ASOIAF:Rhaegar's Rebellion (IC)[OPEN[

[Balerion the Dread]

OOC

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The Stone Drum, Dragonstone

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Rhaegar, of House Targaryen
Prince of Dragonstone, Rightful Heir to the Seven Kingdoms

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It could be heard all through the castle.
A strange sound.
Melancholic, wistful, the quiet strum of harp strings were dissonant against the muffled sobs of numerous ladies hiding among the twisted gargoyles of Dragonstone. The Stone Drum was aptly named, its massive walls served to provide unrivaled acoustics, proven by the slow echo of the harper's lament. Even from his perch in the Chamber of the Painted Table, the sadness eminating from Prince Rhaegar Targaryen could be felt, as if the very stones were imbued with his nature, and mourned alongside the stricken Prince. As he continued to play, the women, those few that called Dragonstone home, cried. The Prince had always been known for his musical talent, capable of rousing crescendos and deep melodies. Today, however, his fingers moved slowly, as if turned to lead, and the notes rang hollow, and sad.

Prince Rhaegar only stopped playing when he heard a small rap on the heavy oak door that served as the only portal to the Chamber of the Painted Table. Before him, the massive carving of Westeros was sprawled, illuminated by a few flickering candles. It was here, nigh three centuries prior, that Rhaegar's ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror plotted the glorious invasion that brought House Targaryen to power, and united Westeros through Fire and Blood. And it was here, now, 283 years after that conquest, that the scion of that same House now sat, mourning his children, his wife, murdered as they were by his very own father.

Rhaegar looked up at the door, as the rapping came a second time, then a third. Seated as he was on the large chair overlooking the Table, the Prince looked as though he might be the Conqueror himself. His long silver hair was loose on his shoulders, and his strong features may have been carved from the very stone of the island. He was lithe, and tall, wearing black leather riding boots, and a simple black doublet with a high collar, fastened with obsidian buttons. Upon his hit sat a pale longsword, sheathed in its scabbard, and on his brow he bore a simple diadem of darkened steel, unadorned by finery.

The rap came a fourth time before Rhaegar muttered a reply, and a fifth before he finally responded truly.
"Come in," the Prince said, laying his beloved harp at the foot of his throne, and standing to greet his guests. Maseter Crymun was the first through, a wise, if sour, old man, hunched and grey, with not a hair on his head. Behind him strode Albin Massey, Lord of Stonedance, sworn to Dragonstone, a middle aged man, stout, and tired. Succeeding him in their questionable parade, Ardrian Celtigar thundered his approach. Large, with silver hair, the Lord of Claw Isle was a reputable warrior, though his sour nature and obvious disdain for anyone but himself were clear. The final person in their unlikely foursome was Septon Kyl, a young, pious, and incredibly fiery young member of the faith.

"My Prince," they all said in unison, with a bow, despite Lord Celtigar's barely being passable as a nod.

The Prince held forth a small scroll, its seal, clearly that of the King, was broken, and the document itself had clearly been subject to much crumpling. The four men passed it between them. If they were unsettled by its contents, they hid it well. Only Septon Kyl grimaced when he came across the end of the letter.

To those it may concern,

In light of recent events, it is the judgement of his Grace, Aerys of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdom's and Protector of the Realm, and his Small Council, that his son and heir, Rhaegar, Prince of Dragonstone, is hereby charged with high treason, conspiracy, murder, and oath breaking. Similarly charged are, Elia Martell of Dorne, and their issue, Aegon of House Targaryen, and Rhaenys of House Targaryen.

For their conspiracy to overthrow their liege lord, and inflict harm upon, these aforementioned traitors are hereby attainted, stripped of all land, title, privilege, rank, and hereby sentenced to death.

Any and all men so misguided as to offer aid, or shelter to the fugitive Rhaegar Targaryen, you shall be subject to the same judgement that awaits all those that betray their oaths to the Crown.

Signed,
His Grace, Aerys of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.

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"This arrived in the morning by raven," Rhaegar began as he leaned back against the painted table, one hand on the edge of the hard oak, another clutching the wooden peaks of the Vale. "Alongside a handful of ships fleeing the capital. Maester Crymun has assured me of its authenticity, and to hear the sailors below speak of the events in the capital..."
The Prince grew quiet, and a darkness crossed his face as he continued.
"It would appear that my father has not only attainted me of my lands and titles, but also deprived me of the love of my family. Princess Elia, slit in twane, and..."

Maester Crymun's reedy voice interjected.
"These are but the rumours of seamen, my Prince, tales must not be taken as true until we can verify them."

"... and my children.... little Aegon, and Rhaenys... doused in Wildfire at the very foot of the Iron Throne. Tell me, Maester, does that sound like something that my Lord Father would find beyond his inhibitions?"

A silence hung through the chamber, as though the Strange himself had appeared. Rhaegar breathed heavily, but resolved himself, wiping a tear from his eye.

"What would you have us do," Lord Celtigar said bluntly. Rhaegar could see it in his eyes, the fear. He was scared, scared of the Mad King's wrath, though the Lord of Crabs would never admit it. Now, merely being in the same room as the Crown Prince was excuse enough for Aerys to unleash the full might of the Throne. "We cannot avenge the Princess, nor your children by strength of arms. We are not Aegon the Conqueror," the Lord gestured to the Painted Table, "We have no dragons, and what men we do have are more like to die of fright than wage a war against the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms."

"You forget, my Lord," Kyl interjected swiftly, "Dorne too suffered far too great a humiliation. Let sleeping dragons lie, aye, tis a good motto to live by. But the Martell's of Dorne have never been frightened by dragons. They will want revenge, the same as our Prince."

"You mistake me, Septon," Rhaegar said, a steely tone entering his voice. "I am not interested in revenge. No one is as accursed as a Kinslayer, and I do not intend to join my father in taking on that title. I do not desire revenge, nay, It has become clear that we needs must save the Realm from further harm, not to say rescue my Mother, and Brother from the wretched King."

Maester Cyrmun shifted uncomfortably, running a gaunt, skeletal, hand along his polished head.
"What are you thinking, my Prince? Rebellion is an awful sin, even if those rebels are in the right."

"Take a note, my good Maester," the Prince said, dicatating a letter. "I want every raven you have to fly to every City, Castle, Holdfast or village bearing this message. And Septom Kyl, ensure the Faith hears of this too."

The old man nodded dutifully, and removed a piece of parchment from his robes, and copied down the Princes every word.

The the people of Westeros, Great and Small,

By now you have heard of the slanderous accusations leveled at me by my Father, the King. Surely as well, whispers have reached you of the heinous crimes committed against my family, and the family of my lady wife.

Now, my Lords, you know me as I am. You know I am not one for plotting, nor conspiracy, nor treason of any manner. My entire life has been devoted to the Crown, to preparing for the day I may wear my rightful inheritance, and to ensuring the health of his Grace, and my House. I deny any wrongdoing accused of me, and I denounce the heinous executions of both my loving wife, and my dear children. No man is as accursed as the Kinslayer, and now I fear my father has borne that title willingly. He will surely desire my capture, my death, and the continuation of his reign of terror.

But My Lords, I impeach you, to restore the rule of law and the rights of the noble families and smallfolk alike to their rightful place. It goes without saying that we must curtail the abuses the realm has been subject to for these past many moons, and that I, as the Rightful Prince of Dragonstone, and Heir to the Iron Throne, declare that I will not release my rightful inheritance as the eldest son of the King.

To all the leal Lords still remaining, those that honour their vows to the Throne, and the rule of law, laws codified in the contract between Lord and vassal for centuries, I beseech you to support me in the restoration of my place as rightful inheritor of the Throne, and to have justice for the tortuous deaths of my family.

May the Seven Bless You,
Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, and Rightful Heir to the Iron Throne.

[Revlona]

Rickard Stark
Warden of the North
Lord of Winterfell

“Prince Rheagar a traitor” Rickard said to the men assembled at the table with him, letting the words hang in the air.His sons sat on each side of him, Brandon to his left. His Maester also sat to his left.

“King Aerys a Kinslayer...” If the atmosphere was tense before, now it positively sizzled.

“What must we do.” He said, before leaning back to allow speech.

Brandon, always one to be hot headed in his actions and his words, spoke first. “Call the banners father, Declare for Rheagar, depose of the Kinslayer King and be done with it” he said harshly.

The Maester nodded agreement, “No man is as accursed as the Kinslayer, any oaths you owe him dishonor you, you must not take up arms for a Kinslayer” he said

Standing abruptly Rickard came to a decision, “Maester, call the banners” he said, before turning to leave.

“Father, who are we declaring for!?” Brandon asked as his father stood.

“That...I must pray on” Rickard said before leaving

[Dragos Bee]

House Martell

His sister and his nephews, dead. His beloved uncle, a hostage at best, soon to follow his niece and her children to their deaths at worst. Doran Martell could not believe the calamities that had befallen his family in just a few short weeks. But he knew he had to act quickly, especially when the ravens came from the Mad King asking him to fight against the former heir presumptive. The gall was appaling, but by then, the Prince of Dorne was already trying to prove that his pen was mightier than the sword.

To Rhaegar, holed up at Dragonstone, he sent a short letter via raven, with a simple message showing that House Martell was prepared to stand beside him.

To, Rhaegar Targaryen, Rightful Heir to the Throne of Westeros.

The atrocity done to the both of us cannot stand. Aid will come; await the Company of the Cat at the shores of Dragonstone.

Signed,
Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne.

The next letter was addressed to his brother, Oberyn, who had been fighting in Essos alongside his own company of sellswords.

To my dearest brother, Oberyn Martell.

It is with great grief that I must inform you of the actions of the Mad King. He has struck against our family and our brother-in-law's, slitting the throat of our sister and burning our nephew and niece alive with his damned Wildfire. So I ask you to take up a most grueling task: Hire the Company of the Cat; promise them the gathered wealth of Dorne. Only with their help can we crush our enemies.

Signed,
Doran Martell, Your Brother.

These would not be the only letters sent by trained ravens. A summons was sent out to the lesser houses of Dorne, including House Yronwood. Noble and smallfok were going to be called to war; nothing less than Dorne's full strength would do. However, with the Baratheons barring the most direct way up north, and The Reach's true allegiance non-commital, the Principality will have to go on the defensive once its treason was made plain. Considering how fatal the heat and the sands were to invading enemies, Doran can live with that.

[Phalnia]

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Lord Lucerys Velaryon
Harbor, King's Landing

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Lucerys did his best to feign an interest in the ropes and assorted rigging that he ran his hands over. The master of ships had found himself patrolling the docks more and more in recent days. He welcomed any excuse to leave the grounds of the Red Keep and often invented reasons to attend the ships that anchored at King's Landing. The breeze was just strong enough to tussle the lord's hair and the sky was clear. Usually, such weather would work to improve his mood, but nothing could seem to improve his mood since the foul murders of Elia and her children.

The waters of Blackwater Bay may have been calm, but Lucerys' mind was like a storm. The screams of young Rhaenys and Aegon throughout the keep still haunted his dreams. Lord Velaryon could not help but worry for the fate of his own children. Aurane was likely safe on Driftmark. As a bastard he garnered little attention and would likely pass unnoticed to the Mad King. But Monford was different. Lucerys had often brought his true born son to court and he now feared that Aerys' wrath may fall upon his son.

To avoid such a fate Lucerys had smuggled his son out of the city. Under the cover of night a small ship had slipped out of the city. It was bound for Dragonstone carrying two passengers. Lucerys prayed for their safe arrival and reception on the island. Lucerys could dally no longer at the docks. His absence from the court may draw suspicion from Aerys and his supplicants. He begrudgingly made his way back towards the River Gate and through the city towards the Red Keep.

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Monford Velaryon
Dragonstone

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The young boy trudged along the path. His long silver hair falling into his face with every step. He surveyed the surrounding country as he went. It was an unremarkable island and, in his opinion, not nearly as nice as his own island home. Most offensive, however, was the smell. He could not place it exactly but, he knew he did not like it. All in all Monford was so far unimpressed with Dragonstone. He considered the only interesting landmark on the island to be the castle of Dragonstone. The castle was built centuries ago into a volcano and served as the seat of future Targaryen kings. He supposed that visiting the castle made the trip bearable.

A few paces ahead of the boy was an older man. He walked with the confidence that came from years of service and many victories. On his hip he wore a shining sword. upon his chest he wore the sigil of the house he had served for nearly two decades, a silver seahorse. Like Monford, ser Jorrel Warrin had never visited Dragonstone. But, unlike the little lordling he was not distracted by their surroundings. He had been sent to the island with a task that he was honor bound to see through.

Fleeing the city at night, aboard a merchant ship while his lord remained at King's Landing had not been ser Jorrel's idea. He dreaded the idea of his lord's life resting on the whims of a crazed old man. But, if he was successful here than perhaps he could secure the lives of his lord and others who were at the mercy of the court.

The pair reached the gates of the castle of Dragonstone. Jorrel approached a guard, "I bear a message for Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, from Lord Velaryon at the Red Keep."

[Balerion the Dread]

OOC

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The Stone Drum, Dragonstone

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Rhaegar, of House Targaryen
Prince of Dragonstone, Rightful Heir to the Seven Kingdoms

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Warmth

Rhaegar's mind always drifted to the same thought whenever he took his place on the High Seat of Dragonstone.

It's always warm.

The throne itself was hewn into a jagged spear of rock that stabbed angrily into the air at the far end of the massive Hall. The black stone, though deep within the Stone Drum, was never cool, even in the deepest days of winter. No, rather, the ancestral seat of the Dragons ran warm, as though they it had Targaryen blood coursing beneath its ebony exterior.

Who knows what magics my ancestors used to create this place.

The Great Hall itself was ornate, with the peering eyes of black gargoyles and dragons ringing the black oval walls of the room. A series of jagged steps lead down from the dais upon which the Throne sat, and below that lay the smooth sheen of the obsidian floor. As with the rest of the castle, the light smell of smoke drifted through the air. As Rhaegar sat on the throne of his forefathers, he truly grasped how terrifying the room was, and could only have imagined the impression it had made on all the visitors House Targaryen had entertained here. At the far end of the hall sat two black oak doors, carved with the Targaryen crest and embossed with dark steel. Slowly, the doors swung open, a great groan echoing through the Stone Drum, and a Maester Crymun entered, attended by several guards. Behind them, a man and a young boy entered, their crest being one instantly recognized by Prince Rhaegar, even from across the vast emptiness of the Throne Room.

"May I present to you, My Prince," Crymun said shakily, waving towards the man and boy with a bony hand. "Monford of House Velaryon, Heir to the Lordship of Driftmark, and his sworn sword, Ser Jorrel Warrin."

Rhaegar smiled sadly. Even illuminated by the dying candles that littered the hall, anyone could see the young boy had Valyrian blood in him. His hair was silver, and his demeanor noble. The Velaryons had, in times past, been the second House of Westeros, unrivaled at sea, with immense wealth and an inextricable bond with the Royal Family. So great was their power, they had dominated the politics of King's Landing for more than a century, earning numerous members the title of Master of Ships with such greats as Daemon Velaryon and Corlys the Sea Snake being remembered well. During the Dance of Dragons, it had largely been the Velaryons that supported Queen Rhaenyra in her quest to gain the throne, and her children, nominally Velaryons at the least, had all been dragon riders before their untimely end. Since the Dance, however, House Velaryon had slipped from the height of their power, and by now, despite their presence on the Small Council, they could only be seen as the premier House of the Crownlands, rather than of the Kingdom. Even so, Rhaegar knew, the same blood of Old Valyria that flowed through his veins also flowed through the veins of the young Lord now bowing before him, and those that bore this blood were not to be condescended to, nor be reasonable when slighted.

"And My Lords, Ser, may I please introduce," Crymun continued, turning now to face the enthrone Princem" Rhaegar, of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and Rightful Heir to the Seven Kingdoms."

Rhaegar nodded, and with a gentle wave, invited the old Maester to sit, motioning for a small chair that sat charred and blackened at the foot of the dais.
"Well met, Lord Velaryon, Ser Jorrel, it is an honour to receive you at Dragonstone, though I will not attempt to hide my surprise at your arrival."

A servant came forward, offering wine or ale to both guests.

"I was informed of your coming by the my guards, claiming you have a message to give to me, from your Lord Father, the Master of Ships. Pray tell, what word do you bring from the Capital?"

Hoping beyond hope, Rhaeger knew there would be no word of Elia, Rhaenys or Aegon. All three were lost that was well known. But, if House Velaryon still remained true to its Oaths to Dragonstone, then the Prince may be able to count on the support of the Royal Fleet.

A fleet we desperately need.

"Come," the Prince said, motioning the men to come loser, "tell me what information you came to tell."

[Lunas Legion]

House Lannister
Casterly Rock

It was a cold morning in the Rock. Too cold, at least for Tywin Lannister's liking, as he found himself sitting alone in his solar, a brazier in one corner of the room providing light and warmth to the room that he did not really feel, not with the letter in his hands chilling him. It was not a chill of fear, no, no mere letter could scare Tywin Lannister, but it was the chill of uncertainty, of anticipation that settled over his shoulders.

He passed the letter to Maester Justin in silence, the old, dour Stormlander taking it in silence.

"Burn it." Tywin commanded, folding the letter neatly in half and passing it to Justin, who walked over and threw it into the brazier.

"What will you do, my lord?" Justin asked, his voice harsh and coarse, severe. Tywin rarely sought council on matters of action; he was a decisive man, rarely changed from his course, but he could do nothing but sit in silence, the only sound the crackling of the brazier.

Justin coughed.

"I must confess, Justin, for the first time in my life I am at a loss." Tywin admitted. "It matters not whether Rhaegar committed treason beforehand or not. He has committed treason by raising arms against the King. Dorne shall follow him, out of a demand for vengeance. The others... I do not know. Stark has married Tully and is betrothed to Baratheon. Arryn fostered the eldest Baratheon, and the second-eldest Stark. That group of four will likely march together, and whom they side with determine who is king. I shall not have that."

No, there would only be one kingmaker in the Seven Kingdoms, and it would be him.

Silence reigned before the specks of a plan began to form in Tywin's mind, collecting together.

"Fetch parchment and quill, if you would, Justin." He eventually said. Justin nodded and vanished, returning after a few minutes and handing them to Tywin, who set them on the table in front of him and began to write.

To His Majesty, King Aerys II of House Targaryen,

I write to you to offer you my services in this trying time, and to ask for your permission to call my banners in order to preserve the peace of the realm. Once my banners have been raised, I intend to personally lead the greater part of my force to garrison Harrenhal, and I would ask Your Grace to order Lord Whent to open the gates of Harrenhal to me.

I intend to garrison Harrenhal, and from Harrenhal prevent any advance towards King's Landing from the north, if that is what Your Grace would have me do. I am sure that Your Grace can hold King's Landing against whatever meager forces your traitorous son can raise, but I would provide reinforcements if requested by Your Grace.

Your Loyal Servant,
Lord of the Westerlands, Tywin Lannister

Tywin folded the letter cleanly in half before stamping his wax seal onto it.

"Send this by raven to King's Landing, and then call my banners to muster at Lannisport." He passed the letter to Justin.

Justin nodded and left the room at a brisk walk.

As he left, Tywin allowed himself to slump just a little. The die was cast. He couldn't simply throw his lot in with Rhaegar, not... Not with Jamie on the Kingsguard in King's Landing, but he could hardly sit idle. Take a decisive position, such as Harrenhal, with your forces, and wait and see where everything fell. It was like cyvasse; a game of careful movement, positioning and posturing, until one side finally took a piece after which it all quickly devolved into a mass of pieces being removed until both sides were left with remnants of their former forces.

He intended to get himself in the best position possible before that.

[Revlona]

Lord Rickard Stark

The atmosphere in Winterfell was tense. All conversation was on the current conflict at hand, and rumors ran wild.

No one but Lord Rickard knew who they would declare for. Everyone knew that the north would declare themselves, as the banners had already begun to trickle in, but who to declare for, that was the question.

That was the topic of discussion, and how it was discussed.

Finally, three days after the news was heard in Winterfell of Aerys Kinslaying and Rheagars Treason, Lord Stark finally let it be known who the north was for.

Three ravens flew, one to Dragonstone, one to Riverrun, and one to the Eyrie.

The north had entered the war.

To: Prince Rheagar Targaryen

Prince Rheagar, Upon hearing of the treason you are accused of, and upon hearing of the Mad Kings Murder of your children and wife.

I hereby pledge my allegiance to you, I would name you King, should you wish to depose your father, I would name you my rightful lord.

No man is as accursed as the Kinslayer, and your father lost my allegiance when he burned your children alive.

I have called my banners and intend to march south, I ask that you meet my forces as swiftly as possible, either here in Winterfell or on the run, I believe I can win Hoster Tully to our side.

Signed

Lord Rickard Stark
Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North

To: Lord Hoster Tully

Lord Tully, I presume you have heard the news regarding the Targaryen so I shall not waste time getting to the point. I mean to declare for Rheagar and March south, I ask that you do the same, and order the Lord Frey to open his crossing to my host.

I mean to make my way to Riverrun on my way south, so I also ask that you make ready for the Betrothal between my Brandon and your Catelyn to be consummated to sooner tie our houses together.

Signed

Lord Rickard Stark
Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North

To: Lord Arryn

Lord Arryn, am writing this letter to inform you that I shall be declaring for Rheagar Targaryen. I urge you to do the same.

Should you decide to oppose us, I simply ask you allow my second son, Eddard, safe passage home.

Signed

Lord Rickard Stark
Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North

[Union Princes]

Lord Roose Bolton

This wasn't the ideal position for the North. Roose was sure of it. In a defensive war, the Neck would be a great chokepoint to hold against any invader but since this war was to put Rheagar on the throne, they have to take the offensive.

Roose Bolton was a young lord who has yet to prove his valor to his liege lord and this war was a chance for him to do that. He swore an oath and being an oathbreaker would soil his reputation to his liege lord.

After a day in contemplation after hearing whose side the North was on, Roose sent a raven to Winterfell. By the time it would arrive, Roose Bolton would already be marching with 4,000 of is men to the seat of the Starks.

To: Lord Rickard Stark
Upon hearing the decision, I hereby pledge my allegiance to you. I will raise my banners and march forth to join the allied forces at Winterfell.
Signed
Lord Roose Bolton
Lord of the Dreadfort

[Phalnia]

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Monford Velaryon
Dragonstone

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Monford was truly in awe as he and Jorrel were led through the castle. All manner of strange creatures lined the walls and towers of the castle. Monford recognized dragons, wyverns, and griffins among them. There were many more that he could not place, believing such things were likely confined to the realm of nightmares. He did his best to hide any fear that they may have caused. Ser Jorrel was unfazed and Monford was determined to follow suit.

In attempt to distract himself Monford tried to remember everything that he had been taught about Dragonstone. It had been built centuries before Aegon united the realm, that much he remembered. He also recalled that wild dragons once made their home in the Dragonmont, but they were all dead now. Monford had always envisioned himself riding a dragon, like his ancestors had done during the Dance of Dragons. His father's maester had made sure to quash that dream. He claimed that dragons no longer existed and would never return.

This internal recital of his history was cut short as he and Ser Jorrel were led through a large set of black doors. The old maester ahead of them announced their arrival to the great hall. Likewise he announced the master of the castle, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Monford suddenly found his legs moving on their own as he and Jorrel closed the distance to the throne and the end of the hall. He was aware that words echoes through the hall, but he was unable to focus on them. He saw Ser Jorrel rebuff a servant with a tray of glasses and after a few more steps the knight fell to one knee before the throne. Monford stood there, still feeling as though his limbs were not his own. The boy felt an arm on his shoulder and he to fell to one knee.

Ser Jorrel offered a few words thanking the Prince for his hospitality before rising to his feet and bringing Monford to his feet as well. The grizzled knight spoke, "My lord wished his words to be his own and relayed no message to me. I am merely to deliver this, your grace." Ser Jorrel produced a scroll and brought it to the Prince. The letter was tightly wrapped and bore the unbroken seal of the Master of Driftmark. Its contents read:

Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen,

I first wish to extend my condolences for the deaths of your wife and children. I will spare you the details and say only that they are now in the embrace of the Seven. These foul acts have raised much concern at the court and even now men whisper in hidden alcoves. They pour over your message to the realm and that of your father. Know that, regardless of their decisions, you have one friend still on the small council. For the sake of myself and my house, my loyalty to you must remain a secret.

When the time comes I shall do everything in my power as master of ships to aid your cause. I ask in return that you ensure the safety of my son Monford, who should have arrived with the knight bearing this letter, and the bastard Aurane Waters, who now resides at the castle of Driftmark. I entrust that our shared blood of Old Valyria shall give you some cause to safeguard the future of my house.

Send no ravens in reply to King's Landing. I have no faith in your father's Maester nor his Spider. If we must speak let it be by loyal servants, sent in secret.

Yours faithfully,
Lucerys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, Master of Driftmark, and Master of Ships.

[Jhet]

Aerys Targaryen, the Second of His Name

Atop the throne of his family, Aerys sat alone. Alone, above a thousand. Alone, with a deafening silence in place of the screeching whirlwind of his thoughts. And yet there was no fear. Not upon his throne. Below, among the thousand courtiers, fears prowled like northern wolves. Worries, dornish snakes dripping venom from their fangs, slithered from around one leather boot to the next. And in the alcoves and shadows cast by the baleful green flames dread snarled in primal hunger for royal blood. But atop the twisted iron, Aerys felt no fear.

It was the smell. The sweet aroma of a feast wafted strong and heavy, uplifting the once dreary hall. With every inhalation he could feel it coursing around his body. There were no spices from across the Seven Realms that could have contained such an olfacious delicacy. Even the vast depths of Essos, exotic and terrible, would have trouble of producing such a delight. Life. It was life reclaiming his limbs, a warmth he had not felt for an age. With glee he clenched his fists around the iron of his throne, straining forwards to breath in more of the wondrous fragrance. One by one, he curled each finger until they would go no further into the twisted metal.

He winced.

Why? For a moment panic seized him. It had to be a traitor, he heard his mind tell him, plunging their dagger into him. His eyes darted this way and that, looking for the Dornishman, or the terrible shadow of his eldest son. However Prince Lewyn had not surmounted the hall, had not been freed from the depths of the black cells. The son and his sword were likewise absent, across half a sea. And below him the meek sheep of his realm had not stirred from where they had been placed an hour previous. No, it was not death. The monarch looked down, narrowed eyes falling on his ichor dripping from deep gouges in his flesh. I know this feeling. A moment passed, Aerys inhaling the life-restoring scent as he plunged his hand deeper into the razors. Pain. He almost burst into tears, a wide grin breaking out beneath his unkempt hair as he remembered what it was to be alive. I can feel pain. It had been so long, so many agonising years.

For the rest of the court, they smelled only the burning flesh of children. And to their ear, the mad man's cheers of joy were a harsh cackling as his grandchildren died.

[Yaana Noore]

HOUSE BARATHEON of STORM'S END
"OURS IS THE FURY"

---

Stannis Baratheon
Heir to Storm's End
Storm's End

Although it was no longer winter, it was a foul morning upon Shipbreaker Bay. Rain cascaded down upon the dark cobbles of Storm's End, whilst on its seaward side, waves crashed upon hundred-foot high outer curtain. A flash of lightning across the skies illuminated the lone tower within the walls and its five formidable battlements, so that as far as the eye could see, all one could see of Storm's End was what looked like a gigantic spiked fist striking a blow against the heavens. Deep within the thick stone walls of this fist at the great hall, those fierce winds could still be heard howling. Six men draped in large fur coats huddled around the table closest to the fire, gazing upon two pieces of parchment upon the table, speaking in raised voices to be heard above the cyclones that battered the tower and the occasional rumblings of the Gods.

"Any and all men so misguided as to offer aid, or shelter to the fugitive Rhaegar Targaryen, you shall be subject to the same judgement that awaits all those that betray their oaths to the Crown..." One read aloud to the others in a booming, authoritative voice, as comfortable speaking in this tone as if it was his own words. The reader was a young man, even if his look and demeanour did not show it. A heavy brow and skin seemingly tightly fitted across him, as if his expression was permanently fixed in a frown was betrayed by the unmistakable freshness of face and head of jet black hair, although that was already showing signs of thinning at the front. But the way he spoke and the way others looked at him, his voice was almost demanding the attention, while those in the room around him looked at him in an oddly sympathetic manner. This was not someone used to authority. "Signed, his Grace Aerys of the House Targaryen."

There were a number of hushed murmurs, the other men all avoiding the eyes of the reader until he started speaking again, upon which they fell silent. "And then there is a second letter, as you may have heard... from Rhaegar Targaryen." This letter was read aloud in a softer tone as its narrator mulled over the content more carefully.

Stannis Baratheon had never been named castellan. Storm's End had, in fact, lacked any formally appointed governor since the passing of Lord Robert's great-uncle Harbert during the Year of the False Spring, after which he had never deigned to name another. Despite his age, Robert greatly preferred to spend his time at the Eyrie living with its lord and his foster father, Jon Arryn, than govern the Stormlands.

In Robert's absence the garrison of the castle had swiftly turned to the heir, his younger brother Stannis, for command. It did not take long for him to assume the status of de facto acting lord. The young lord Stannis had proved an able and keen administrator thus far, if not one also prone to overtaxing himself. With the assistance of counsel from the keep's maester, Cressen, in addition to other members of the household such as the steward and master-at-arms, Storm's End remained diligent in passing judgement on petty disputes and issues of inheritance, as well as strongly enforcing the king's peace against bandits and pirates in spite of the absence of its liege lord.

Stannis' jaw tightened. "Aegon and Rhaenys are but babes, no more than three years old." There was a pause, the question hanging foully in the air even before it was asked. "How can children be guilty of such things?" He wondered aloud.

"My lord, what should we do?" Asked Ser Gawen Wylde, the master-at-arms. Stannis looked back at him as if he had lost his wits.

"Nothing. I am not the lord here, Ser. That is a decision for my brother, our liege, to make. We know nothing of what Rhaegar has done or what his Grace has discovered to deliver this verdict, and therefore must trust the judgement of our rightful king. To entertain any other such thoughts would be treason."

"But... Stannis," Cressen protested. "You cannot seriously believe this to be true? You said it yourself, those are children..."

"And the evidence you have to support that is?" He asked critically, piercing blue eyes doing most of the interrogating for him. Stannis continued without waiting for a response. "We are subjects of the king, we follow the laws of the king, that is our duty. Unless you," he pointed at Cressen accusingly, before spreading his gesture across the room. "or any of you, have evidence to suggest that the king has abused these laws, our conversation is bordering on lese-majesty. We do nothing."

---

Robert Baratheon
Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Lord of Storm's End
The Eyrie

"Come on, you bastard, do something!" Robert bellowed, advancing on his opponent. For each step forwards, his adversary took one back. Quickly this was devolving into a chase around in circles, with Robert growing increasingly frustrated by this game of cat-and-mouse.

With great exertion, Robert grunted and swung his warhammer forwards. This mighty strike was met but not matched by his adversary's shield, the wooden buckler splintering into pieces at the contact which also struck a blow upon his foe's forearm. The other knight reeled backwards at this hit, recoiling their hand in towards their body. In this moment of confusion, Robert struck fiercly, lunging forwards and barging against the smaller man with his shoulder, bowling him over with ease and sending his sword flying aside. He fell back and Robert on top of him, plate clashing with plate.

And then as the moment came to bring the warhammer down upon his rival's face and end this for good, he paused. "...dead." Robert lifted up his visor, revealing himself to be grinning. With a grunt of approval he climbed off his opponent's body, then extended an arm to help him up to his feet. "That was a good one, friend."

"For you maybe," the other man said breathlessly, shaking his arm and picking up his blunted sword. "I think you may have dislocated my wrist."

"I did? Haha! Brilliant." Robert chuckled with amusement, spitting out some blood on the floor beside him. "Consider yourself lucky, on a real battlefield it would be much worse. As for myself I think you split my lip."

"That's better than normal." Quipped a knight from behind him, sitting upon the fence with two others. His fight had attracted an audience. "I've never even gotten close to you."

"You hurt my hand once."

"From you punching me."

Robert snorted again. "That is true." He threw aside a gauntlet and held out his hand expectantly, receiving a corked flagon of wine which was greedily emptied in but a moment. He wiped at his mouth with the back of a great hairy paw, cleaning it of red both Dornish and his own before taking a seat beside the three knights. In his armour he was a silver giant compared to them, not that he needed it. Robert Baratheon stood half a foot taller than his nearest companion and had perhaps as much muscle as the rest combined. When wearing his antlered helm and with spiked warhammer at hand, he looked like some great horned demon baying for blood.

"Have you heard about Rhaegar?" One knight asked casually.

Robert gave an aloof shrug. "What about him?" He asked back, voice suddenly prickly.

"King Aerys has declared him a traitor."

"Prince Rhaegar the traitor." The Lord of Storm's End pursed his lips, thoughtful for a second. Then a smirk broke through the steely expression. "What did he do, try to fuck his father's wife also?" He took hold of another skin of wine and took a mighty swig, giggling to himself as he briefly revelled in the pleasures of schadenfreude.

"No, but the king has executed Rhaegar's." This made Robert cease laughing. "As well as his children. Apparently they all committed treason, this is what everyone is saying."

"I had no idea," Robert responded, mulling over what he had heard. Rhaegar was a shit, but... his children? They did not deserve that. "Is Rhaegar dead?"

"People are saying he's a fugitive now, on the run from the crown."

A shame... mayhaps I help find him. He thought bitterly.

"We were all wondering... what does Lord Arryn plan to do about this? Are we to go to war?"

"Jon?" Robert grunted and shrugged again. "I have no clue nor do I care. What is there to do about this? Nothing." He was dismissive, but internally felt somewhat excited. Could there be war? Could him, Ned, and Jon end up fighting together, just as their fathers had at the Ninepenny Kings? The prospect of that excited him. Mayhaps he would go see his foster father after all, just to see what he made of the situation, and whether there would be any fighting on the horizon...

[Balerion the Dread]

---

The Stone Drum, Dragonstone

---

---

Rhaegar, of House Targaryen
Prince of Dragonstone, Rightful Heir to the Seven Kingdoms

---

Rhaegar unfurled the letter from his perch atop the High Seat, he turned his lips into a light, cheerless smile. House Velaryon was, as always, the truest friend of House Targaryen. While Lucerys remained in King's Landing, the Prince had a spy in the Capital, and one that had access to the highest Officers of the land. As Master of Ships, the Lord of Driftmark might even be able to deliver the entirety of the Royal Fleet to Rhaegar's side. The Prince handed the letter to Crymun, and stood, straitening his tunic, and running a hand through his long silver hair. Descending gracefully, from the dais, he extended an arm to the young Heir of Driftmark.

"Thank you Monford," the Prince said as he gripped the boys forearm in firmly, "Your father is a great man, and I will ensure his wishes are carried out. In gratitude for the loyalty House Velaryon has shown all these centuries to my family, I offer you security and safety from harm while you remain within Dragonstone."
A thought burst into the Princes mind, and he continued.
"And, if it please you, and your Lord Father, I would offer you a place at my side as squire."

Before the young boy could respond, Septon Kyl swept into the throne room, his approach heralded by the slamming of the heavy doors and the light rapping of his feet upon the polished floor. The Septon was flustered, and his heavy robes were jumbled around his waist. His normally coifed brown hair was flopping in his face by the time he had reached the three men.

""My Prince," the Septon said, his words punctuated by light gasps for breath, "I bring word."

Rhaegar released the Velaryon boy, and turned to the Septon.
"Replies to my letter?"

"Indeed, my Prince."
The Septon handed two crumpled letters to Rhaegar, who, in the dim light of the throne room, could hardly make out the words.
"Word has come, from Winterfell, and Sunspear also."

Rhaegar smiled, possibly, with real joy for the first time in weeks.
"Come," he said, moving towards the spiraling staircase hidden at the back of the hall.
"We need more light."

The party began to ascend, as Crymun took up the rear, helped up the stairs by the young Velaryon. Ere long, they had come to back to the Chamber of the Painted Table. Here, with the large braziers set at the corner of the room, the Prince could read the letters fully. Looming over Westeros like Aegon of Old, Rhaegar unfurled the letter bearing the unmistakable seal of House Martell. As Elia and Rhaegar had only been married for three years, the Princes of Dorne had never truly warmed to the young Targaryen, even after he had given her two children. While relations with Doran were never strained, they would not be called close by any definition of the term.

"The atrocity done to the both of us cannot stand. Aid will come; await the Company of the Cat at the shores of Dragonstone," Rhaegar read openly, his voice echoing about the Chamber. The curt letter was typical of Doran. The Prince had a way with words, his ability to obfuscate even the most persistent Royal officials had occupied much of the Small Council's time in the past years, and this letter bore no information, other than what the Dornish wanted Rhaegar to know.
"At least," the Prince began, laying the parchment on the table, "Dorne is with us, though, of their plans, I cannot be sure. Have any of you heard of this Company of the Cat?"

Crymun cleared his thraot before answering.
"The Company of the Cat, My Prince, is a sellsword company of some three thousand men, primarily under contract with the Free Cities."

Rhaegar nodded slowly. Doran did not want to overplay his hand, his simple instructions were barebone for certain, but, if three thosuand men could be procured from across the Narrow Sea, the Prince of Dragonstone would pay them well. As it was, that would at a stroke, almost double the size of his own forces.

"Good news from the south," Kyl said. "The other letter, my Prince?"

Rhaegar pulled the second latter, and opened it. Instantly, he saw the proud Wolf of Winterfell dance across the bottom of the page. Even in white wax, the seal of House Stark was imposing. Rhaegar's heart quickened, as he sat in the throne overlooking the Table. The North was the largest of the Seven Kingdoms, and House Stark was one of the most respected Houses in all of Westeros. If Winterfell backed the Prince of Dragonstone over the King...
Rhaegar smiled at the thought. Though, his smile soon turned to a gaping visage of shock.

"I hereby pledge my allegiance to you, I would name you King, should you wish to depose your father, I would name you my rightful lord."
Silence hung in the air after the Prince read aloud the Stark's letter. Here was it, one of the great Houses of Westeros, pledging to fight for the rights of Rhaegar Targaryen. As he finished the letter, Rhaegar noticed Crymun smiling wearily, his cragged face twisting into a terrifying sea of wrinkles and skin.

"Maester Crymun," The Prince said breathlessly, fetch your quill and parchment. We needs must reply to these missives."
As the old Maester shuffled off to find his utensils, Rhaegar motioned for the remaining attendees, Septon Kyl, Ser Warrin, and young Monford Velaryon to array themsevles around the Painted Table. Reaching under the heavy oak beams, Rhaegar revealed several large stone carvings, numerous copies of the sigils of the great Houses of Westeros, in both black stone, and white. Placing a white dragon at the mouth of the Gullet, and one in Sunspear, the Prince relished placing the last one gently onto the small dot that was hewn into the table far to the North. A white dragon now sat above Winterfell.

In opposition, Rhaegar placed a heavy black dragon at the estuary of the Blackwater.

"Sunspear, Dragonstone, Winterfell," the Prince said, pointing to each of the white dragons in turn, "Between us some 75,000 men at arms."

"If fully rallied," a voice interjected, deep and powerfully. Striding into the Chamber, ring mail clinking as he walked, Jon Connington looked like he had been through hellfire. His helm, borne under his arm, was dented, and splattered with dried blood, and his usually pristine surcoat was scored with both flames in some places, and cut to ribbons in others. His red hair was matted with mud, and he had a deep bruise around his right eye. A seemingly fresh laceration underline the opposite cheek.

For a moment, the Prince of Dragonstone was awe struck.
"Jon," he murmered, before coming back to his senses. "By the Seven, what happened to you? I must send for Crymun."

The Stormlander smiled, and winced as he attempted a shallow bow, before surrendering to the pain and accepting a brief nod in its stead. He made the same gesture to the young Velaryon and his sworn sword.
"There is no need, my Prince," the young Griffin Lord said, leaning against the Painted Table. "And there is no time either."

The Prince was still surprised. When he had left the Capital, he had instructed those courtiers loyal to him to remain in the King's Landing, so as to limit the amount of wrath Aerys might bring upon their families.

"If you needs must know," Jon said reluctantly, his face darkening, "It was our fault. We failed Elia, my Prince, and Aegon, and Rhaenys. When the King sent for them, there was nothing we could do. Myles tried to, he barred the way before they set upon him. Richard and I, we, we tried to hold them," Jon looked at his feet. "We failed. Once it had happened, we knew we were next. Myles was in a bad way already, one of the Goldcloaks had speared him in the leg. So, as the Court was in session, we slipped out of the Red Keep under the cover of night. By the time the alarum was raised we were halfway across the Blackwater Rush, though, ere long on the next day, the Goldcloaks found us again. One of the Kingsguard lead them, Darry I think. He gave me this," the Griffin pointed to his bruised face, "After that we split, Richard took Myles to Lonmouth Keep, and I made my way here, from Stonedance I sailed, and arrived earlier this morn."

Rhaegar had shaken his head at the most harrowing parts of the story, and motioned for his friend to sit, pulling a small wooden chair from the back of the Chamber.
"Jon," he began, "You need to see a Maester."

"No, no, later maybe. Now, we have a war to win. And do not deny it, it will be a war, and a bloody one."

Rhaegar knew he spoke true. The Prince had purposefully left out his intention to depose his father from his letter to the realm. Such a thing would be tantamount to admitting his treason. No, he had resolved merely to claim his right to inherit the Throne, not the throne itself. In a perfect world, the assembled Houses may have been able to force a recalcitrant King to submit to their will, but Rhaegar knew his father would sooner die than go back on his words now.

"Indeed," the Prince said at length, pointing the the Painted Table. "We already know Dorne is calling its banners, and looking for Sellswords. We here have raised some 4,000 men from the Houses sworn to Dragonstone. Lucerys Velaryon too," the Prince motioned towards Monford, "has entrusted me with his son, and now works for my interest in the Capital. And finally, Winterfell has summoned its armies, and requests my presence to lead them South."

Jon looked over the hulking map, blackened hands steepled in front of him.

"It may not be enough now," the Prince continued, but it is a start. I have high hopes for the Vale and Riverlands as well."

Jon pointed to the far side of the table.
"Be weary of Tywin Lannister. Under Casterly Rock sleeps a lion, one we may want to keep sleeping."

Rhaegar snorted."
"I need no lecture on the dangers of dealing with Tywin Lannister."
Tywin had a fearsome reputation, and, as his fathers Hand, had proven to be one of the most ruthless and effective men in all the Kingdoms. The Westerlands too held the largest reserves of gold in the Kingdom, and the armies Casterly Rock could equip would be both professional, and formidable.

The creaking of the ancient doors signalled Crymun's return, even if his shuffled footsteps only delivered him to the group with some effort.
"Oh, Lord Connington," he said wearily as he placed a quill and parchment on the table, "And unexptected..."
He trailed off when he saw the extent of Jon's injuries.

"Maester Crymun, I believe I can write my own letters, please, see to Lord Connington's injuries."
The Old man nodded sagely, and shuffled away, with Jon limping behind. Before he left, Jon cast a look over his shoulder, smiling bittersweetly at Rhaegar.

If the Prince didn't see it however, engrossed as we was in writing. Before long, he was finished. Turning to Warrin and the Young Velaryon, Rhaegar invited them to their chambers, lower in the Stone Drum.

"Make yourselves as home as you would on Drfitmark," he said as they parted.

Climbing back up the steps, the Prince arrived at the rookery, High up on the highest peak of Dragonstone's numerous towers, the ravens cawed angrily. Fog had rolled in from the west since Rhaegar had awoken in the morn, and the young Prince prayed to the Seven these birds found their way to their destinations.

To Doran of House Nymeros-Martell, Prince of Dorne.

Words cannot express my disbelief and disgust at the heinous actions of my father. My love for Elia was deep and true, and her death, and the deaths of our children, will be avenged.

Your honour and loyalty to the laws of the realm are notable, and your support of my true rights will not be forgotten. Ere long, I hope your banners may be called and we may soon meet as victors below the Iron Throne.

Signed,
Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, and Heir to the Iron Throne.

To Rickard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North,

The faith and loyalty you place in me rob me of words with which I may express my thanks. House Stark has always been a leal servant to House Targaryen, and in this, an hour of great need, your fealty means more to me than all the vaults in the Capital. March south my Lord, with as much strength as you can muster. I am rallying my true and faithful men to Dragonstone and will unite with you has soon as I am able.

May the Old Gods bless you and your House.

Signed,
Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, and Rightful Heir to the Iron Throne.

[Revlona]

The Eyrie
Eddard Stark

Few in the practice yard of The Eyrie took notice as an armed and armored Eddard Stark entered their midst. His leather and chain armor bore the crest of his house on his left breast, and the longsword at his hip was fine castle steel.

Watching as Robert easily defeated one of the Knights he spared with, Ned waited before approaching them, catching the last bits of their conversation.

“Not only that Sers, but news has just arrived, Dorne has declared for Rheagar, as well as my father, the North will March south for Rheagar” he said with a smile.

“I don’t know which side Lord Arryn will take, but I mean to make for winterfell soon, I’m actually on my way to Jon now” he said

_____________________________________________

Winterfell

The banners of the north were coming, and many were already present. Chained Giant, and Mermansat on the walls, crossed long axes and a white sunburst, many more were present, and many for would come.

One banner sat above them all, the great Direwolf of the starks flapped majestically in the wind from the highest towers of winterfell, it looked down on all the other banners with a snarl.

But, above even the mighty Direwolf sat the dragon, the red and black dragon sat ready, for war was coming to Westeros again.

At the gates of the castles, a column of men marched in, the clinched fist of the Glover’s flapped above them.

“Lord Glover you are most welcome, how many do you bring?” Lord Stark asked as the leader of the column, a young Galbart Glover, presented himself.

“2,500 foot my lord, and 600 heavy horse” Glover said

“Good, barrack your men, then sup with me later” Lord Stark said, dismissing him.

Rickard turned to find Brandon walking up to him, “Father, by my count the Glover’s put us up to 6,000 here at winterfell, we must march soon or winterfell will be eaten out.” He said

“Yes I agree, we shall march soon, we shall meet the 12,000 that are at Moat Cailin. Then we shall go to Riverrun, we shall win the Tully’s with your marriage, but we must wait, as the Bolton’s aren’t yet here, and we can’t march without their 4,000” Rickard said

To: Prince Rheagar Targaryen

Your grace, I am extremely please to inform you that I mean to march soon, a merely await one final major vassal to meat me here.

My host at winterfell currently numbers 6,000 but by the time I march I expect it to be 10,000. I have given orders for the lesser houses of the north to join me while I march to Moat Cailin were another host of 12,000 is gathering.

By the time I leave the north, I expect to have 30 to 33 thousand men.

I shall march to Riverrun, for I intend to win the Trident with the Marriage of my son Brandon to the first born of Lord Tully.

I suggest you meet me in Riverrun, both to support the Marriage of the loyal houses, and because I suggest that we coronate you before the walls of Riverrun.

For while we call you Prince, you are a usurper, but if you were to be king, all men would know you to be rightful.

Signed

Lord Rickard Stark
Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North

[Jhet]

Qarlton Chelsted, Master of Coin

The hour of the nightingale was upon them when the Spider ascended the stairs to his chambers. Located above the Kitchen Hall, his dwelling has once been considered enough for two noble guests. However the king, as gracious and open handed as he was with his loyal advisers, granted him all the space he required. Now, instead of the drab furnishings of the westerlands, Qarlton had surrounded himself with the exotic riches of Qohor and Norvos and Volantis, fascinating totems from the eastern barbarians of Qarth, and vivid feather bouquets from the alien Summer Isles. Incense, brought directly from prosperous Braavos, masked the smells wafting from the kitchens below.

They had been cooking meat.

"Spider," the lord of Gauntlet declared as he knotted a Lyseni belt across his gown. "Is this truly a good time to come disturb my rest?" The day previous had been a long one and a few hours respite was not enough for the aging lord to restore his strength. He could still see the payment scrolls of the city watch imprinted against the back of his eyelids whenever he blinked, and in a few hours Lord Commander Manly expected him to do the same again. The recruitment of new watchmen was not something that could be dealt with a single signature.

"Oh I did not mean to cause you any hardship. I know full well the trouble of finding sleep."

Lord Chelsted murmured an agreement though it possessed no warmth. It was the whispering of Varys and his spies which thundered in the night, telling of deeds benign and dangerous alike. No man could breathe without the Essosi hearing of it. And one day or another, that breath would join a list of treasons hissed into the ear of a king eager to visit punishment upon him. He kept that to himself.

"I have learned of some interesting actions taken by one of the king's closest advisers."

I have found a traitor, he was saying without words. Or rather, he had found something that was easy enough to take as treason if there was no alternative. Qarlton could not say that he understood the foreigner. With the power that he had amassed under Aerys, the influence and prestige gifted on him, there was no reason he hadn't wiped clean the court of any potential rivals. Rivals like Staunton and Velaryon, whose open derision of Rhaegar was what brought them into favour with the king, or Chelsted himself. Instead the whispers spoke of everyone but them.

"Who would be so foolish?"

They had been thorough. The goldcloaks were theirs, filled with men raised about their station by Aerys' open hand. The kingsguard, men of the highest honour who dare not sully their oaths now that it was all they could amount to. And even those noble squires of the court, Rhaegar's fawning pets with not a wise thought between them, savaged and slain and scattered. The city was theirs.

"Lord Velaryon."

Owen Merryweather, Hand of the King

He had left the king in a good mood. That was a fleeting thing among the nobles within the keep, now that there was talk of one lord or another raising their banners for the traitor on Dragonstone, but the Hand was not surprised that their liege was of a different temperament to the rest of them. My old friend, he had cried when Pycelle read the letter from Casterly Rock. My friend Tywin. Of course the king had forgotten of his hatred for the man whom had ruled the realm in his stead. Of course the king could only see the friendship between youths, when Maelys threatened to cross the Narrow Sea.

So a raven had been dispatched with all haste to the westerlands, to the Lannister who was once a king in deed. No doubt a move to return to power, to reclaim Jaime from the white. If it buys us thirty thousand swords. Owen Merryweather had struggled so long to keep the peace between father and son, to see to it that the lineage of Aegon the Conqueror did not wage war against itself. In his failure he had found a morbid restoration of duty. Now he was servant to only one man, and had only the future of the prince Viserys to think of. For in Viserys there would be a regency.

But as he returned to his chambers, for the king had decreed that they stay awake all night and on towards dawn, he was beset by the Spider. Varys was no friend of Owen, though the foreigner had been instrumental to winning Merryweather new tracts of land from his rivals, and yet the two were capable of mutual respect. However Lord Chelsted was not one to remain in the company of the Master of Whispers save for when he needed to speak to the king.

"Lord Qarlton?"

"My lord Hand, it is pleasant that we greet you awake." The Spider was all good humour, though he had to see the heavy gait of exhaustion displayed by the Hand. "I was hoping that you would be willing to accompany us to see Lord Velaryon."

"He may be for Rhaegar," Chelsted added. "Staunton has been roused." As if on cue, the lord of Rook's Rest arrived. In his shadow were a body of his guard, and goldcloaks behind them.

Together, they descended on the chambers of the master of ships, Varys making light conversation the whole way.

Manly Stokeworth, Lord Commander of the Goldcloaks

Manly led a column of goldcloaks out towards the royal docks, a hundred and fifty strong. Along the Muddy Way the company was joined by a second. This one bore the royal standard, limp beneath the golden rays of the rising sun. Harry Upcliffe and Bryce Bywater, resplendent in their knightly trappings, flanked him as their men joined the watchmen marching beneath the River Gate. The two knights had been relative unknowns only a year prior, just two of three score knights and were known to Manly as part of the King's loudest supporters in the years passed, Harry in particular making his mark when it came to exposing the conspiracy against the King. However their worth came from their lower station. They were not the patriarchs of their families, but men whose livelihoods rested on the skill of their blade and strength of their loyalties. And that skill at arms, that integrity, drew others to their side. As such, Sers Upcliffe and Bywater had made themselves popular among the sailors of the royal fleet. They were the captains of Blazing Talon and Golden Pride respectively, two vessels which had until four days prior been on the hunt of a particularly lucrative smuggling vessel. A prize the lords Chelsted and Staunton allowed their knights to distribute among their men in the name of the king.

But not all of the royal captains were as open handed. Not all had powerful patrons, nor the wealth to match them. Some had received their positions based not on the merit of their blade, but on blood and kinship to traitors. And it was those captains and their chief supporters whom Varys had found the time to scrawl onto lists. Lists, thankfully short, now in the hands of Manly and his men.

The goldcloaks were swift in their duty, as they had been only days previous. The sailors who received the royal pay, hard men by all accounts, were also prodigious drinkers. And in the early morning when the alehouses had only shut a few hours previous, they were rutting their coming hangovers away. As such, the ships in question were left with nought but their skeleton crews. Manly assumed that it was the work of the king's advisers, but it was just as likely that the good fortune bestowed on his men was in fact due to the lords' inaction. If they had been more active, then it was just as likely that they would have been keeping the crews at full strength, in preparation for an invasion of Dragonstone to root out the traitors.

A second column of men, drawn from the goldcloaks and retainers of men like Upcliffe and Bywater in equal measure, made their way along River Row to ensure that there were none spending the night with mistresses nor their favourite paid companions. Varys had spoken for the king, and Manly would carry out the duty without issue. A dozen men were no issue.

Lord Tywin Lannister,

Your display of intregrity will not go unrewarded. You are charged to rouse the westerland levy, and with all speed, make for Harrenhal.

In the name of King Aerys, the Second of His Name

signed
Owen Merryweather, Hand of the King

[Dragos Bee]

House Martell

The Free City of Myr, Essos

Oberyn Martell had gathered his own mercenary company; an unnamed band of 600 men without any reputation for good or for ill, and the Company of the Cat - 3000 strong and the bulk of his forces - on the docks of Myr. Their purpose: To wait for the merchant ships that would take them to Dragonstone, where his former brother-in-law took refuge from his own father. How he wanted to drive his sword through both; the former for failing to protect his sister and her children, and the latter for killing them in the first place! As the vessels they had chartered came closer, and his men prepared to embark, Oberyn put his right hand on the hilt of said sword; revenge will come soon.

It was the time to fake a smile in front of his men and others; practice for smiling in front of his failure of a former brother-in-law. But the viper will bite one day, and the Mad King will pay. It remained to be seen if his former brother-in-law would redeem himself in his war as well.

Sunspear, Westeros

"Mustering is slow," said the Marshal to Prince Doran. "If we call on Dorne's full strength right now, we might not have enough to work the fields. Nevertheless, we can have 10,000 men by the time the civil war starts in earnest."

Prince Doran didn't acknowledge the first sentence, but nodded at the second. "10,000 men will surely be enough to turn the tide of war, if we can get The Reach on our side; I do not trust the Baratheons to side with Rhaegar."

He remembered the news that Rhaegar had a momentary infatuation with Robert Baratheon's bethrothed, Lyanna Stark. Said infatuation, expressed in that Tourney he couldn't quite recall the name of - was probably just momentary, but Robert might not have taken it that way; reports said that he disliked the heir of House Targaryen after that. So that put the Baratheons as either indecisive or as supporters of Aerys.

And the news that the Lannisters had sided with the Mad King, or rather, 'sided'. Tywin clearly had his own plans for the civil war, and can potentially be the Kingmaker in said conflict. Doran clenched his fist in frustration; with The Reach not having responded to Prince Rhegar's replies, it was an easy assumption they were neutral or with the enemy as well. That left no direct route for the Dornish to help Rhaegar. At least the Starks have proven themselves honorable, were his thoughts before he began waiting once more. But waiting for...what?

[Nuxipal]

House Hightower

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Lord Leyton Hightower
The Hightower, Oldtown, The Reach

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The city of Oldtown, so named for it is the oldest city in Westeros. No one knew who or what founded the city itself. Some say it was a pirate haven, others say it was a Valyrian outpost, and others still say it was founded by the children of the forest. Regardless of who founded it, it has been the seat of House Hightower for centuries now. When Westeros burned, Oldtown stood aside to prevent devastation to the greatest and most holy city on the continent. The Faith once held sway in the city as great as the Hightower Lords, now the faith rules from King's Landing and its power wanes in the southlands. Here reason and science have flourished, Lord Leyton has however begun to look into the unknown for answers. His daughter Malora, the 'Mad Maid' of the Hightower for her constant study of ancient spellbooks and consulting a glass candle high above the city.

The ravens flew and Leyton saw them. Aerys said that Rhaegar was a traitor. Perhaps it was true. Rhaegar said Aerys was a Kinslayer, which was irrevocably true seeing as he killed his own grandchildren. A fact that seems to have become rather public knowledge in the citadel and much of Oldtown. Leyton himself was growing older, he was not fit for the field of battle, that is why he had sons after all. They could go out and fight for him now. Of his sons, Baelor and Garth were the ones he could trust to this task. The others being far too young. Baelor had recently wed Rhonda Rowan, a noble lady of a northern Reach house. Garth was not wed, but their younger sister Alerie was married to the Lord of the Reach, Mace Tyrell.

The Hightowers waited on word from the Tyrells to act, but knew they may have to make preparations on their own. Leyton summoned his sons to him and lectured them. "Our allegiance to the Lord of the Reach is most paramount. As the Dragon Squabbles over its crumbs, we must stand ready to light the way for our Kingdom. If the power of the Tyrells fail, they will no doubt look to us to be the Beacon that rallies the south to a cause. However, we mustn't choose hastily. The Reach may have a great many young men ready to fight our wars, but we must first look to ensure that this is our war. Garth, go and rouse the knights of the city and have them assembled outside the north gates. Baelor, raise the banners and have them join Garth's camp. Following that you will get our fleet ready and prepare to commandeer some merchant vessels from our fleet to transport our forces. We must be ready to offer support wherever it is needed."

Within the hour Ravens fly and banners are called. No news from the Tyrells, but the Maesters of the Citadel notify Lord Leyton that the North and Dorne seem to have Declared for Rhaegar while the Westerlands are on the march seemingly in the support of Aerys. For now, the Hightower host would assemble and await orders from Highgarden, unless Highgarden remained neutral, in which case Leyton would chose a side of his own. House Hightower no longer needed to fear dragons flying over the city and burning it to the ground.

[Yaana Noore]

HOUSE BARATHEON of STORM'S END
"OURS IS THE FURY"

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Robert Baratheon
Lord Paramout of the Stormalnds, Lord of Storm's End
Storm's End

Robert and Ned found Jon Arryn within the depths of the High Hall, deep in discussion with Nestor Royce. Upon the great oak doors creaking open, Lord Arryn broke from his conversation and fixed blue eyes upon the two young nobles, waiting for them to approach. "Robert," the old man called out, welcoming smile at his lips. "and Eddard, what is it you wish to discuss?"

"Rhaegar, Jon." Robert called back forcefully. "He means to claim the Iron Throne, and Ned's father has already declared for him. We must take action and join Rickard Stark, rather than hide in our keeps like cravens!"

Jon Arryn was not a tall man, or certainly not as tall or bulky as Robert. But he was once a well-muscled youth and as he stood before the young lord of Storm's End, broad shoulders spread and prominent brow furrowed in a look of frustration, for a fleeting moment he looked every bit the gallant knight from his youth. "Robert," Jon said, words carefully weighted. "We must exercise caution." The Valeman advised, right hand crossing his body and resting at the pommel of the sword on his hip. It was not a sign of hostility, but one Robert and Ned had become accustomed to when they had irritated their foster father. It was effectively a way of saying back down.

"Eddard, I do believe your father has been much too hasty in declaring for Rhaegar. The prince himself has not dared claim the Iron Throne and already they are pushing to place him upon it. What Aerys has done, executing the queen and her children," his voice shook for a moment and Jon paused to clear his throat, momentarily overtaken by disgust. "It is an awful thing. Does more hasty bloodshed bring them back? No, it does not. But it is putting you, your father, Brandon, Benjen, Elbert, your bannermen, the families of your bannermen - all in danger. Now is not the time for rash decisions. I am equally as unhappy about this as you are, but to declare for Rhaegar so soon... it is unwise."

He gazed upon the two of them and sighed. "It may be that Rhaegar has been plotting something. I cannot know for certain, but I have... a suspicion. There are things that you both are unaware of, events that long precede you, but-"

"But you cannot tell us?" Robert asked, voice rising. "You expect us to do nothing based on, what, blind faith? Seven hells, Jon..." Robert frowned, gritting his teeth with frustration.

"You know I have the best intentions for you both, you boys. All I worry about is you putting yourselves in danger. Here is what I do know: Aerys will not stop until Rhaegar is hunted down and executed. Any and all traitors will be punished, and he is being supported by Tywin Lannister. The two of them have never been known to be merciful, just ask the Reynes, the Darklyns, the Hollards, the Tarbecks - assuming you can find any. The two are not going to back down. If your father really does march south, Eddard, I hope you know what this means? War, battles, bloodshed, death. There is no guarantees any of your family may come out of this alive."

"Exactly why we need to help." Robert cut in, thoughts turning to Lyanna. "No Stark will be harmed if we intervene." If any man was to threaten his love, he would kill them in a heartbeat.

"That is not a promise we are capable of making. To make war with the crown and Casterly Rock would be a dangerous venture."

"So, what, Winterfell stands alone?" He challenged, growing red in the face.

"That was not my decision." Jon replied back in a measured tone, but there was steel behind his words. "And yet neither is this all mine. Eddard, your father has declared for Rhaegar. If you wish to return to the North and fight, go, you have my blessing. It is your choice to make now. And Robert, you rule all of the Stormlands yourself. If this is what you desire, truly, you can do so. Just know that if you make these choices, you leave the Vale and fight for Rhaegar, I cannot promise I will be able to protect you. You are no longer green boys, I understand. But before making such big decisions... it is wise that you take time to think on your actions, please." He looked upon Eddard once again, seeking support.