GOT: Last Chance RP

[Acroticus]

OOC: viewtopic.php?f=5&t=193636


Damion sat besides his sons crib. He stared over the bars, at the sleeping child. He had his nose, Damion thought. The child’s room was quite high, and as Damion turned his head to look out the window, he thought about how Leofwin would enjoy the view.

“He is beautiful.” Belle walked into the room. Belle had dark black hair and was quite pale. She was about average height for a woman, and Damion towered over here. He could see the child had her black hair and not his brunette curls. She had her hands on her belly, as it had already begun to swell. Soon Leofwin would have a brother or sister, he thought, and he couldn’t wait. Damion had always hoped to have a large family, and it was disappointing to him that he had only one brother.

“Yes, he is.” Damion put his arm around his wife as she sat on the bed next to him. “And one day he will become Lord of Riverrun.”

“But not today; today you are the Lord of Riverrun. And as Lord you need to go to the celebration; all the riverlords are meeting in the Great Hall.”

“Ah, the celebration for our son’s second name day. He should be absent at his own celebration?”

“It is important he sleep; you know that.” The two of them stood and embraced each other. Then Damion forced himself out of his son’s room and down to the Great Hall where a large group of highest riverlords were feasting and drinking. Damion’s brother Roland sat at a table in the middle of the Great Hall with several other lords. Roland was slightly shorter than Damion but still taller than many men. He shared the same brown hair, blue eyes, and pale skin that the Tullys had shared for many years.

Damion sat besides his brother and welcomed the lords around him; Edwin Mooton, Hervey Blackwood, Eustace Frey, Jonos Frey… the lords kept coming. Damion did not like meeting with so many lords; he thought they should be back ruling the Riverlands. Still he extended the proper courtesies. After all, it was his son’s name day.

[Metanih]

Raela needed a new hand of the king. The old one, some old lord from the islands around Dragonstone, had become an issue to Raela. It had been no issue to convict him of treason. The King never even attended the trial, despite the pair being friends. Sure the charges were fake, but real guilt or innocence hardly mattered when one crossed those above them in the realm. Raela could just get her father to give her the badge... Raela considered that, holding the badge that normally came with the office. She had torn it off of the shirt of the man during the trial, a rather dramatic gesture. However, giving Raela the badge would accomplish little. She had proven that she effectively spoke with the King's voice in matters when she executed the Hand.

She recalled their last private conversation. It had barely been two days ago, yet it was still fresh in her mind. "Lord Hand? I wish to speak to you about something vital to the Kingdoms." She had said, as she pulled him aside from the throne room. After she had him alone, she revealed something. "I believe you know that my father is not in the best of health?" She said, frowning. "After he dies, a new Targaryen will rise to the throne." The hand had a confused look on his face at that point, for Raela was speaking the obvious.

"Yes, your brother Prince Aerion will ascend..." She cut him off there, her voice loud and commanding. "NO! He is a weak fool, and will poison the Kingdoms. For the good of the realm, it must be me that inherits the Throne. There may be conflict, if Aerion decides to leave Dragonstone, but with the support of the Hand, it would show the people who really ruled the realm." The man stood, aghast at the notions she implied. "You.. You mean to... He is your brother! You would betray him that easily? Your father will hear of this, and he will put you in your place Lady." He had said, commandingly, and with the sure authority of one who knew the power he supposedly held.

He turned around to face another Targaryen. Prince Gerios, the younger brother, stood in his black plate, sword out. "What is the meaning of this?" He cried out, desperate for an escape, an escape that was a rapidly shrinking dot of light for him, in the dark cave around him. "Guards, this man is being charged for treason. Take him to the black cells." Raela said, smiling. The old man tried to run, but Gerios, even in his armor, caught him as four more armed guards emerged. The man seemed desperate, but his attempts at escape failed after that.

Raela sat back in the chair. Perhaps she could organize a tournament. That would get the Lords of the Realm into the city, and she could find a more loyal hand, one that appreciated her enough to support her.

[San Monteriano]

Highgarden
The Reach, Westeros

---

Highgarden: one of the most-beautiful fortress-cities of Westeros, its cityscape dotted with groves and fountains, shady courtyards and marble colonnades. The stables of this great castle were filled with fine selections of horseflesh and its gardens were well-manicured and groomed. Lying on the River Mander - its moorings lined with majestic-looking pleasure boats and few merchant ships - Highgarden was the beaming capital of Westeros' most-populous region, the Reach, and the seat of House Tyrell, an influential and renown Great House of Westeros. Within its vast stables, Lord Gillard Tyrell galloped on a brunette thoroughbred, circling the permanent jousting site adjacent to the castle's stables; due to the Reach being considered the 'capital of chivalry' in Westeros, its knights regularly engaged in jousting as a proof of honour, nobility and chivalry.

"Whoa boy!" Gillard bellowed, his rounded belly hanging over his polished leather belt. Though not an obese man, Gillard was of over the average weight. "Is this one to my lord's specifications?" Asked the stable master, a bald, bearded man of the same stature as Gillard himself, whom guided the horse over to the man and halted it, the horse kicking up small piles of dirt as it stomped its front legs. Gillard patted the beast's side, stroking its luscious brown coat. "Aye, he's a fine breed." He replied, pulling his brown leather gloves off his hands and staring up at the horse. "Put him in my personal stable." "Yes, my lord." The stable master replied, taking the horses reins and directing towards Gillard's personal stable.

From the corner of the scene, Jorah, the Knight of Flowers, rode towards the stables, wearing thick leather training armour and perched upon the top of a immaculately-white stallion, trotting up towards his father. "Ah, my son, how fares your training?" Gillard asked, stuffing his gloves into a pocket of his green attire. "Well, father, I should be prepared for next week's joust." Jorah replied confidently, referring to Highgarden's next jousting event. "I'm please to hear that."

The two remained silent for a few moments before Lord Garth, Gillard's brother and Lord Seneschal, approached, marching towards the two. "Gilly...I have news from the Marches." "And, brother?" "Dornish rogues are attacking settlements along the Red Mountains, nothing serious, but we must ensure that our villages and towns are protected." "I assume the lords south-east are dealing with the problem as we speak?" Garth nodded.

"Any news from King's Landing? Those bloody Targaryens will be the death of me." Gillard replied, wiping his tired brow. "Nothing new: the Hand was executed and Raela seems to be growing more powerful by the day." Garth reported, a trembling concern in his voice. "Very well, brother, tell me when the next raven arrives from King's Landing immediately."

The rare Dornish attack was nothing of great concern to the Tyrells, but grave concern would arise with internal dispute within the Targaryen ranks.

[Acroticus]

Riverrun, The Riverlands



“My lord!” Damion turned to see Maester Warrin running towards him with a letter. “It has been confirmed, the Hand of the King is dead.”

“Lord Buckwell?” Damion knew Harrison Buckwell; they had shared drinks with several other lords the night of his son’s birth. “What do they know of his passing?”

“He was executed, my lord.”

“The King had him executed! What for?”

“Treason, my lord. And it appears it wasn’t the king’s orders, but Lady Raela’s.”

“The Princess?” Princess Raela had never done something so brasin. How had she killed the Hand of the King anyhow? King Jorhaeys must be losing his control, allowing his daughter so much power. Damion needed to put someone friendly to the Riverlands in King’s Landing. But he could not go, and his brother was certainly too young and inexperienced to be suggested as Hand. Perhaps another family, one very close to the Tullys.

“Maester, send a letter to Lord Stark in Winterfell; tell him I need to speak with him. Invite him to Riverrun and tell him to come with all haste.”

“Yes my lord.” Damion ran down to the Great Hall where Roland awaited him.

“Brother, the Hand of the King is dead, executed by Raela Targaryen.”

“Harrison is dead?”

“Yes. King’s Landing is becoming a very dangerous place. But still we need someone friendly to the Tullys with power as Hand of the King. I would see the badge pinned to Lord Stark; he has been a great friend to the Riverlands.”

“I agree,” Roland nodded.

“I need you to go to King’s Landing and get the King to appoint Pascal Stark as Hand. I trust no other lord as much as you, and I would hope the suggestion would carry more weight from a Tully than from someone unknown riverlord.”

“I am honored, my lord.” Roland smiled. As the younger son, he had been given relatively little political power, and he was exuberant to be able to help. “I shall leave tomorrow.”

“Thank you, brother. You must also take guards; take twenty. You will need them, Roland. I fear the worst awaits you in the capitol.”

[Sulamalik]

On the mainland they had a saying: "Hard places bred hard men". Tarin thought this had no truer meaning than for the men of the Iron Islands. If there was a land equal in its harshness to its inhabitants ferocity, he had never heard of it.

Under a perpetually grey sky were a loose collections of barren rocks off the coast of Westeros. Their jagged outcrops jutted into the sky like spears, the Drowned God's response to whatever creatures held dominion in the air. What soil clung to the rock was thin and mostly unable to grow any great number of crops. We Do Not Sow, another saying, but it ehld more meaning to him for was their House's words. The Ironmen believed that the right of ownership always deferred to the man who had the strength to take it. If not seized through force, claims of possession were illegitimate and worthy of jest. Many years before his birth Ironmen had ruled from these stony steps to their seat at Harrenhal, upon the mainland, how great and auspicious such a time that must of been.

As he knelled upon the grey sand a small drizzle of rain began to shower. When it wasn't raining it was pouring, another old saying. He looked up, seeing the imposing outline of Pyke upon the sheer cliff face. It's towers were the tallest buildings on the Isles, providing the Greyjoy's with unparalleled vantage over the kingdoms in the East. It seemed that his entire life, all fifteen years of it, had been spent walking the musty halls of those towers. It seemed strange, that on the outskirts of Pyke was where he felt closest to home. The sea was every true Ironborn's home, he reflected, we loan our lives on this barren dirt for an entirety of Paradise under the salt waters.

"Kneel child." Spoke the firm voice of his uncle Ballen.

Like waves against the shore he felt his stomach crashing and churning against itself. He awkwardly set himself to the ground, pausing for a second. His mind had seized up on the dilemma of where to keep his hands. He set them to his either side of his legs balled up in fists, then relaxing seconds after.

"I have known you since you were but a little babe nursing upon your dear mother's teat. I remember on the day of your birth, oh! How the stars did fall. You are Tarin of House Greyjoy, son of Royland Lord Reaper of Pyke." He looked out to the sea, his mouth held open as if he words were trying to force themselves out from his throat. "...Let your son be born again from the Sea. Bless him with salt..."

With his two huge hands he grabbed hold of Tarin's head and forced it down into the water. He did not even think of resisting as the salty water flushed into his nostrils, scourging his insides. "...Bless him with stone. Bless him with steel!"

Dark spots flashed across his field of vision, his head felt dizzy and encroaching from the corners of his mind were the dual enemies; of terror and doubt. He tried to fight his uncle's vice but was unable to summon enough strength for him to even notice. As his vision faded and body went limp he felt himself being lurched up from the cold sea. He took in deep gulps of air that were almost as salty as the sea itself. He felt better than alive, he felt reborn. "What is dead may never die." He uttered, so softly that even he doubted if the words actually left his lips.

"Aye, what is dead may never die, but rises again, stronger and harder. Arise Tarin Greyjoy, arise. Though you came to this shore a boy, you have become a man. A Drowned Man."

Drowned Man. The words seemed like honey on his ears. To be declared Drowned was to mean being an Ironborn who utterly devoted themselves to worship. The Vanguards of the faith, their God's warrior's above the sea. His second baptism had brought with it a new vitality and pride. He looked away from the sea, up to a lonely hill of which his father and brother stood upon. As they looked down on him he imagined what terrific pride that must of had for him.

Turin raised his fist into the air, and with a scream that could be heard all throughout the Seven Kingdoms he yelled: "What is Dead may never Die!"

[First Valerian Empire]

Bartholomew Lannister was a hard man, He wasn't born hard but was made this way by the circumstances of his birth,family and the situations that arise in the Iron Kingdom.He had just received word that the Hand of the King was just arrested for treason. He held no doubt in his mind that this was some type of plot to change the very status of the Kingdom. The question however was not what happened but rather who and why.

His loyal Squire Stylis entered, Announcing the arrival of his son Tywin.

''Send him in'' said Barth

His tall, athletic son entered. Tywin had always been a cold child, even when he was little, whenever he would get hurt you would rarely catch him crying or asking for his mother. He was like his father in that way.

Tywin Enters

''Father, I just heard the Hand of the King has been arrested for treason. Is it true?''

''I am afraid so my son, the times are changing and we must change with them.''

''You should travel to Kind's Landing to petition to be made the hand of the King.'' Said Tywin.

Barth thought for a moment, It was a option he had never even considered.

''Yes, but how would the other lords take this action?''

''They may take it however they wish, You are qualified for the position and it would strengthen our House's influence and power within the kingdom.'' Said Tywin.

Again Barth, considered his firstborns advice.

''I will consider your proposal later, what is the status of the task I have given you.?'' Barth Asked

'' I have ordered our scouts to search all of the Seven Kingdoms and eastern cities. Those which you seek are hard to find. However the scouts believe they have lead and will report back once they have discovered more.''

Barth nodded in approval.

'''And what of our envoy to the greyjoys?'' Barth said

''Lord Edwin has just left Lannisport in one of our galleys. He shall arrive in pyke 1 forth night from today with our proposal.'' said Tywin.

''good,good, in light of these recent events it is of the utmost importance that he delivers that message.'' said Barth

''He will Father, His life depends on it.'' Said Tywin.

Barth again nodded in agreement.

''that is all, leave me to ponder these events.''

''yes, Father'' Tywin said

He bowed and left the room, leaving his father alone.



The scouts must find one of them soon if his sceme was to have any success. Just as the Greyjoys recieving his message was key to his gamble. In the next few months the fate of his house was to be determined. His father had always said that life was simply a series of gambles that either paid off or put you further in debt and when you can't pay your debts, you die.''


OOC:I hope that was okay guy, never really did a GOT RP before.

[San Monteriano]

Highgarden
The Reach, Westeros

---

Garth had ran from the ravens' coop of the castle to Gillard's personal study, sprinting up the winding staircase of the spire on which the chamber sat upon. He hurried up to the door, hurling his knuckles at the wooden frame before entering the circular, well-lit chamber. Surrounded by windows, pure beams of natural sunlight poured through the study, illuminating the desk which stood in the centre underneath a carpet baring the Tyrells' colour and sigil, a golden rose. Gillard was stood in front of one of the many windows, looking down on Highgarden's plenty features, gardens and courtyards. The walls of the interior keep surrounded the complex, preventing a view to the outside from a normal viewpoint; the location and height of the spire allowed its inhabitants to view the rolling pastures in the distance.

"Brother." Garth spoke in a grave manner, closing the door behind him before marching towards his brother. "What is it, Garth, speak?" Gillard mused, turning from the window so his brother would have his full attention. "I have news from King's Landing: the Hand was killed on...Raela's order, my lord, not the king's." Garth announced solemnly, his face pale at the information; Gillard's face too changed. The Lord of Highgarden moved away from the window, dawdling towards his desk and sitting down in the plump leather chair behind it.

"I tell you, Garth, those damned Targaryens are a blight upon the Seven Kingdoms! Harlan should have never surrendered these walls." Gillard said glumly, reaching for the golden goblet of wine on his table and sipping from its contents, staring into distance as he took in the news of the fate of the Hand.

Garth walked around the other side of the desk, placing his palms flat on the table as he looked up at his older brother. "Seven Hells!" He exclaimed, "What are we to do, Gilly?"

His brother sat motionlessly for several moments, the goblet perched in his right hand. "We..." Gillard paused, drinking the wine once more, "Must ride to King's Landing." Garth's mouth dropped in surprised; the Tyrells weren't ones to leave the Reach, nor even Highgarden, and such thing was considered infrequent. "The city's not exactly the safest place in the Kingdoms, Gillard! What are you to do, demand Raela an explanation?! She'd just arrest you for treason." "She wouldn't dare, or else the armies of Highgarden would bare down on those Targaryen dogs!" Gillard spat, putting down the goblet and rising. "Still, brother, you must be cautious."

Gillard waved his brother's advice away in a dismissive way, "I know, I know. Prepare forty household guards to accompany me to King's Landing, and only the best, we don't need high-strung Tarly boys who have never seen combat." "Of course, brother." Garth replied obediently; even he realized that when is brother was to do something, he would do it. "You shall assist Elinor on maintaining the keep whilst I'm away. If you don't hear from me within three weeks, call the bannermen, is that understood?" Gillard commanded, leading Garth down the steps of the spire.

"Of course brother." Garth replied.

Two Hours Later

---

The horses and their riders were prepared and awaiting their lord's arrival at the stables, all stood quietly in a straight line. Gillard had said his farewells to his family - his wife, Elinor and his son, Jonah - before arming himself with his sword, the Blooming Rose. At the stables, he mounted with brown thoroughbred, altering the reins before going into a full gallop in front of the forty riders, all experience and trusted Tyrell swords. "Now, we ride for King's Landing!" He declared triumphantly, leading the riders out of the stables and through the main gates of the interior complex of the castle. He aimed to use the Roseroad, the main road to King's Landing where men of the Reach would deliver much-needed supplies to the capital.

[Metanih]

There certainly was commotion over the execution of the hand. More than Raela would have liked. It seemed like every lord of a major house had decided to come, although she wasn't exactly pleased with that. Tyrells, Starks, Lannisters... She would make someone the new hand, but who would be the ones most willing to support her bid to Queenship? That was ultimately what decided her choice. The Martells seemed a likely choice, as their laws stated females could inherit, but her claim was unlawful even there, as her brother was still older.

Raela sighed as she walked through the halls. It was unfortunate that there would probably be war over this. She would be a better ruler than her brother anyway, she knew how to get things done, as she had so recently proven. Her father would never condone a war, but she was one of the only ones to see him. She could always fabricate a tale of him telling her to take the throne, with Fire and Blood if required. It wouldn't fool everyone, but it would definitely help her cause. Many would think (rightly) that she was faking it.

With that, Raela moved to the throne room, where she confidently strode to the dais with the Iron throne, and sat upon it, ready to conduct court. It was obviously an arrogant action, but the King did leave Raela in charge of day to day affairs, as he raid ancient stories in the keep's library. She sat here daily, hoping she timed it right so some Great Lord or another would walk in just in time to see her sitting on the throne, and it would be a symbol of the power she truly held at court.

[DevilWater]

Lord Pascal Stark and Abrahan Fousto mounted their horses. He had received the letter and was ready to ride of to the Riverlands. The Starks and the Tullys were old friends, after all, Pascals father had been married to a Tully. He left Winterfell in the hands of his wife, Ryn, and his brother, Hektor. Quentin Stark had come to see him off.

"I hope he," Quentin said, pointing to the Bravosi, "isn't all your taking." Quentin was never the most trusting of the Starks. "Is there something wrong with that?" Abrahan, his temper flaring, asked. Abrahan never really liked Quentin, and was a man of great honor. He would get very angry when it was insulted. Quentin waved away the question. "Please, Pascal, bring at least a small squadron!" Pascal drew a deep breath. "Fine, organize a troop of twenty men, and supplies. Organize it in less then 3 hours, we wouldn't want to insult our friends." Quentin smiled at Abrahan's anger. He went to go organize the troops.

The lord of the North was off on his journey to the Riverlands. It was no more than a week long journey. The days were longer and harsher than they expected, and their supplies were insufficient. By the time they reached the border only fifteen men (Including the Pascal and Abrahan) had survived.

[Acroticus]

King's Landing, The Crownlands


Roland Tully and his guards reached King’s Landing in a shorter time than he thought they would. They arrived at midday; the sun was high in the sky. They walked through the gates and into the city with their banners held high. A small group of the City Watch, only about five men, came out to greet the Tully envoy. One of the gold cloaks, an elder man, stepped forward:

“Greetings, my lord. If you would follow us, we will lead you to your accommodations.” Roland looked at his men, then back to the Gold Cloaks, and nodded. They followed the Gold Cloaks to the Red Keep, and then through several hallways. Roland had never been in the Red Keep before and he was awed by its size and trappings. It was certainly much more elegant than Riverrun.

After a short stop in his room, Roland wanted to immediately bring his proposition to the King; his brother had told him it was important that he talk to the King quickly. Still, he decided it might be more proper to wait. He took his time changing into more proper clothes, and then took a couple guards down to the Maidenvault. There he prayed to the gods. When he was finished, he made his way towards the Great Hall. He was stopped when he met someone he recognized:

“Alexander Rosby, is that you?” Alexander turned around.

“Roland! How good to see you!” The two men embraced each other. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been good. The Riverlands are nice this time of year. You?”

“Oh, I’m fine.”

“How did you come to live in the Red Keep anyhow? I never figured you for a ‘royal’ man.”

“Ah we have been out of touch for a long time, my friend. I am Master of Whisperers; I sit on the small council.”

“Really? Roland was quite surprised by his friend’s new position. “How did that happen?”

“We don’t have time for this now, my lord. I hear you have a proposition for the King.”

“That I do. Your position suits you well.” The two men chuckled and Roland left to the Great Hall. The large doors were pushed open, and Roland motioned to his guards to stay behind. The room was all but empty; several lords and ladies stood around the Iron Throne, but not a very large crowd as Roland had often heard there was. Besides the Iron Throne sat the King’s Master of Coin; Roland did not know this man, nor the Grand Maester who sat on the other side.

As Roland approached the throne, he bowed his head as to show the proper respect. When he looked up though, it was not the King he saw in the Iron Throne, but Princess Raela.

“My Princess,” Roland said as he bowed the second time.

“Ser Roland of the House Tully. It is good to see you. How was your trip?”

“It was fine, my princess.”

“Good. What matters have you to bring before the court?” Roland thought about giving his brothers request to Princess Raela, but he remembered that Raela had killed the last Hand, and his brother had said specifically to give his proposition to the King, not the Princess.”

“I am here to request a meeting with the His Grace, my Princess.” Raela was visibly irked by this request, but only for a second.

“My lord, anything you would discuss with my father you can discuss with me as well.”

“I’m sorry, my Princess, but I was instructed by my brother, Damion Tully, Lord of the Riverlands, to speak with the King.” As he said these words, the Master of Coin leaned over to Raela and whispered something in her ear. Raela smiled:

“You will have to settle for me, my lord. The King is busy, you see. And so I am seated upon the Iron Throne; any business that would go to the King is handled by I. Now, my lord, what was it you wanted to discuss?” There was a short silence after Princess Raela said this, as Roland pondered his next move. Though the silence was brief, it felt as though it was hours long.

“If the King is busy, my Princess, it would be no problem to wait.” Roland stood from his knee and bowed once more.

“As you wish.”

“Thank you, my Princess.” At that Roland turned away and left the Great Hall.


Riverrun, The Riverlands

“My lord. We have received a letter from the Starks of Winterfell. Lord Stark will be joining us in Riverrun in a fortnight.”

“Wonderful, Maester Warrin. Now we must make preparations for his visit. Let us show the Starks what Tully hospitality is about.”

Although Lord Pascal Stark was coming to the Riverlands, Damion knew that Pascal was unaware of his intentions to make the Lord of Winterfell hand of the King. Just then Damion’s thoughts turned to his brother; Roland was probably in King’s Landing by now.

“Maester, have we any letters from my brother?”

“Not yet, my lord, but Ser Roland could still be travelling to the capitol. Do not fret.”

“Of course.” Damion thought to himself about the dangerous position he had put his brother in. He hoped the King would have enough sense to keep lords safe in his own keep.

Damion heard a sudden cry, and a maid rushed into Leo’s room. Damion followed, and motioned for the maid to leave. He lifted his wailing son and cradled him in his arms.

[Metanih]

The Tully Lord was getting a bit... annoying. He demanded to speak with her father, which could be arranged, but her father would certainly not appreciate it. Raela could never do the things she did if the King didn't allow it. Of course, she would be returned to Dragonstone in an instant if he knew of her plans after he died, so she had to keep that a secret, no matter the cost. The previous Hand had learned that not too long ago. She would have to be very careful with who she trusted. So far she only had her younger brother, who supported her plans completely, and a few of the household guards. If she got a few of the Great Houses on her side, notably Tyrell and perhaps Tully or Stark, then she could subdue any who flocked to Aerion's cause...

Of course, the King would receive the Tully lord rapidly enough, inside the library. It was said the King would have been a better Maester than a ruler, but there had been no others with an adequate claim to the throne. The King left the library for special occasions, such as feasts, and once in a great while, for an important council meeting. A few guards, dressed in black armor, approached the Tully men. "The King will receive you now, if you would follow us." The trio were dressed in standard outfit for the Targaryen house guards, and each carried a blade on his belt, the hilt dragonbone. Raela rewarded those who served her quite well.

Speaking of Raela, she had left the Iron Throne, going to the yard, to practice combat. It was a busy life, ruling, all while trying to maintain a good head for battle, both strategically, and martially. She held a practice sword in her hand, a far cry from the magnificent Valyrian Steel blade she normally wielded. However, even with the lower quality weapon, her aggressive combat method was driving back Gerios, her brother. Both siblings had smiles on their faces, as did the man watching them, the Master at Arms for the Red Keep. He had trained the pair of them since they were five each, when Raela decided she wanted to learn to fight like her older brother, Aerion. Aerion had never been good, but Raela had a talent for it. The man waited, watching for messengers. They were to be told if any more Great Lords entered the city, so they could greet them in the Throne room, like proper Targaryens.

[Acroticus]

King's Landing, The Crownlands


Roland Tully followed the Targaryen guards, ordering his own to wait for his return. He had to show that he trusted the Targaryens completely, even if he did not. He followed the guards through the halls to the entrance of the library. The Targaryen guards opened the heavy doors to reveal a huge room filled with books, scrolls, and letters. In a corner of the room sat the King, pouring over some books larger than his own breastplate. Two of the King’s Guard rested in the opposite corner, and rose as Roland entered the room.

The King did not realize Roland had entered the room for a little while, as engaged as he was in his books. Roland did not want to interrupt the King for thoughts of rudeness, but one of the Targaryen guards spoke up.

“Your Grace, Ser Roland Tully of the Riverlands.” At that the King turned around and jumped up.

“Oh yes, yes, of course. The Riverlord who demanded to see the King…”



Riverrun, the Riverlands

Damion sat up late that night, thinking about his brother in King’s Landing and the Starks along the Kingsroad. He thought about the problems they could face: the Lannisters had never been too fond of the Starks, and the Martells certainly would not be thrilled at the idea of a Northerner as Hand. And then there were the Tyrells…

“Maester Warrin, come in here a second.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Send a raven to Pyke. Ask the Greyjoys for their support for Lord Stark as Hand of the King. Emphasize that the Starks are good friends of us in the north, and that Lord Pascal Stark is an honorable man. And, invite Lord Royland Greyjoy to Riverrun.”

“Yes, my lord.” Damion had wished Roland was here to hand deliver the message, but he would not want any other lord to do it as it might be taken as an insult. Hopefully a formal raven would not harm their pride; besides, the Starks had not been offended.

[San Monteriano]

King's Landing
The Crownlands, Westeros

---

Passage from Highgarden to King's Landing via the Roseroad was faster than previously thought by Lord Gillard, reaching the capital of the Seven Kingdoms before he had ever expected; it had been a long time since he had traveled to King's Landing. Gillard and his entourage of forty Tyrell men arrived beyond the gates of the city, slowing down their pace as they drew nearer to the large sandy walls. Carts and horse-drawn carriages pasted by the group, whom attracted much attention to themselves with the Tyrell banners carried by the accompanying riders. They trotted towards the gates, seeing several guards of the City Watch awaiting beside the gate, presumably for the arrival of Lord Gillard Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and High Marshal of the Reach. "Lord Tyrell, Princess Raela is expecting you." One of the guard's announced, walking over to his horse beside them and mounting it, ready to escort the lord to the Red Keep.

"My lord, we insist that we accompany you to the Red Keep, on the Princess's orders; your men are to stay here." Gillard grunted in response, irritated by the request; he did expect that he wouldn't be able to take forty men into the Red Keep, however. "Fine! But I'm taking my best swords with me." He replied dismissively, motioning for his three best soldiers with him into the Red Keep.

The mounted guards escorted Gillard and his three swords through the gates of the city into a bazaar-like market square crowded with exotic traders, vegetable-filled carts and poor beggars busking for coin from passersby. The whole city was filled with a stench of sweat, sewage with a mixture of the fresh fruit and vegetables which were displayed on stalls lined across the marketplace; the contrasting smells of King's Landing's told a story of both rich and poverty, the latter being the most prevalent. Gillard looked somewhat disgusted by the smell; Highgarden was more manageable in sanitation, population density and other important contributors to city hygiene, mainly because it had a lower population than most cities. "What a mess." He grumbled as they made their way to the Red Keep.

Reaching the Iron Throneroom, Gillard, escorted by his three household guards, walked through its iron doors, being greeted by a small group of nobles gathered around the Iron Throne and guards lining the stone columns which led up to the legendary Iron Throne. Gillard strode up to the throne, standing steps before Princess Raela, whom sat regally - yet authoritatively - on the throne. He halted in front of her, staring her directly in the eye before bowing. "Your Grace..." He said begrudgingly; he never really liked the Targaryens, or the Lannisters and Martells, for that matter, but communication was necessary between all the Great Houses.

[Metanih]

Throne Room, Red Keep

"Lord Gillard." Raela said, looking upon the Tyrell man. She wasn't sure what he wanted, but if he was like most lords, and she had no reason to suspect otherwise, he would be after the position of Hand. Lords usually acted fairly predictably. Give them or their house a bit more power, even if it was a carrot on a string, and they jumped for it, regardless of what they were really jumping at. She smiled though, courtesy could not be simply ignored in court.

"You have come a long way from the beautiful lands of the Reach. Is Highgarden as beautiful as I remember? I fear I haven't been since I was a child." Raela said, smiling. Making the Tyrells more amiable to her would do wonders for her cause in the long run, with their hundred thousand swords. They could muster a force enough to take two to three other kingdoms, if they so pleased. And that could be invaluable in any fight. "I don't see you in court often, Lord, what has brought you all the way here?"


Library, Red Keep

The King sighed. He left Raela to deal with these things. Of course, some people wanted to see the real thing when they came. Perhaps they wouldn't accept a woman leading the realm. So be it. "Be swift Tully. I rapidly tire of politics, and was reading an account of the Field of Fire the Maester swears comes from a firsthand source." The King sighed, realizing his rudeness. It was tiring some days, especially when he forgot to sleep. The Maester would constantly complain that it shortened his lifespan, but he admired his studiousness at the same time.

"Your Grace, you do know your previous Hand was recently executed, correct?" Roland said, trying to be quick, and avoid long and proper greetings. He was sure the King would appreciate that, given the attitude he displayed.

"Yes, indeed. That was a tragic affair, but my daughter swears he was plotting against the realm, and the Seven deemed him guilty in trial by combat, I heard." The King said, suddenly realizing where this was going. If this Lord had demanded a private audience with him to ask if he could be placed as Hand, then he surely wouldn't be accepting of Raela doing as much as she did. Which would mean he would have to participate in the affairs of the realm again.

"I was going to request a new Hand to you, My Liege." Roland began, suddenly wary of the King's glare. The man may have been crippled, but his violet eyes were as intimidating as ever when he wanted them to be.

"If you are suggesting yourself..." The King began, but Roland rapidly cut him off.

"Apologies, Your Grace. Not myself, but Pascel Stark. He is a good man, honourable like a proper Stark. I am sure he would serve you well." Roland said, trying to clear things up, before the King got it into his head that Roland was doing this selfishly.

The King looked thoughtful at that. "Are you sure the Starkling wants the job? They have a tendency to sit in Winterfell and worry only about the North. Tell my Maester to invite him to King's Landing. Raela will make the final decision, though." He said, turning back to his book, indicating the conversation was over.

[Acroticus]

The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands



Raela will make the final decision though. The words rang in Roland’s ears. The Princess would decide the next Hand of the King. Why was the King so separated from the world, and so willing to be so? And where was Prince Aerion? Why was it not he sitting on the Iron Throne? He was the rightful heir, after all.

“I must find the Prince,” Roland thought to himself. “Surely the Prince will know what to do.”
Roland walked through the hallways back to his guards, who were awaiting him eagerly. The head of his guard, Gimbleton Jorrun, stepped forward.

“My Lord.”

“Gimbly, follow me.”

“What is it, what is wrong?”

“Princess Raela will be deciding who is to be the next Hand of the King. She is all but queen now. I must speak with Prince Aerion.”

“Yes, my lord. I will arrange it.”

“Good. Be sure it is you; I trust no other man as much.”

“Yes, my lord.” Gimbly bowed and turned away but before he could leave Roland began talking again:

“Gimbly, I require two of your best swords with me at all times.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“And one more thing; be careful. I need you alive.” Gimbly began to chuckle but stopped when he saw that Roland was serious.

“Yes, my lord.”

[San Monteriano]

Throne Room, Red Keep

"Lord Gillard." Raela said, looking upon the Tyrell man. She wasn't sure what he wanted, but if he was like most lords, and she had no reason to suspect otherwise, he would be after the position of Hand. Lords usually acted fairly predictably. Give them or their house a bit more power, even if it was a carrot on a string, and they jumped for it, regardless of what they were really jumping at. She smiled though, courtesy could not be simply ignored in court.

"You have come a long way from the beautiful lands of the Reach. Is Highgarden as beautiful as I remember? I fear I haven't been since I was a child." Raela said, smiling. Making the Tyrells more amiable to her would do wonders for her cause in the long run, with their hundred thousand swords. They could muster a force enough to take two to three other kingdoms, if they so pleased. And that could be invaluable in any fight. "I don't see you in court often, Lord, what has brought you all the way here?"

"Highgarden is very well, Your Grace." Gillard grumbled, acknowledging the compliment Raela had paid to his hold's capital. "I had heard reports of the execution of the Hand, though the reports were not...clear, on the events surrounding his imprisonment and execution. It has been too long since I last step foot in the capital, and this time seemed...appropriate, for such a visit, Your Grace." Gillard replied, stroking his beard. "I have no doubt Your Grace will be choosing another Hand of the King, in your father's absence?"

[Metanih]

"Indeed. My father bestows upon me many responsibilities while he sits in the library with one ancient book or scroll or another." Raela said, shrugging. "The previous hand was plotting against the safety of the realm, intending to spark a war. In the interests of the common folk and highborn alike, I had to move quickly, to save the realm." That part was a partial truth. At least to Raela it was. To her, it could be terrible for the realm if Aerion were to inherit the throne, and if the previous hand had reported to her father her plans, Raela would be sent to Dragonstone, or married to some far off lord before she could enact any of her plans.

"It is true I am picking a new hand. Many lords seem to be coming to the city, and I await more to arrive before I make my decision. The realm could be at stake if I choose poorly." Raela said, frowning softly. If she chose one that was not in agreement with her aspirations, then he would likely find himself meeting the King's Justice as well. That would upset the family of the deceased, and likely trigger war.

[DevilFire]

Lord Stark and his troops rode across the border between the Riverlands and the North, holding their banner high. They traveled swiftly through one village and another. No one stopped them on their path, which was not to strange, seeing as they were Starks. By midday they were roughly halfway to Riverrun. It was warmer than they were accustomed to.

Back at Winterfell, Hektor was nervous. He had never been in charge before, and intended not to mess up. Lady Ryn Stark was not quite as agitated. People had been confronting them all day with issues. Hektor wondered how his brother did it all. He knew Ryn must have helped with a lot because she was amazing at it. Solving problems left and right all day. Then there was Reeve. That was Hektor's main responsibility. While Ryn solved all the problems, he had to take care of Reeve. (13 year old daughter of Ryn and Pascal). Which was a royal pain due to the fact that she was always exploring, and never where she was supposed to be.

Meanwhile, in Riverrun, Pascal Stark was meeting with Damion. "It's nice to see you again!" Damion said. "It's longer than I hoped it would be." It had been over 10 years ago. "Well, Ive been busy with running a country. As have you, I assume." Pascal said. "Now then, why am I here?" Damion paused.

Quentin was starting to bother Hektor. Quentin kept on pestering Hektor about: how to spend this or what to do with that. Hektor, after a multitude of hours of this, was ready to punch Quentin in the face. He decided to put Quentin in charge of Reeve. If only to get out of his face.

"What?" Pascal asked. "You want me to be Hand of the King?" Damion nodded. "You are asking me to leave my family in Winterfell to go to the throne? What happened to the last hand of the king?" Damion was uneasy. "Yes, I am asking you to leave your family. But for good reason. Hand of the King Pascal! Hand of the King! How often does that chance come up?" Pascal looked cautious. "When would I have to decide?" "We haven't yet received a letter, so please enjoy our hospitality for as long as you need." Damion insisted. "Be careful, I might just take you up on that!" Pascal said. He was weary from the journey, and it was close to one a.m. He and Abrahan had to share a room, due to the fact that they were on a short supply of rooms.

"YOU DID WHAT?" Ryn yelled at Quentin, who cowered. "I-I-I lost her ma'am." He said, on his knees. She turned to Hektor. "Get troops searching for her right away!" She yelled to him. "That won't be necessary." He said. Because just then Reeve came dragged through the door by Emilda, the village Shaman, dragging her. "Found this one chasing a baby wolf, ma'am" she said. "Thank you, Emilda," Ryn said, she was uneasy with magic. "Oh, this is for you," she handed her a letter. Ryn opened it and read it. "So this is why he left," she thought out loud. "Well, of course he'll refuse," she almost laughed. "Noooooooo he won't ma'am" Emilda said with nothing but disrespect. "I feel it in my bones... there is a war coming ma'am. And he knows it."

[San Monteriano]

"Indeed. My father bestows upon me many responsibilities while he sits in the library with one ancient book or scroll or another." Raela said, shrugging. "The previous hand was plotting against the safety of the realm, intending to spark a war. In the interests of the common folk and highborn alike, I had to move quickly, to save the realm." That part was a partial truth. At least to Raela it was. To her, it could be terrible for the realm if Aerion were to inherit the throne, and if the previous hand had reported to her father her plans, Raela would be sent to Dragonstone, or married to some far off lord before she could enact any of her plans.

"It is true I am picking a new hand. Many lords seem to be coming to the city, and I await more to arrive before I make my decision. The realm could be at stake if I choose poorly." Raela said, frowning softly. If she chose one that was not in agreement with her aspirations, then he would likely find himself meeting the King's Justice as well. That would upset the family of the deceased, and likely trigger war.

"As it seems, Your Grace." Gillard replied, nervously scratching the back of his neck. "Then, it seems there is a need for a Hand which serves the Realm, rather than a specific house." He carefully suggested, attempting to ensure that the comment wasn't taken in the wrong way. "So I have heard, Your Grace; I heard whispers that Lord Tully is already in the capital, no doubt seeking the title of Hand of the King. The prospect of being one of the most powerful men in the Realm tempts many."

He quickly moved his attention to the status of the Small Council, "And what of the Small Council? Will that be reformed too, Your Grace?"

[Metanih]

The small council... that certainly required some thought. With the Hand gone, she certainly could replace the small council, who were mostly appointments made by her father, men who would have questionable loyalty to herself. "The small council will likely see some significant revisions in the days to come." Getting the small council to support her would be a good move, especially if she had the hand. It would give her complete control over King's Landing, and everyone knew, who held the throne, held the title. Not to mention, she could get a few houses to her side if she opened up a few seats.

[San Monteriano]

"Very well, Your Grace." Gillard replied, wondering why it had taken so long for the Princess to reply to a seemingly simple question. With the Hand gone, and the King mainly absent from his duties, the Small Council had been somewhat leaderless. With a loyal Hand and Council, Raela could assume de facto power over the Seven Kingdoms, but resistance among the other Great Houses were expected. "Well...my journey seems to have been wasted. I shall stay the night in King's Landing before returning to Highgarden. If there's nothing else, Your Grace?" He asked, readying himself to leave the Iron Throneroom.

[Metanih]

"I am sorry you feel your visit is wasted. What were you hoping to do, that failed so suddenly, however?" Raela said, minorly confused. He didn't seem to aspire to the position of Hand, at least he hadn't mentioned it, and he didn't ask about his house acquiring a seat on Raela's new small council. "And of course you can stay the night. It is a pity you aren't staying longer." She finished, standing up. If this audience was over, Raela wanted to get back to other things. Ruling wasn't her favourite thing to do, and the seat was bloody uncomfortable.

[Cheten]

It was a quite day at Storm's End, as a massive storm had driven the keeps inhabitants indoors. Even though the keep sat hundreds of feet above the surf, the crashing of the waves against the cliff sent up huge spouts of sea spray that soaked the castle. It was on this stormy day, that a man arrived at Storm's End bearing bad new for its lord.

"My Lord Steffon, a man has arrived from the Kingswood. He says he has urgent news", said Ser Kent head of the lords personal guard. "The Kingswood eh? Probably a messenger from the Bronzegate, send him in" Lord Steffon replied. Bronzegate was a holdfast on the outskirts of the kingswood and home to House Buckler. The Bucklers were good, trustworthy people but they were always pestering him with their messengers, being to proud to send a raven. A man entered the room dressed in furs with a dead bird in his hand, he clearly wasn't a messenger. "My Lord" the man said as he gave a quick bow "I was hunting in the Kingswood when I stumbled upon this". He placed the bird on the table.

Lord Steffon looked down at the bird. It was a charred hunk of meat and bones, with only a handful of feathers still attached. It was so disfigured that he couldn't even tell what kind of bird it was. "It was a messenger raven, it must of been struck down by a bolt of lightning on its was to Storm's End." he said, handing Steffon a thin role of paper "It bore a message for you Lord Steffon".

"Not everyone would risk the journey from the Kingswood to deliver a message and for that I thank you. Ser Kent see our friend here is rewarded for his troubles" Steffon said. Both men bowed before leaving the room. Steffon turned his attention to the message in his hand. The King's hand has been convicted of treason and received the king's justice. The execution was ordered by Princess Raela. "The Princess!?" he thought to himself, "would she be so bold as execute the kings hand? Of course she would shes a Targaryen".

He couldn't imagine this would be taken well, with and all the Houses vying for the now vacant position conflict would is sure to arise. Lines would be drawn, sides would be taken, and unless the issue is resolved the realm will ne plunged into war. He looked out the window at his rain drenched castle, and he was startled by a sudden revelation. It may be Storm's End, the most impregnable castle in all of Westeros, never captured by enemy forces in its millenia-long history, but if it wanted to survive the coming storm he would need friends.

[San Monteriano]

DISREGARD.

[San Monteriano]

"I am sorry you feel your visit is wasted. What were you hoping to do, that failed so suddenly, however?" Raela said, minorly confused. He didn't seem to aspire to the position of Hand, at least he hadn't mentioned it, and he didn't ask about his house acquiring a seat on Raela's new small council. "And of course you can stay the night. It is a pity you aren't staying longer." She finished, standing up. If this audience was over, Raela wanted to get back to other things. Ruling wasn't her favourite thing to do, and the seat was bloody uncomfortable.

Gillard was well-known for his sour attitude towards those whom he disliked, including the Targaryens, but he was compelled to communicate with them, regardless. "I feel...compelled, as the head of one of Westero's Great Houses, to make a bid for a position on the Small Council. I have reason to believe that the Realm would benefit from the input of House Tyrell, as would the Iron Throne." He said, hoping to capture the Princess's attention. Though his initial ride to King's Landing was not due to ambition, it seemed that the opportunity had presented itself, and with the audience with Princess Raela, no less.