas had gazed at it for hours as a child, seeing much of himself in both of them. The artist must have truly captured their likeness well.

But faces on a painting were cold comfort to the crying and the tears of a young child who’d fallen off a tree when he’d been seven, a poor substitute to the comfort he’d received from his uncle and aunt. Yes, he hadn’t hurt himself too badly in that incident, but it had still hurt quite a lot.

At two and ten, he’d wondered if his uncle would approve of who Lucas was becoming, having quickly realized that his talents as a warrior were vastly outshined by his administrative skills. He’d been surprised when his aunt revealed to him that his gift with numbers had been inherited from his father. After all, his uncle had told him all about his father’s skill with a warhammer and how he’d always been the best warrior out of the three brothers. Strong, tall and powerful like few were.

As he grew older, Lucas began to understand why his uncle Edmund spoke so much of memories of battles and hunts with his father and younger brother Florian (who had also perished at the Field of Fire) so fondly. It wasn’t because his uncle didn’t appreciate his father’s skills as a lord, but merely that those were memories he remembered fondly because they’d been shared by the three sons of Andros Ashford.

Something that had been helped by the occasional fishing trip he’d shared with Lyle (and Nuncle Edmund on occasion). They’d both learned from their uncle, so they had the pastime in common. In almost all aspects in life, Lucas and Lyle saw the world differently and had formed different opinions about it. But during those trips, the differences faded away and left two brothers who did care about each other, even if they disagreed over nearly everything. Those were the fondest memories Lucas had of Lyle.

Then there was a knock at the door.

“Come in.” Lucas said, aware of who it was. One slow knock followed by three in quick succession. Raymun.

Raymun came in, his step-mother making an effort to not look disgusted.

“My lord, the work is going ahead, as you commanded.” Raymun informed him.

Lucas gave him a pleased look. For Lucas, this was significant. He had already determined that this would make Ashford prosper like it never had.

“Thank you, Raymun.” Lucas said, and the former bandit departed as quickly as he had arrived, closing the door behind him.

As Lucas enjoyed the feeling, a silence formed between lord and dowager lady.

“You shouldn’t trust him.” Janna said with disdain in her voice. The dowager lady of Ashford shared her son’s views on Raymun.

“I can decide for myself on whose advice to heed, thank you very much.” Lucas replied quickly.

Tensions between Lucas and Janna had begun when he was as old as one and ten. His step-mother had been his regent and she’d been capable, but little more than that. By his estimate, Ashford was spending about a fourth more than what was needed in upkeep. Something that Janna had not noticed or simply not given a second thought towards. Lucas had noticed, but Janna had dismissed his concerns, because he was just a boy.

As it turned out, Ashford had paid merchants more than they should have for their wares for years. Even now, Lucas wondered what could have been done with all the gold that could have been in their coffers, if Janna had not simply accepted the numbers the merchants had given her. Then again, she was not entirely to blame. Nuncle Ed had missed it, too. Numbers had never been his specialty, so he’d trusted Janna. The one Lucas was less willing to forgive was the late Maester Nestor, who Lucas had known was good with numbers (after all, Lucas had learned from him) and should have realized the mistake. Unfortunately, the old maester was a coward and a lickspittle, which was a disapointment for a young Lucas.

It always amused him how easily Janna could chide him for being too trusting when it was her who’d trusted people she shouldn’t have and rather than accept her mistake, had insisted she was right and he was wrong.

“Is that all, my lord?” Janna asked, standing up. Her tone made it clear that she was saying it like she was asking him if he was done.

“That is all, Janna.” Lucas said.

“In that case, good day, Lucas.” Janna said, before leaving.

Lucas shook his head. He had to relax.

Fortunately, Lucas had just the thing. In his desk he had the book Goldenhand by Maester Robar, a detailed account of the life of the seventh Gardener king to bear the name Garth, the one who went down in history as the Goldenhand.

A king who had created many debates between Lucas and his brother. Lucas thought that the Golden Reign of Garth Goldenhand was the high-water mark of the Reach. An opinion that Lyle had always disputed vigorously, claiming that Gyles III was the finest King of the Reach.

But for now, Lucas would just sit back and enjoy the writings of Robar.

Rightful King Aenar Targaryen,

I, Ser Edric Dayne, Sword of the Morning, would be honored to swear myself into the service of your Kingsguard. The battles to come will be fierce, you will need strong swords to defend your claim and as strong swords go, Dawn is among the strongest.

With your blessing I will ride post haste to Kingslanding with a section of my father's levied army to swear my life to the white cloak.

With respect,

Ser Edric Dayne

u/HouseOfCaligula

Seagard - Third moon of 526 AC

Roland Mallister brooded in his room over the next few days after his brother’s Patrek’s funeral. He barely ate or left his quarters and rebuffed all attempts at communication. His elder brother Paxter Mallister, the Castellan of Seagard as well as their mother Bethany continued to try to talk with him without much success. Arlan Rivers, Roland's new squire, brought in his food and was always nearby to answer if called.

For days Roland had slept fitfully and stared mainly at the roof his bedchamber. Memories of his late brother filled his mind. He remembered how, only a year ago, his brother Patrek and himself had sailed up and down the shores of Ironman’s Bay, recruiting sailors and rowers for the new ships that had been built at Seagard. Many of the local people, living along the coast to the north of Seagard still feared having their homes and chattels destroyed and the livelihoods taken away by the operations of raiders from the south perhaps even the Ironborn – even of now they were the same kingdom. It had not been difficult to lure men to their employ on the basis of solid work and sufficient victuals as well as the promise of being able to defend their homes. Roland remembered that Patrek had proceeded to not only begin training the new crewmen and sailors on the fleet in seamanship, but in Roland’s case also the techniques of naval fighting. Their future was at sea, not on land, their eldest brother Lyonel had repeatedly reminded them. Lyonel had sent Roland to learn the techniques of naval command from Patrek, even putting the young knight in command of his own ship.  

Roland’s head had swum with the amount of information and knowledge that Patrek had shared with him, but he knew as the commander of one of the ships of Seagard’s strong fleet of warships, he needed to begin thinking as a commander of the sea, rather than merely a knight who was quite good with the sword. Their brother Tristan was a Kingsguard of Queen Visenya. That was enough for the glory of the family, Lyonel had firmly said. Their father, the late Lord Lymond had often said that Patrek was gifted with boats and would make a more than competent admiral but he also remembered that his father had once remarked that Roland had a similar special gift for sailing. Yet Roland had been obsessed with making his name in the lists. That is until his eldest brother had demanded differently.

Roland recalled how Patrek had impressed upon his youngest brother the need for teaching their sailors and rowers how to ram other ships, when all of Roland’s reason and training demanded that they should be trained for boarding other ships, as one would assault a castle in a siege, as he had so often read about as a boy. Many of the new captains under Patrek’s tutelage were already skilled sailors from their time as fisherfolk on the shallow bays on the Sunset Sea and for them it was simply a matter of adapting their skills, teaching them how best to manoeuvre a galley whilst choosing the most appropriate oar-stroke. For Roland, the process was a little longer as he had to put aside the arts of land warfare he had been taught by his elders from childhood. However, he had been a fast learner.

Roland recalled one particular exercise that Patrek had promised him would be one of his most demanding yet. So important that the Admiral of the fleet would show the captain of each galley this exercise personally to ensure they remembered the lesson. With the other galleys still being scraped of barnacles, Roland had made his way onto to the Sea Eagle which cast off moving away from the beach at two knots – steerage speed. Her pace had been dictated by the fact that they needed to conserve the strength of the rowers for the lesson ahead, a lesson that would be learnt at their expense. Patrek had kept this lesson until last, knowing it be the most important for the crew as well as his young charge.

Once the Sea Eagle cleared the shallow water, Patrek had ordered all the ship’s captains aboard the flagship including Roland, below to the slave deck to join the rowers, many of them also raw recruits.

“My captains!” Patrek had shouted, his voice muted by the press of bodies and the surrounding timbers, “this deck represents the strength of your ship. These rowers are part of your crew. You must treat them accordingly. To abuse them is to sap your own strength."

“In battle against the enemy….whoever they may be” Patrek had continued ‘…you will face many challenges. The principal one will be your ability to know and understand your ship and its capabilities. Of your ships' capabilities, one of the most important is the strength of your men at your oars. These rowers give you the ability to out-manoeuvre your enemy or escape or close in for the attack. The crucial thing you must know is that their strength is finite. Once it is spent your ship is lost.”

The Admiral had turned to a man behind a huge drum.

“Battle speed” he roared.

The hundred oars of the Sea Eagle increased with the command of the drum beat to battle speed, seven knots.

“The rowers of the Sea Eagle can row at battle speed for two hours. During that time, the twenty reserve rowers will also be used to keep that pace.”

Patrek had let them row for thirty minutes. At that point the first few reserves were called up to replace the weaker rowers of the crew. The trainees, including Roland, were pushed aside as the hatchway to the lower deck was opened and some of them were given a brief glance at daylight above them.

The rowing had continued on at battle speed, the only sound being the beat of the drum keeping time on the crowded deck. At the sweat began to increase on the backs of the rowers and their breathing became more laboured, Roland began to form an understanding of what his brother had spoken about.

“Attack speed!”

“At attack speed the Sea Eagle is moving at eleven knots." roared Patrek above the noise of creaking wood, the beat of the drum and the grunts of the rowers as they strained at their oars.

Many of the proteges of Patrek marvelled at the incredible speed. For a sailing ship it was the equivalent of running before a strong wind, a tricky manoeuvre that was rarely attempted.

“The rowers of the Sea Eagle can maintain this speed for fifteen minutes. It is only three knots faster than battle speed, but the extra effort required cuts their ability to an eighth of the time.” said Patrek addressing all the captains, but as Roland remembered only looking at his yioungest brother.

“Ramming speed!”

The drum master of the Sea Eagle had repeated the order and increased his beat. The rowers had redoubled their efforts, many grunting through the pain of the back-breaking pull. Others cried out as cramped muscles gave way under the strain.

“At ramming speed, even the best rowers will collapse after five minutes!” Patrek shouted over the cries of pains and the grunting.

The first rower collapsed after two minutes. Within another sixty seconds another twenty rowers were down.

“All stop!” Patrek had shouted, putting an end to the enforced barbarity of the lesson. Roland looked on appalled at the sight of the near broken men, many at the end of their strength, while others who had gone beyond their strength lay prone under their oars. One did not rise again, his heart broken from the effort.

Patrek had told his brother on previous occasions that he did not flinch from pushing his rowers to their limits when the situation required it. To show compassion could endanger the ship. Roland believed him. The young man resolved that if he was ever to command his own ship that he would treat his rowers well, not only because healthy men rowed better, but as his brother had impressed upon him, the tables could one day be turned and they might find themselves two to an oar.

Patrek had ordered the oars to be withdrawn and the sail raised. For the next hour, the Sea Eagle would have to make do with canvas only. He ordered the captains back onto the main deck once more and then standing on the aft, he had beckoned Roland to stand beside him and addressed them once more.

“We do not know what lies ahead for our fleet. At the very least we will be called upon to engage and destroy pirates. We might even meet the West fleet in battle. In either case you will need all your resources to stay alive and in the fight. This young ser – my brother here…”, he had indicated Roland “is our newest captain and answers only to me. I have great faith in his ability and who knows he may one day be your commander. I have fought in many battles and have survived them all, along with the ships I have commanded. That is because I know that each man on board is valuable in the fight.”

Roland clenched his fists in anguish as he remembered that Patrek had then turned to him and in a low voice had said words he would never forget.

“To ignore any part of your crew is to doom your ship. The lesson is this brother…..Know your ships. Know your crews. Know your strengths. That will be vital in the fights to come.”

The tears once again filled Roland’s eyes as he remembered his brother's words. He turned his face to the wall as he lay on his bed.

Four further days had passed when a rider from Casterly Rock arrived, bearing a message for the Mallister brothers, both Paxter and Roland. Paxter took the message from the rider, snapped the seal open, read it and marched straight to Roland’s quarters.

He knocked on the door once before entering. Roland sat on a stool, facing the window. Paxter was shocked at his appearance. Roland’s hair was unwashed and matted and he looked as if he had slept in the same clothes for days. Paxter’s nose twisted at the smell of decay.

“A message for you, brother. From our eldest brother”. Paxter said, holding out the parchment. He had to repeat himself before Roland snapped out of his daze and looked blearily at him. Roland blinked a few times and took the parchment from Paxter, unfolding and reading it.

Suddenly he leaned forward intently, gripping the letter fiercely. He looked up at Paxter, tears brimming in his eyes. Roland rose from his stool, swayed for a second, as if he had not moved in hours, and then marched out the door leaving a startled Paxter to quickly follow. As Roland moved through the halls of Seagard he shouted for the servants to run him a bath and, spotting his squire, for a meal to be prepared.

Hearing the commotion, Paxter’s mother Lady Bethany approached Paxter with a raised eyebrow.

“Home truths, mother.” was all that Paxter said in reply. “Home truths.”

3rd moon, 26 AC, Lannisport

A story was created, perhaps a delusional one. Where a child saw her brother well and strong.. and her mother wrapping her arms around her, with a father smiling at her calling out his daughters name. A girl filled with joy and innocence, not required to worry about the reality, being allowed to live how she wants, because she’s her father’s child. The girl turned around, towards her father, only seeing a vague shadow. She reached for her fathers face and called for him, yet no sound came out of her mouth. Suddenly, he started to fade away. The girl jumped into the shadow and fell to the ground. When she looked ind front of her she saw her mother on her deathbed. And then..

“Tyshara, Tyshara?” A light voice said next to her, shaking her awake, “Tyshara wake up!” The woman said.

She rubbed her eyes trying to fasten the process, “yes, what is it? No need to shout by the way.,” Tyshara said. She was day dreaming on the job, like always. She apparently dozed off while washing the clothes.

“This is the fifth time I’ve caught you sleeping, you’re not even halfway,” the servant girl said, “fortunately, I keep finding you,” she said with a jokingly disapproving tone. She shoved Tyshara aside and attended her task. “Perhaps change the sheets of the chambers, gets you moving at least.”

She saluted her colleague and made her way towards the exit. “Works every time,” she giggled. Tyshara always wondered what got her the job, yes, her skills and talents were certainly up there, but her effort? The clothes of a handmaid was not something she wanted to cross on her list, but scrapping up the leftovers of horse shit wasn’t going to be an option, one her brother decided to make.

She made her way through the halls, greeting every guard with a wink or a formal nod. Her charisma was certainly appreciated by the staff, yet remained a loner at best.

Instead of going to the chambers she decided it was time for a break, she went outside to catch some air, how disgusting it might be in these clothes. Even a low class girl had her standards, remaining humble nonetheless.

The halls of Aegon’s Rest seem so dreadfully small after her recent escapade into the Vale of Arryn.

She had seen things that many lords could only ever dream of seeing - mountains so tall they pierced the sky, a shadowcat bent to the will of a skinchanger, proper battle. Aelora often stood before the looking glass, admiring the scar that split the silver hair of her left brow, the tender pink knot of scarring upon her cheekbone.

Baelor had kept her confined to the castle grounds after that little stunt, trailed all day long by a pair of babysitters dressed in silver mail and the colors of House Belaerys. She couldn’t so much as take a piss without them standing outside the door of the privy, and she longed for the feeling of freedom that the open road had brought her.

On that particular morning, she’d quite had enough of it all, and burst through the door of her father’s solar in spite of any attempt to stop her. Striding over to his desk, she lay her hands flat upon the hewn oak and bent slightly, looking him in the eye with a (small) measure of defiance. He was still her father, after all, and she respected his authority.

“I am tired of being a prisoner in my own home,” she announced. “Tywin Lannister expressed to me that you offered my hand in exchange for my rescue. He fulfilled his part of your little bargain. I demand that you fulfill yours and send me to Lannisport so that we may be wed.”

Haste.

Haste was the order of the day, Harlan had decided.

Rhaenys and Aenar had held the advantage, but had seemingly bungled every single sense of initiative they had.

Now, it seemed as though the Reach's only path forward was something different, or, at the very least, not to continue along this current road.

So, Harlan arranged a council, held in one of the many chambers of Highgarden. A wide space, with wide windows that looked out onto the countryside of the Reach, wide fields stretching as far as the eye could see.

As he recalled, it had been the very same chamber in which Mern had declared his intention to march against Aegon, to thunderous applause and cries of victory not yet earned.

Harlan hoped his own council, much smaller, would avoid the same fate.

"My lords of the Reach, Most Holiness," Harlan would begin, placing his hands on the ornate wooden table around which they sat. "we face, I fear, a crossroads. When we declared for Aenar, we had the Stormlands and Dorne on our side, whereas Prince Laenor's supporters were scattered and disorganized. Now, it appears we face the Vale, the North and Queen Visenya on our own, with no sign of the Dornish, and the Stormlands having been offended into inaction."

He shook his head slowly. "I ask: what now? My brother has not returned from Highgarden with the bulk of our military, and, though his mission was seemingly a success, Lord Belaerys and his family's dragon was on the move in that region as well. What now, I wonder? Shall we hold to our king? Shall we play the game of Dorne and the Stormlands? We sit betwixt the ire of dragons, and I fear what our next step will be greeted with."

He turned, looking to the High Septon first.

"I would ask for your opinion first, Most Holiness. You, after all, are the only one with the authority to properly crown a king. Your voice may save the Reach from a second Doom."

Justice had been done upon Lancel Lannister, the Lord of Highgarden had returned home, and the High Septon’s time spent at the beating heart of the Reach was drawing to a close. What a welcome respite it had been, sequestered within the sprawling gardens, spending the cool mornings of autumn wandering among the maze of hedges, praying within the marvelous sept of House Tyrell.

He could not remain there forever, as much as he would like. There was yet the issue of the Iron Throne to be decided, a war to be fought, perhaps, and though the Faith had remained neutral in the conflict thus far, it could do so no longer. A decision made by His Holiness now could garner much support for a claimant, and perhaps save thousands of lives from heedless slaughter.

Sitting at his borrowed desk for a final time, he dipped the point of his quill within an open pot of ink and began to write.

Maidenpool had perhaps never seen so much activity in all its many years as a prominent town, but now? As the city sits half occupied, half thriving under the weight of three armies. But those armies had not come for war, they were here for a gathering of minds for the war to come. And among that, came a string of invitations, to noble, to lord, to knight, to man at arms, to peasant. All of it a welcome gift from the king and the queen to be, to celebrate their wedding at the expense of the crown. 

On the hill of the house Mooton’s castle, the gates stood open, at the leave of the Mootons. And there food and wine flowed forth. Delegates from across the loyal realms of king Laenor, and even from abroad, at the behest of the lady-nay-queen Daenys. The fabled springs of Jonquil’s pool had been occupied by a near thousand men and women from beyond the lands of Maidenpool, and a dozen score more locals. The Stinking Goose, ancient and noble, was at capacity every single day. 

All for the coming wedding of a king and a queen. 

As for the wedding itself, it was to be held in the castle of the noble house Mooton, with its wide doors hung open and welcome to those who could not fit upon the tables of the grand hall. At points of prominence were the families of the Starks and the Arryns, and of course the hosts, Mooton, and beyond that were the houses Qoherys, Royce, Blackwood, Dustin and Bolton. After were the other houses loyal and leal, yet not quite as large or powerful. But in such a small hall, such distinctions were nigh impossible to spot from within. Yet there was still a need to acknowledge the houses larger and stronger than others, a matter of propriety and respect. 

The Septon stood before the couple, a humble man who had ran the Sept here for nearly thirty years. Though he assured the couple that the robes were the best he owned, he didn’t look the part. That hardly mattered now, the pomp of the ceremony came from the cheering yet apprehensive crowds of smallfolk who had come to see the pair.  Laenor was mostly of known quality to them, at the very least he had spent the better part of a few moons amongst them and few got to see royalty that often outside of the capital. 

Daenys they did not know, though it seemed as if they were willing to forgive such a breach of protocol upon catching a glimpse of her descending from her carriage. That this ceremony was being held here rather than the capitol had not been lost on the assembled nobles but for the inhabitants of Maidenpool it was an event of a lifetime, one they would tell their children about. 

Atop the tables were fish smoked and grilled, stacked with potatoes, steamed and roasted. Beyond, Veal and beef and Lamb, each of them in turn seasoned, carved and cooked over days, simmered and stoked and salted, further, wines from vintages across Westeros and beyond were gathered and poured by deft hands. When the wine was not preferred, mead and ale, prepared by the best breweries of the Riverlands were of selection. Slices of ham, small blocks of cheese and loaves of bread were provided across the city to the smallfolk, accompanied the food was, by the nectars of beer and ale, given out from inns and taverns, provided at the expense of the crown.

And at the crux of it all, within the grand hall, before the feast was to take place, was the meeting of two figures of silver hair, of blood and fire, to be wed beneath the auspices of the seven. 

Unlike most girls of the nobility Daenys hadn’t spent her younger years planning out the perfect wedding in her head, dreaming of the shining knight who would whisk her away. She loved the stories, just like any other, but it had always seemed that marriage was for other girls. Normal ones. For her was the union of duty to her family and attempting to keep her father’s fledgling hopes of stability together. 

She had never dreamt that one day that the wedding bells would be for her. 

Bedecked in a grand gown, the seamstresses had worked through the night in order to have it ready once they had gotten her measurements. None could tell the rushed nature of the cloth just as Daenys hoped that none could tell the rushed nature of the wedding. Shimmering white silk, mixed with undertones of majestic crimson and jet black, her families colors if anyone needed a reminder, seemed to swallow up the light around them. At her neck was the finest pearls and gemstones, delicately hanging. 

She did not entirely feel comfortable in this costume, this was not who she was.

Nor was it who Laenor was. The King was never comfortable in the vestments and the robes and the crowns and the pomp. They were an administrator, someone who ran the kingdom, not someone content to be subjected to the whims of the realm’s need for spectacle. And yet, they were to be a part of it. They were to wed. Their vows to be said and this pageantry to end. 

The Red Keep's gardens were alive with trees, plants, and the chirping of birds around. The sun beat down on them, but it was a breezy day with the wind that blew up from the Blackwater. At a modest table overlooking the bay, sat the long-serving Lord Confessor of the Red Keep, since back when he was only Lord Confessor of the Aegonfort.

In his prime, Ser Ambrose had been known as one of the finest knights in the realm. One of the finest... and most dishonorable. The late Lord of Maidenpool and the Darklyns of Duskendale found that out when, after the convenient death of his father, forces that were meant to be reinforcements ended up charging headlong into the Mooton and Darklyn rear. Ambrose himself skewered the Lord of Maidenpool in the back with a lance during this treacherous cavalry charge, so men said.

But he was an old man now, pushing 60 and with a bad hip. His sons did the fighting now. He had found other ways of seeing his will be done over decades of his work in the dungeons. But the dungeons weren't the only place he dwelled. He was just as capable at court, as he'd proved when King Aenar promised him a new castle for his cleverness.

So today, he was in the sun, not the deep dark. Sat at the table, he wore a tunic of fine grey linen, a pair of deep purple velvet britches, lambskin boots adorned with silver scrollwork, and a half-cape of shadowskin fastened by a chain of silver links in the shape of wings. The table cloth was checked grey and black in the style of House Staunton's sigil, and upon it was a small mid-day feast for himself and his honored guest.

A long pork tenderloin swimming in creamy mustard sauce and topped with tarragon and thyme was the main course, but the bed the pork rested upon was full of carrots, leeks, and parsnips, and a raspberry pie sat on the side to serve as a shared dessert. To wash it all down, Ambrose had a man bring from Rook's Rest's cellars a vintage of green-apple wine from before the Conquest. An extravagant lunch for the humble Lord Confessor, perhaps, but surely a meal befitting the heir of Highgarden.

So, Lord Ambrose and a small retinue of his guards and serving men waited patiently for Gareth Tyrell's arrival.

Lord Gregor Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock

I make for Casterly Rock today with mine own son and heir, Ser Damon Brax, along with a contingent of men at arms.

We come to swear our oaths and pledge loyalty to you and House Lannister.

Robert Brax, Lord of Hornvale

Lord Robert Brax finished writing his raven to the Rock when his heir entered the room.

“Ah Damon perfect timing as always,” he smiled wearily at his son.

“So what’s the news father?” Ser Damon asked.

“It seems Gregor Lannister is the new Lord of the Rock. I never cared much for the young lion even though he was the rightful heir…” explained Lord Brax.

“Are we to follow any Lannister that wishes to overtake the other?” Damon pressed his father cutting him off.

“My son, we bend to House Lannister, the Lion of the Rock. Does it really matter which Lion? I’m taking you and part of our forces to treat with our new Lord.”

“Say your goodbyes to the rest of the family Damon, we ride for Casterly Rock”, he commanded as he collected the parchment and made for the door.

Damon watched as his Lord father exited the room, and he couldn’t help but feel excitement bubble up.

Tailing the Stark host was something of a new challenge for Connar and his troupe. Despite the moans and grumbles of the men, Connar, Lugen, and Rohanna all agreed that taking the Kingsroad behind the host was a bad idea. If they had scouts riding ahead, they might have riders at the rearguard watching for just such trouble as the Woed-Blues. And as much as Crowbite believed he inspired some loyalty amongst the men, it had to be admitted: They were all criminal. Most of these cretins would sell out before questioning even began under interrogation by a greybeard.

Crowbite, Lugen Nine-toes, and their chief outlander Pickled Pod devised a rough system of scouting and reporting. Running alongside the Kingsroad, a team of outlanders would follow the host at distance, trading turns spying and relaying messages to the other scouts. Twice daily, once at sunrise and once past noon, another scout would take the single horse afforded to the scouting party to ride back to the Woed-Blues' camp, report the host's movements, and decide on the troupe's next destination. As the reporting scout returned to the rest of the reconnaissance party (or traded shifts with another man), the main body of the troupe packed and made way to their rendezvous, off-road. They trudged through forest, clung to friendly creek beds, took advantage of the hunting trails as they would find them.

It was rigorous game of back-and-forth relay. They ate through much of their good provisions (those provided by the Danfred Grey's "philanthropy" barely lasted through that same evening). Connar found the riding clothes he had acquired a little loose in the waist, and he spent an evening boring a new hole in the leather of his belts to accommodate. Passage at Harroway cost them those good riding horses they had just lifted, plus much of the coinage left in the Hearts' coffers. The next day, the scouting party got ahead of themselves, sure that the host was making way to Harrenhal. The misreport cost their band an entire days-worth of rerouting and two days of hard marching to make up for the mistake. Crowbite heard his men growling at night: This all had better be worth it.

He cared little for that, though. Connar spent the evenings with his mother. There was much to be said, by all of the Woed-Blue Hearts, about Rowanroot Rohanna. But first out of everyones' mouth would be praise to her vigor in travel. By day, she hiked with her withered weirwood stick as strong as anyone. She chewed herb leaf for energy, drank from then streams without aid or caution, and pointed at the birds and flowers they passed, naming them and giving them story after story. By night, however, she was beyond spent. Her cough was as sharp and gritty, like she had granite in his throat. She trembled through the night. Connar knew she would mislike the comparison, but it was like she was the Maiden, Mother, and Crone every day, in that order.

He was afraid that it was only a matter of time before the Stranger became her.

♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕

On the fifth day of travel, Crowbite was part of the reconnaissance squad. They had split from even the fringes of the road, trudging over hill and heath for some hours along a hunting path. Rohanna reminded them that there was a meager highway inn along the road nearby, and besides that, earlier in the day they had nearly been spotted by outriders brandishing banners black with white towers quartered by white with green dragons. Connar had no idea what that one was.

Regardless, it pushed them off-road and through the hills. Pickled Pod was certain they could bend back south, maybe even meet the road leaving Maidenpool to catch the host again. At this point, the troupe was all but certain a host this massive was making way to King's Landing.

The scouting team of four struggled uphill and downhill for over an hour, pushing through gorse where they couldn't avoid it. The only respite was the cloud cover. The crest of this next hill they were challenging was just ahead. Connar prayed for a view of this promised road, and not just the sight of a new ridge to conquer. After all, they'd had to make this same trek back later today.

"Smell that?" Pod grunted as they neared the peak of the windy hill.

"Salt." Connar affirmed. They'd caught whiffs of it for days. Made sense, as they were so close to the Bay of Crabs.

"No," his outrider replied, "Smoke."

The four men reached the hilltop, wheezing and dazed from the hike. But just as soon as they stumbled to a pause to celebrate the accomplishment and take in the view, they all dove to the ground. Looking at each other to confirm that their surprise was warranted, they all cautiously crawled forward, parting the high heathgrass for a safe view. It took away what little breath they had left.

Before them sat a picturesque view of a prominent hilltop castle keep and walled city, along with a decent port to boot, all situated on a teal-blue ocean. They could see grey, sandy beaches crawling up the coastline to the east and west of the city, with clouds pouring in from the sea. Far across the water Connar swore he could make out the shapes of mountains.

"Maidenpool" Pod named the city. There was a tinge of questioning to the words, though, and all understood why. It wasn't the old, fabled castle that shocked them. It was the swarms of people, horse, tent, campfire, gear... It was its own ocean, of soldiers and levies, that totally surrounded the walls. It was no seige, clearly, it was a great mustering.

Connar had never seen so many people in his life, he figured. They had heard on the road that the host was immense, but Connar realized now he had not the ability to comprehend a crowd this massive in his mind alone. The grey direwolf banners of House Stark were there, seeming to pour in and acclimate among the numbers; This was where they were marching. Among them were dozens of others, some (like the Twins of House Frey, and the red fish of the Mootons, lords of this city) that Connar knew, and other (such as that quartered design from earlier) that he didn't recognize.

One banner stood out to them all, unmistakable even at distance, hung above the rest along the walls of the city: The red dragon on black of House Targaryen.

"Gods be good..." Miq, one of the men, uttered.

"We shouldn't be here," said Pod,

Crowbite's big blue eyes scanned the fields, blinking, taking it all in, "Correct, Pod," he tongued his toothgap, "We should be down there. Let's make haste. We have a basecamp to establish."

Colorful banners wreathed in grey,

Restless wind expecting the day,

When a dragon comes to burn it away,

Eager men called to arms for righteous cause, for oath and blood,

The meeting of the kingdoms three,

Mountains, tundra, and rivermen be,

The loyal servants to the rightful King

Reachmen, storm and desert-born,

The usurper rends, the kingdom torn,

Clashing steel and broken bone,

The Stranger sits The Iron Throne

-Lord Corwyl Vance, 3rd Moon, 26CE

There were many more banners outside Lord Vance's window now, much busier the city had become. He wondered when the real war would start.

3rd moon, 26 AC

Serala found herself in an awful position. She had exposed herself to the lions in their own den, a foreigner with a different God? She could be a target, or maybe she wasn’t that important? She couldn’t be certain, but she did need to move quickly. No word had been returned to her from Rhaenys or the king. Desperate for new alliances she knew to set sail towards dragonstone. The people there were the closest things to someone with the blood of the dragon, or even a dragon rider. She couldn’t send herself though, tasking her most loyal cousin for the job.

The group had traveled from the kingswood all the way to the docks.

Serala was the last to bid Bessaro farewell. “Send a raven to me as soon as you set foot on dragonstone cousin,” she said in a regretful tone, “remember why you’re there, to look if the Targaryens will have us,” she said with her final words. She kissed his forehead before stepping back. “May R’hllor give you safe passage into the light.”

“I won’t let the mission falter,” Bessaro said before getting on the ship that was heading for Dragonstone,

Somewhere in her mind she couldn’t stand the fact that she had to sacrifice one of her cousins to go on a solo missions, what would happen if the Lord or Lady of Dragonstone would take great offense to their request? She turned around and began to walk off the docks, followed by Bambarro and Ayrmidon. “Perhaps it’s time to send out ravens of our own,” she said to herself.

"Do you honestly think this can all end the way you want it to?" Laurei asked him. She was was staring out the window of their chambers. Any stars that hung in the night were covered by clouds, leaving the view one of pitch black sea and sky.

"There has to be a chance," Dorin answered from the bed. "The only thing we can do is work towards that chance... and hope." His eyes dropped as he spoke. The top of his head was pressed uncomfortably to the headboard, but he was too close to sleep to move.

Laurei nodded, but he could hear her nails softly scratch the rough stone windowsill. A moment passed, and Dorin consciously felt himself begin to fall asleep, before her voice waked him again.

"Sweetport Sound is closer to the capital than Dragonstone..."

"I know." He couldn't think well enough to conjure a better response.

"We should move Joanna and Rohanne. To here, to somewhere else, where ever they can be safe. Your mother, too." The scratching continued, and Dorin forced himself to rouse for a moment, propping himself up with his arm. The top of his head ached slightly from where it had been pressed against the wood.

"I think that's a good idea. I can look to make arrangements in the morning.... I have an idea of a place." He cracked his neck. "Now, come on. I'd like to get up before dawn tomorrow."

Laurei nodded, but for a moment she didn't move. The scratching stopped, and he heard her breath a sigh out into the night air. Dorin let his eyes close as she turned and moved onto the bed, her hand finding his shoulder. His last thought was of how cold the autumn air was becoming.

Alyn Celtigar exhibited youthful curiosity. The phrase 'curiosity killed the cat' had often eluded his better intuition yet had been told upon him time and time again by his lord father. He was twenty-one and eager. To prove himself, to test his mettle, to explore.

Having squired under a household knight for him to later travel as a tourney knight, it presented a new challenge to him, the challenge of contentment in the present. Alyn had been with his father's household guard for over a year now, but the road called to him in more ways than one.

He was born to an island, and having seen a touch of the world, he yearned for it. In his youth, this escapism was found through his books. And thus, he returned to his old ways.

For the first time in a long while, he explored the library of Dragonstone in what he'd been afforded access to. Most of his time in the day was spent here, immersed in books, or roaming the barren countryside of Dragonstone, eyes peeled upon the skies. What he was searching for, he knew not. But after enough time with the books, his curiosities took him towards the caverns and volcanoes of Dragonstone.

The Third Moon of 26 AC (Mechanical Moon 5)

This is the turn thread for the 3rd Moon of 26 AC and the fifth turn thread of ITRP 18.0! This thread will remain open until the ending of the current moon (turn) on Saturday, August 10th, 2024 at 12:00pm EST timezone converter. All aspects of this post and its comments at the time of thread closure will be considered binding actions and cannot be changed once the thread is locked.

After that time this thread shall be locked and the actions resolved shortly after. You have two weeks to submit actions in the thread. Once the thread is locked, no further actions will be accepted for the turn. All actions must be finalized by this time.

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[Military Action]

Military Movements - See Discord or Modmail

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[Skill Learning] (Not available to characters this moon!)

Baelor had been told what he was to do. He would speak with Gregor in private, he would talk to Talbert as well after. Both men would need to conform to what King Laenor had wanted and no matter how their conversation turned, he knew that he would do what was required of him before he began the march for King's Landing.

It was up to him to take it. He was the last few Lords who'd built the bitch of a city and who else could dare to climb it's walls? To put an end to the Dragon's Civil War once and for all? No-one but Baelor could.

And to make matters more interesting, he'd been told that Aenar had named Aelor his heir, perhaps he could use that to his advantage. Not just to deal with one Prince but both.

What if....no. There was no time to think of betrayal and rule. That would be done once he'd begun his march.

For now he'd remain a loyal subject to the Crown.