Game of Thrones: A King Who Bore the Sword [IC]

by **The Valyria Empire** » Sat Dec 10, 2016 3:28 pm

So many ifs, ser ... had any one come out differently, it could all have turned t'other way. Then we would be called the loyalists, and the red dragons would be remembered as men who fought to keep the usurper Daeron the Falseborn upon his stolen throne, and failed.
-Eustace Osgrey

OCC

King's Landing

The Red Keep, Throne Room

His Grace, Daeron of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, Rhoynar and First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms

The bustling of the court put Daeron at ease. His Kingdom was stable, and at peace that was all he asked for. While he could not bring himself to hate his father he found his way of ruling deplorable. As he sat on the Throne, his mind wondered to what his half-brother Daemon was doing. He and his brother never spoke much these days, he hoped to see him again. He looked down to Brynden who stood next to the Throne, his mind then wondered to Aegor who he tried to keep a room distance apart from Brynden. While his realm was at peace, his family was not. Daeron smiled though, for the differences he shared with them he still loved them.

Brynden looked up to Daeron who nodded, which caused Brynden to speak. "His Grace will now see to you, please form a line and your issues will be addressed. After Bloodraven spoke, a young farmer peasant was the first to approach. He wore nothing but rags and in his hands was a bag.

"What do you require, I will do all that I can." Daeron spoke to the commonman.

"Your grace, the Dornish they have killed my cattle. Is it enough that they make their presence in this hall but they continue to torture us in the Marches! I-" the man spoke before being cut off by Bloodraven positioning to two Goldcloaks to come near him.

This caused Daeron to stand up, "Brynden that will not be necessary. Now, you say that the Dornish are the ones attacking your land?" Daeron spoke as he walked down the massive Throne.

"Yes, your Grace."

"Did you see any way that would identify them as Dornish?"

"No, your Grace."

"I will have some men investigate these attacks, however I highly doubt our good friends from Dorne would do such a thing. I will also write to Maron Martell in the mean time." Daeron spoke, and moved the Goldcloaks away. Daeron placed his hand on the commonman's shoulder. "These attacks will stop, I assure you." Daeron then returned to his Throne and sat while the man was escorted out.

The next person would approach, and the system would resume. However, Daeron wondered who these bandits were and why they would attack anyone.

by **Argentumurbem** » Sat Dec 10, 2016 5:16 pm

Ormund Baratheon

The Wide Way

They were two hundred strong, riding slowly beneath the moonlight. No banners flew, a telling loss like that of a tooth. Ormund would twist his head to look down the column, his eyes barely able to mark out the end of his men from the shadows cast by the desert. He knew fifty of them were nobles and knights, rich enough to be clad almost entirely in plate. They wore robes in the style of the Dornish, as most did when they ventured forth into the marches. Behind the clanking mass of chivalry Ormund knew followed longbowmen, riding sand steeds bought or stolen at great cost.

Other noblemen would scoff at the sight of so many archers, at the discarding of heavy cloth standards and tabards in favour of the bright cloth of the Dornish. They would dismiss the Lord of Storm's End as a man incapable of glory, of being a traitor to his own people. Yet those same lords would not have battled in the marches as he had. Those lords would not have won the victories Ormund and his men did, the victories his ancestors achieved. The longbow was deadly to the dornishman, a foe who ran into battle with no plate to deflect the barbed end of a stormlander's arrow. And the sun, immortalised by the Young Dragon as their greatest weapon, could be defeated this close to the stormlands with precautions.

Even as the lord reminded himself, an outrider he had sent the day previous came barreling towards him. "My lord," the young man began, swinging his mount to put him alongside his liege lord, "I have a found a good location, down one of the eastern valleys." The light from his torch cast an eerie shadow upon his features.

"And we will reach it come dawn?"

"Just before, my lord."

He smiled then, reaching out to grip the scout's shoulder in a firm grip. They were cunning, the dornish of the mountain valleys. It came from the nature of their existence, eking out a life distant from the gaze of the land's masters. Many of these people would be off the map, their crofts and familial villages invisible to the world at large. None would notice when their occupants suddenly became stormlanders. And so Ormund had taken that for his strategy, even as a child slowly learning of the masterful game called war. If the realm's foe was cunning, then he would outmatch them. Even now he had outriders in all directions, twenty men ever moving to warn his party of any human presence before they proved an issue. Other lords would call him over-cautious. He had slain those lords when they thought he still sat at Storm's End.

Raising his hand, Ormund called for the scout to lead them to their new destination, already spotting the weak pinprick in the distance of a second of his scouting party. The dornish had bled stormland blood, as they did before. He would spill theirs, as he had done before. As his smile subsided, Ormund set off after the chain of scouts as they directed him towards their first target.

by **Vladivostokava** » Sat Dec 10, 2016 6:55 pm

House Blacklocke
Lady Rana Blacklocke
Blackreach Keep

"Death Before Dishonor!"

"Wake up my lady. Wake up Lady Rana." The hard voice of the Rana's handmaiden broke through the silence. Her eyes shot open and she sat up quickly, looking to the right side of the bed, her husband Lord Grenn was nowhere to be seen. She gave a sigh as the handmaiden took notice, "Lord Grenn had gone out on patrol again. He left early this morning my lady." Rana shook her head and stood, Rana spoke softly without looking to the maiden, "The brown one." Rana sat up as two young women striped her of her night gown, "Yes my lady." the maiden left the room to fetch Ranas brown dress. 'And so it begins..' Rana thought to herself as she dropped off the high bed and onto the cold stone floor.

Soon after finishing her morning routine of being dressed and brushing her hair, Lady Rana left the bedroom and made her way down the hall towards the main hall where she would conduct everyday business off the realm. The old gods knew her husband wouldn't bother. He was always is busy 'on patrol' to deal with anything. Rana suspected 'patrol' was some kind of code for 'brothel' but it hardly mattered. Rana was the real ruler of the Black and everyone knew it.

Rana made her way into the main hall of Blackreach Keep and was greeted by the usual line up of commoners looking to have their problems heard. Four guards flanked both right and left sides of the room with another guard and commander Anthor Blackwood standing on both flanks of Rannas seat. Blookwood was a hard man, nephew of Lord Benjicot Blackwood, Anthor had pledged his service to House Blacklocke as payment for our service to his own house. Anthor was a large man and very skilled in combat. Rana had talked her husband into making him commander off the watch, besides his obvious qualifications he had also proven to have a sound mind for small unit tactics and strategy. His ties to the Blackwood family could always help too. Maester Koryn Hunt was standing at his chair to the left or Rana. Maester Koryan was a feeble old sod who Rana hardly trusted. As a child she had known him by another name, 'Rat face'. This was due the slender size of his face and buck teeth. But also because he is known to have many eyes around the Black and other areas of the Neck. Rana didn't trust the little man but she valued his counsel and his vast knowledge of the population of the Black.

Rana strode into the room, her head held high. For a woman of her height had an abnormal commanding presence. "Lady Rana Blacklocke." Shouted the Commander Anthor, his voice echoing off the charred walls of the great hall of Blackreach Keep. Lady Rana and Anthor locked gaze and she gave a nod. "Be seated." Rana spoke in a cold commanding tone.

A shuffle befell the court and Ranna walked to her seat. She then waved away her three handmaidens. The great hall doors swung open and a short man dressed in bog rags approached. His gaze was locked on the floor as he approached. Stopping at the foot of the steps the man gave a bow and a toothy smile. His teeth few and black. "M'lady."

Anthor stepped forward, "What is your name?"

"My name is Mortin Carver, sir." the man said, peering around the room. He seemed to be eyeing the furniture.

"What business do you have?"

"Sir, I have a business proposition."

Anthor looked back at Rana. She gave a nod adjusted in her seat and smiled, looking back at the man Anthor spoke "What business do you have, Mortin?"

Mortin smiled as the door came open and four strong young men came in carrying a very long object under a long canvas tarp. "M'lady, I am a wood carver, I have practiced my trade over forty years. I work with fine wood, m'lady. You won't find better in all the seven kingdoms." The men sat the long table behind Mortin. "M'lady, I ask for a Investment. I wish to make furniture in the name of the Black."

Rana looked down at Anthor who met her eyes. "Will you allow me to view your work, Mortin."

Mortin's grin grew and he quickly turned to the men around the table. They quickly removed the canvas tarp to reveal a black table, the carvings were very intricate. The legs of the table looked to be shaped after roots, spiraling and meeting at the bottom in a beautiful woven entanglement. The fringe of the table had very intricate carvings like that of leaves. In the very center of the large black table was the sigil of house Blacklocke. Rana was impressed, it is rare to witness this level of craftsmanship.

"It is beautiful." Rana stated. "If you can promise this quality for all furniture I am willing to personally fund this endeavor. You are a artist Mortin Carver. Your work will be seen in every court of the seven kingdoms."

Old Mortin visibly began to blush, "M'lady you honor me. Please accept this work as a gift to House Blacklocke."

Lady Rana nodded and smiled, "My investment will be delivered by the end of the week."

Mortin bowed, gave thanks and lead himself and the four other men out of the great hall.

Anthor cleared his throat, "Bring in the next one."

After a short time the doors swung open and in hobbled a short old woman with a little black box. It took some time for her to reach the steps. "Lady Rana, I come to you with a gift."

Anthor stepped forward, "You will address your Lady with the respect she deserves. Speak your name."

The woman coughed and stared Anthor down, "M'lady, I bring you a gift from the swamp. My name is not important." The mysterious old woman waddled forward. Anthor shifted in his leather armor gripping a hand on his short sword. The woman sat the little black box on the steps. "I believe you may find use for these in the future." She began to turn around and hobble out. "Woman stop!" demanded Anthor. "Let her go." said Rana. Anthor signed and watched the woman as she made her way out the door.

"Maester, bring me the box." said Rana.. The maester stood up and quickly made his way to the back on the bottom step. "Maester, open the box what is inside."

The maester opened the box, a look of consern fell over him.

"Well?" said Rana.

"My lady." He paused for a moment "Its po-" The maester was interrupted as the doors swung open and a soldier ran in.

Out of breath the solder spoke, "M'lady, Lord Grenn." he continued to try and catch his breath, "We got ambushed on the coast."

Lady Rana stood, "Catch your breath and speak soldier."

The soldier waited a moment, "M'lady, we were on patrol, we were ambushed on the beach. Lord Grenn had fallen. He was stabbed in the back during the skirmish."

'Dead?.. no.. please no.' Rana thought, Rana took a deep breath, "Who killed him?"

"M'lady, we captured three of them. they outnumbered us but we are sure that none escaped. They will arrive on, I went ahead to deliver the news."

"You did good soldier, Anthor see that he receives food and rest. Soldier, I want to see you later, you will tell me all the details when the prisoners arrived in Blackreach."

"Yes m'lady." he said. The man was soon ushered out. Rana turned and began to make her way out of the main hall.

by **Kulonia** » Sat Dec 10, 2016 9:09 pm

^{Lord Sylas Harlton}
^Castlewood

Lord Sylas awakes to his guardsman with a scroll in his hand. Sylas takes the scroll, reluctantly. He unrolls it to find that his uncle was assassinated at age ninety-two. The guard informs Lord Sylas he has overslept and must get ready for his twenty-sixth name-day feast. The guard pesters him about getting ready.
"Fetch the servant, then. I want my good clothes."

Sylas ponders about who could've killed his uncle, Markus Pickford. Not an hour later and he finds himself sitting in the dining hall, chatting with a noble hedge knight and his squire.

"Thank you, Ser. I had the armor forged out of steel and made to look like gold. I also got myself a new steel longsword I named 'Treesplitter.' Pretty, isn't she? All bought with my late father's inheritance. Old bastard couldn't wait to die. Guess my uncle COULD wait. He must've been in the way down in the estate in King's Landing. Probably was in the court's business." Sylas is interrupted by the guardsman from before. He scolds the lord for not doing his hair nicer.
"I already told you, knave, I look how I want to look. Now, go back to the barracks. I'm about to say my speech." The guard leaves and heads for the barracks, disappointed. "Lords, ladies, knights, squires! Today, the sole-surviving member of House Harlton celebrates his twenty-sixth name-day! We shall drink to the days of old and new. We shall drink to my dear, late uncle Markus Pickford! We are brothers and sisters in Castlewood! For my late uncle and to the Lord Paramount and Lord Piper! Grow and Endure!"

As Lord Sylas finishes his speech, he sits back down and sees a knight passed out in his chair. As he calls for a maester, he tries to decide who the assassin is. He tries to come to a conclusion as he watches the knight get taken to the maester's temporary office. Sylas calls for his squire to brandish his armor and sword.

"Squire, we're heading down to the capital. Gather an escort of fifty men. We'll need them. I must find my uncle's killer."
Sylas, his guard, and his squire head out towards the capital of Westeros. They plan to stay at the estate for a while until Markus' killer is found.

by **New Minahasa** » Sun Dec 11, 2016 8:12 am

House Yronwood

Lord Grigor Yronwood
Castle Yronwood

In the courtyard of Castle Yronwood, Lord Grigor had watched a sparring practice between his son and a trainer, a professed "one of the best" of them in all Dorne. The wages were much, indeed, but suitable. The trainer was knocked down by his son, amusing Lord Grigor with his first win. "Marvelous, my son. You learn quick. One day, you'll prove to the world as the greatest swordmaster in Westeros," said Grigor, exaggerating his cheers towards his son.

As he gave his applause, his councillor trod through the courtyard, approaching Grigor with haste. He seemed to be in a hurry as he bowed momentarily, "My lord," he said before standing up to announce his message. "One of our accomplices has arrived at the gates after surviving a bandit attack. He declared that he was out with a patrol force when a bandit group struck them down," spoke the councillor.

Grigor's face turned from a wide smile to a frown instantly. "Another one of these alleged "bandit attacks"? Didn't the Martells have promised us to get rid of this pest?," said Grigor with an irritated tone. "Yes, but it seems that this "pest" wasn't yet cleared of, my lord. The Martells might've no gotten the chance to do it yet," said the councillor. "Argh, forget about it," said Grigor. "We'll take care of it ourselves. Get me Ser Howell, immediately," Grigor dismissed his councillor with the order.

A few minutes later, a man clad in fine Dornish robes walked in, and just from his looks, a knight. He bowed in front of Lord Grigor. "Yes, my lord? Have you summoned me?," asked Ser Howell. "Ser Howell, did you receive acquaintance from our latest bandit attack?," asked Grigor. "Yes, my lord. What is it that you wish me do?," asked Ser Howell, once again. "Gather search parties to find and crush these bandits. I'm certain that you're a capable man. Don't prove me wrong, else my temper gets the better of me," Grigor commanded.

There were no more to hear. Ser Howell gave a single nod as he stood up. Outside, he rallied four search parties, each numbering about fifty men on horseback to locate the bandits. Each party would go south, north, east, and west. He himself lead the western search party in hopes of accomplishing the task soon enough.

by **Phalnia** » Sun Dec 11, 2016 10:17 pm

House Velaryon

Lord Symon Velaryon
The Narrow Sea

The sea gently rocked the Valyrian Wind as she cut through the water. The green sail billowed and gave the illusion that the seahorse that graced it was dancing across the sky. Shouts rang out across the deck as men scrambled about. However, there was one man who remained stationary. He was Symon Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, Master of Driftmark, and Captain of the Valyrian Wind. In his hands he held a long brass tube that was raised to one eye. Through his Myrish Eye, Symon could make out white sails on the horizon, their prize. The ship itself was unremarkable. A shit galley, likely from Stepstones. Not something fit for a fleet action, but better suited to raiding villages and merchant ships. In fact this is why Symon had sailed this far out. Their target had grown to be a constant thorn in his side, trade ships were coming under attack off of Driftmark and Symon was duty-bound to see the pirate brought to justice.

"M'lord." Symon lowered his Myrish eye and turned towards the voice. It was the ship's navigator. "M'lord, we're in range for the ballista. Should we open fire?"

"A fine idea Barristan. You may give the order."

"Fire the scorpion, lads! Let's put a few holes in them!" A positive reply rose up from the ballista crew who began to prime the weapon to fire.

After a minute the first bolt was launched. It struck in the hull of the ship, lodging itself there. The next crossed the deck of the ship falling into the water beyond the ship, though Symon could see through his far-eye that it had caught a man when it passed over the ship propelling him overboard. The Valyrian Wind continued to fire, striking sails along with the hull and the deck, for nearly an hour until they were nearly upon the limping pirate.

"M'lord, should we make ready to board?" Cried the commander of the ships infantry regiment.

"No, ser Daryn! I've no intention of taking this ship or her crew back to Driftmark. I intend to send them all to the Merling King. Oarsman ramming speed!" Lord Symon gripped the railing as the two ships drew ever closer. He could hear the frantic yelling from the raiders as they attempted to avoid the oncoming ram. It was to no avail, the two ships struck, with the cracking of wood and cries of men as water began to flood into the hull. Lord Symon smiled as their rival took on more and more water. "Oarsman, reverse!" The two ships separated and the hole only grew larger as men began to abandon their ship. Ser Daryn, cut down any poor bastard that tries to board this ship! No quarter for pirates!"

Ser Daryn nodded and began to direct his men to the ship's sides with crossbows and spears. The twangs of crossbows firing mingled with screams of dying men and splashing of falling bodies. At last the sounds ceased just as the mast of the pirate galley slipped below the surface.

"A good hunt men!" Yelled Lord Symon. "Now back to Driftmark, we're done here." Once again the crew began to scramble across the deck and the oars dipped into the waters again.

by **Asyir** » Sun Dec 11, 2016 10:24 pm

Oldtown
The Hightower, The Lord's Solar

His Lordship, Garland of the House Hightower,
The Beacon of the South, The Voice of Oldtown, The Master of the Port, The Defender of the Citadel, and the Lord of the Hightower

The cold sea breeze lightly kissed the aging Lord Garland as he stood at the opened large glass window in the corner of his solar, watching the several dozens of trading vessels already in port before the mid-morning sun had risen over the large stone battlements of Oldtown. For over two decades, Lord Garland had made this activity part of his everyday routine, the sight of dozens of vessels before the mid-morning sun filled him with a silent glee before the long and tiresome day at the courtroom. When he was a boy, he looked towards the busy harbor with curiosity, seeing so many ships from all over the world instilled a sense of wanderlust and adventure in him. The curiosity within Garland died long ago, the aging Garland looks at the ships as giant wooden chests of gold, wealth that increases Hightower power and prestige.

Lord Garland turned away from the view of his bustling port, back towards his large ironwood desk in front of the window. He pulled back his cushioned chair, sat down, reached for his small casket of Arbor Gold and poured the red liquid into a golden chalice. He shuffled some old papers about, throwing some off towards a makeshift basket underneath the desk. One letter's title caught his eye, Garland picked it up, moving it closer to his ailing eyes. Wares from Dorne , the title read. Garland's teeth gnashed almost instinctively, as old grudges and wounds came flooding back into his mind...

Garland was nine and ten, when his father received a call to arms from Lord Paramount Lyonel Tyrell. Lord Garland, then simply called, Ser Garland, was a renowned tourney knight, a lethal duelist, and possessed some tactical talent, when his weak and infirm father and brother passed the command of seven thousand swords to him. Garland was eager, hungry to gain glory and his father's approval, and in hindsight, shouldn't have brought his younger brothers, Ser Leyton and Ser Erron, along with his cousin, Ser Maric. Erron had just turned six and ten, and was recently knighted, thus eager to prove himself in any martial contest.

"Unfortunate his first taste of battle was against the Dornish. Had I been older and mature, I would've left him behind. His over eagerness got him killed before he turned seven and ten." Lord Garland thought briefly snapping out of his daydream, but memories of the Prince's Pass soon returned to his mind once more, as they've done countless times before...

The hot arid desert winds chocked Ser Garland, as the scorching beams of sunlight slowly heated him from within his suit of plate. He was uncomfortable, feeling like a frog being roasted in a stove top pan. The sounds of the clashing of iron and steel, the twang of bowstrings, and the horses neighing filled the narrow passways they were instructed to take. Blood melded with the sand and rock to form a red tomato like paste across the top layers of the steep mountain dunes, as hundreds of mangled and maimed bodies lie strewn about the endless reddish wastelands that were the Prince's Pass. The cries of the wounded and dying pounded their way into the greathelm of Garland, the young knight stood in a defensive posture clutching Vigilance tightly with both of his hands. Several Fowler men were scattered about at his feet slain by the knight's hand, their light robes and chainmail stood no match for the Valyrian Steel blade. The knight made his stand on the top of a small craggy hill on the eastern side of the passway, several men at arms bearing the Hightower sigil formed a wall of steel around their knight. Soon, all Garland could hear was the steady, yet shallow, breaths from his men.

"Ser, the Dornish are massing for another attack on our position!"A soldier shouted, as he ran towards the makeshift shield-wall of the Hightower men at arms, "They bring more spearmen and archers, company strength at least. A dark taller man is leading them, blazoning a blueish bird on his coat! He's felled several dozen with arrow and sword already!"

"A Fowler? Good! Then let him come!" Garland cried out. He turned towards the men behind him, now numbered forty, as they laced their steel shields together, forming an impregnable wall along the edges of the craggy steppe. Garland had no idea where his estimated 6,000 remaining swords were, as he looked into the lower passways for any support. He made out the emblem of Houses Oakheart and Peake on a smaller bluff to his right. It seemed the fighting was heavier towards the center of the Pass, as Lord Lyonel Tyrell attempted to force his way through the large Dornish host. The fighting had been fierce for several days, with the Targaryen host making little headway into the Pass. In truth, Garland believed it would become a slaughter, with the Reachmen again being routed out of the Red Mountains, tails between their legs. Despite his thoughts, Garland remained determined, he would either force his way through and find his men, or he would die trying. "I'm tired of this charade. Let the Dornish be butchered at the foot of our shields!"

The loud blast of the Dornish horns whipped and ringed through the line of men. They clutched their swords and shields tightly, their faces showing determination and bravery in the face of overwhelming odds. No matter the number of Dornishmen, they would stand by Ser Garland until their last final breath departed through their lips. Garland moved behind the wall, his nearby men raising their shields to deflect the predictable Dornish arrow shower. Within several long seconds, the assumed arrows pelted against the line of shields, with none finding their marks. Another shower was soon upon them, and again, the Dornish were foiled. The shields of the Reachmen were too strong, the men too experienced, to be killed in such a pathetic way. If this Fowler wanted to capture this crag, he would have to take it by feat of arms.

It was at that time an old ghost spoke into the ear of Garland, the almost forgotten voice of his brother Erron. "You know, if the Dornish could shoot as well as they could fight, we'd have this wretched pass in a day!"

"A pity the Dornish are competent warriors then. At least the sport is good." Garland quipped, peering through the two shields raised in front of him. He saw a small group of fifty spearmen slowly slithering its way to the wall of shields. In front was the man the runner pointed out, and as the runner said, blazoned with the Fowler sigil upon his coat. "That man there, he's a Fowler. I'm going to kill him."

"No, I'm going to kill him!" Ser Erron exclaimed, twirling his sword with his right hand. "I've fought worse and killed better."

"And how many was that? Two?" Garland said in a mocking tone. He clutched Vigilance tighter as the hostile spearmen continued their approach. "I've killed ten today thus far. By this time on the 'morn Sevens willing, it'll be double that. Can't kill enough Dornishmen."

"Oh? Is that so? Willing to put some gold dragons on that?" Ser Erron asked, with a hint of seriousness.

The line of spearmen was nearly upon them, their spears gleamed in the sunlight, and for a moment, they looked majestic, almost professional. "Yeah, I'll take you on that bet." Garland said, positioning himself for combat. Both Garland and Erron would have to wait for the shield-wall to break to engage the Dornish spearmen, only around forty men could comfortable maneuver on the crag. Several more men, some bearing the horns of House Bulwer, found a place behind the shields of the Hightower men. At least some of Garland's men were starting to show.

Steel met steel as the two lines collided in a hulking meeting of flesh and metal. Several Dornish spearmen were already lying on the ground, slain or crying out in agony, as their lifeblood seeped onto the sun soaked rocks. Garland thought for a moment there was the chance Fowler's men wouldn't break through, perhaps Garland's men could hold instead. A spear tip pierced through the neck of a man at arms directly in front of Garland, the man's blood spurting on the knight's helm. The man fell to the ground, chocking on his own lifeblood, his hands clutching his punctured throat. The spearmen stepped forth over the body, as several more men at arms collapsed dead around them. The dark skinned soldier held a small steel shortsword and wicker shield, and wildly began thrusting and slashing at Garland. Garland snapped out of his thoughts, parrying the several blows the soldier swung. Garland launched an attack of his own, swinging his sword in a chopping attack. The robed soldier held up his shield, but the valyrian steel blade cleaved through the light wooden shield, and into the man's left hand. The soldier emitted a shrieking cry of pain, as his hand was sliced in two from the middle knuckle to the wrist. Garland followed with a sweeping strike, cutting deep into the man's lightly protected left sight, cutting through the thin chainmail. Blood spilled out of the man's side, reddening the ground beneath him. Garland looked up, feeling a bright smile upon his face, as he looked for his next victim on the craggy steppe at the Pass...

"My lord brother!" A loud booming voice echoed throughout the solar, rousing Garland from his daydream of memories. It was Ser Leyton Hightower, Garland's only surviving brother. At four and fifty, Ser Leyton maintained some measure of the physical prowess of his younger self, with only a tiny rounded belly complemented with his tall, imposing figure. His gray steel eyes were dwarfed by his big white bushy eyebrows, that covered a large portion of his forehead. He wore a neatly trimmed white beard, and always had his hair cropped neatly together. Leyton was the guard commander of Oldtown, and always wore a suit of gray mail with a coat blazoning the sigil of his house. He wore a castle-forged longsword on his left hip, and was a skilled fighter, even in his advanced age. "Your lady-wife, sent me here to fetch you immediately. She reckoned you were, occupied within your solar. It's nearly time for court, and already, the peasants are gathering outside the High Room."

"Yes, I suppose, it is time for court to be held. Very well, let us go resolve the disputes of the smallfolk." Garland said, standing from his chair. Gripping the hilt of Vigilance in his left hand, he motioned for his brother to follow him out. "Old memories of late have been, resurfacing, into the forefront of my mind. Memories of our youth, where we were much, stronger and formidable. When the world bent to us."

Ser Leyton followed his brother out, and escorted him down the winding hallways of the Oldtower, "When did the world bend to us?" He asked, perplexed by the recollection of his older brother.

"When I wasn't forced to answer preposterous questions," Lord Garland snapped, "When the Dornish knew their place. Now they prance about the Red Keep I hear, whispering in the ear of the Unworthy's son. Always plotting, spreading words of poison and malcontent, increasing their power. Soon, we'll be ruled by one, mark my words."

"What makes you think the Dragon will bend to the Sun and Spear?" Leyton asked.

"They already have." Garland said, waving off his brother as they approached the courtroom door, "Bah, let's not discuss this any further. Daeron II is far better than his father, I'm just rambling again. I've become bitter in my advanced age."

Ser Leyton held the door open for his older brother, exposing the large temporarily empty courtroom, "You've always seemed that way to me."

"Let's see what issues plague the fair city of Oldtown today. Shall we?" Garland grimly said, moving towards the step of the High Chair. Sharing nods with his various family members, Garland sat himself high above the rest, and motioned for the guards to open the main doors...

by **Argentumurbem** » Mon Dec 12, 2016 6:11 am

Ormund Baratheon

The Wide Way

They were two hundred strong, fifty knights with lance and mace and sword, the rest archers with longbow and mallet and axe. With the sun rising to illuminate the red world of dorne, these warriors of the Storm advanced on the lone village with single purpose. The outriders and scouts, forty in number, remained with the horses, barring shut the near invisible entrance to the valley. With their quarry unable to make their escape, the hunt could begin.

Ormund led the charge at three hundred paces, his lance discarded in favour of a mace as wicked as the foe it was to slay. The thunderous advance of the mounted chivalry woke the unsuspecting village as surely as any battle horn, men and women dragging themselves from straw beds to bear witness to the excitement of the day. For precious seconds they amassed, trying to understand the reason for so many men to advance on their isolated village. Is it Lord Manwoody? some would whisper to each other, so detached from the reality of their existence to believe that this was a simple matter of taxation.

By the time they were fleeing in terror Ormund was already fifty paces away and arrows were falling all around them. The villagers, unarmoured save for some thick cloth about their shoulders, fell like wheat to the broadheads. It was a single volley, and it was devastating. As they froze, the stormlords were on them, striking out with all the power revenge gave them. The first dornishman took his mace in the back of the head, Ormund's blow sending the commoner spinning. His second target had fallen to her knees, an arrow wedged in her hand. She did not rise again.

The longbowmen took to their steeds again, racing after the knights with their treasured bows safely stowed away. Yelling out in anticipation, the lighter riders took to the flanks of the village, riding down the skilled few who had managed to escape the slaughter. Even as they reached the village outskirts, Ormund and his battle brothers were wheeling around for a second charge. Even as they did so, it became apparent that there were not many left still living.

When the sun had finally surmounted the mountains about them, the stormlanders had accomplished their first mission. The dead, thankfully all dornishmen, were piled high for the carrion to take their feast. In the blessed shadows of the village hovels, Ormund and his warriors took some blessed rest.

by **Kernan** » Mon Dec 12, 2016 1:36 pm

Aegor Rivers

Aegor rode across the damp grounds of the Riverlands and looked out on the plains to see Stone Hedge in the distance. It was clouded by fog, much like his future in this world. He was the son of King Aegon IV which would, normally, put him in line for secession. However his mother was one of Aegor IV's mistress Barbra Bracken which made him a bastard. Then, to get him out of his sight Aegon sent him to the Riverlands to be raised at Stone Hedge, the seat of the ancient House Bracken. Their red stallion and gold field was emblazoned upon Aegor's chest plate and shield. As far as the uninformed knew, he was a Bracken bastard and frankly Aegor liked it that way; he never really liked Father or his family. Well, that wasn't exactly true as there was one Targaryen male that Aegor didn't mind, Daemon Blackfyre, another Targaryen bastard. However, unlike Aegor he was legitimized and therefore stayed in luxury in Kings Landing. Despite this Aegor felt a sense of brotherhood with Daemon as they both were bastards of the greatest house in Westeros. Aegor had repeatedly sent off letters urging Daemon to take the Iron Throne from the decadent Targaryens and put a true Westerosi house on the throne.

Aegor turned when he detected a noise behind him. He saw it was just his squire pulling up behind him, plodding along uncomfortably on his horse. He had brown hair and blue eyes, skin as white as snow. It was fitting to because he was born in the North, to House Poole if Aegor remembered correctly. Aegor turned his horse around and faced the young man who instincively bowed his head.

"Yes Aegor?" he asked

"Does it rain in the North? Or is it just snow?" he asked

"It rains sometimes sir, but I hardly remember it. Its the snows that worry people up there, especially if Winter is upon us." his squire said

""Hm, thank the Old Gods and the New the Long Summer has stuck around so far." Aegor said, turning his head back to Stone Hedge.

"May I ask something sir?" his squire said tentatively

"Go ahead, but be careful with your words." Aegor warned

"Sir, I think that we go visit Daemon in Kings Landing. Your letters obviously are not getting through, maybe a face to face meeting will sway him?" the man suggested

"Fuck going to Kings Landing. That whole city can burn by Dragonfire for all I care." Aegor cursed "They cast me out the day I was born and as soon as I could I swore to the Old Gods and the New that I would never return. Unless at the head of an army at least."

"Well if anybody will get you an army it would be Daemon. He still courts a lot of favor with a lot of lords and ladies throughout the Seven Kingdoms." the man said

"Are you my squire or is the reverse true?" Aegor snapped, and the man bowed his head again. There was a moment of silence before Aegor dug his heels into the sides of his horse and galloped off.

by **Kulonia** » Mon Dec 12, 2016 4:50 pm

^{Lord Sylas Harlton}
^{King's Landing}

^{One Month Later}

As Lord Sylas and his squire, a local knight's son named Jon Bell, saw King's Landing in the distance, a sworn sword rode up next to Sylas. "M'lord, the scouts report a small keep up ahead."

"Did they get the keep's formal name?" inquired Sylas.

"No, m'lord. We only know it belongs to a branch of House Darklyn," the soldier replied.

"Is there any type of toll, such as at the Twins?"

"All we know is that they have a roadblock set up. What should we do?" asked the knight as he panicked on his dull, brown steed.

"We go around," Sylas fired back as he and his white stallion pressed on. As they drifted off the Kingsroad, they finally reached King's Landing. It was later at night, causing them to be tired and burnt out. As they entered the gates, Sylas told his men "Find an inn or tavern to spend the night at. Jon and I will head to the manse with two knights. Ser Malvyn, Ser Justin, come with us. You'll guard the manse. No one but me or Jon gets in or out."

Jon gave Sylas a face and said, "M'lord, I'm scared. We have to pass through Flea Bottom! The peasants will kill us!"

"Nonsense, Jon. We'll be fine." Sylas muttered a curse under his breath as he saw a ragged-knight draw a shortsword. "Jon, go to the manse!" said Sylas as he dismounted his steed and drew Treesplitter. The lord swung at the knight, being countered with a parry. As the knight went for a swipe to the gut, Ser Malvyn kicked him in the knee, allowing Sylas to impale him with Treesplitter. The knight clutched the sword in his gut, attempting to pull it out with one hand and swing at Sylas with the other. Ser Justin ran up from behind Malvyn and stuck his sword in the brigand's neck, killing him. As Sylas pulled Treesplitter from the robber knight's gut, he thanked his companions. What he didn't see, however, is that Malvyn took damage from the fight when the knight swung like a madman. They pulled off their breastplates as they neared the manse.

"Fuck," said Malvyn with the standard Kingslander accent.

"Are you alright?" asked Sylas.

"No, m'lo-" sputtered Malvyn as he fell off his horse, wounded. He let out a cry as he fell from his steed. Two Goldcloaks approached out of an alley, alerted. They saw Malvyn on the ground and the dead knight. They chased after Sylas and Justin as the pair sped away in the night. After arriving at the manse, Sylas walked in to find Jon sitting by a small table.

"Lord Sylas! Ser Justin! Where's Malvyn?" shouted Bell.

"He was injured and we were forced to leave him, boy." said Justin with a Stormlander accent.

"..What?"

"He's right, Jon. We killed the knight but he took damage. The Goldcloaks arrived and we were forced to run. I don't think they saw my sigil," said Sylas, as he took off his cloak, bearing the golden tree on green, his personal sigil. He took Treesplitter out its scabbard and cleaned it with a rag. "It's best if we all got some rest," said Sylas, awkwardly. He stepped in to his uncle's room to sleep, only to find a hooded figure rummaging quietly through his belongings.

"Stop!" shouted Sylas. "Who are you?!"

"Fuck off, boy!" shouted the man as he tried to jump out the open window. Justin ran into the room, sword in hand and slayed the man. He lit a candle and saw the sigil of House Piper on the man's talbard.

"Should've fuckin' known," muttered Sylas, picking up a dagger off the man's body. "Shoot the body with a crossbow and hang it from the wall by the manse. Let everyone know what happens when you fuck with the Harltons."

by **Warg the Immortal** » Mon Dec 12, 2016 9:00 pm

Ser Daemon Blackfyre, Lord of Dragon's Tongue

The Maidenvault, Red Keep, King's Landing

Daemon sat by his window in the Maidenvault. His family had taken up residence there until the completion of his castle along the Blackwater. The outer locks had been removed following the death of his uncle Baelor, preventing them from being locked within, though his mother was still uncomfortable residing within it. Glancing outside he scowled at the site of the library, sept and godswood. A collection of building doing nothing but waste space, serving no one but hobbled old men and those like Daeron. He turned his gaze to the grounds of the middle bailey, where Ser Quentyn was in the middle of training his eldest sons, Aegon and Aemon, as well as their cousins, Aelor, Valarr and Matarys in their Swordplay. He remembered when he had been their age, getting the same lessons in the same place from the same man, it was like repeating a moment out of his childhood...before his father died, back when he had been truly happy, playing in the halls of the keep with Daenerys, Shiera, Brynden, Mya and Gwenys, hoping his father would allow his brother Aegor to visit them.

He chuckled as Haegon and Aenys, as well his great nephew, Daeron, tried to emulate their cousins and siblings with sticks. His third son, Daemon, was playing music with his friend, the young Alyn Cockshaw. Daemon would prefer if his third son focused on swordplay, but at least he was building a good relationship with the heir to a noble house, which would be useful, considering House Blackfyre's bastard origins. In the shade of the sept sat his wife, Rohanne, and their youngest children, enjoying a light lunch. Daemon sighed. His wife was comely enough, but she did not hold his interest, their marriage had been political and nothing more. The two of them got along well enough, but Daemon made no attempt to hide that the only woman he cared for was Daenerys.

Glancing up from the field he could see a knight with tabard of his friend, Ser Bernarr Brude. Daemon had sent him to his incomplete castle to get an update on its construction progress. Daemon watched as the man made his way thought the bailey, pausing momentarily to speak briefly with Ser Quentyn before making his way to the upper floor of the maiden vault, and Daemon's chambers.

"Bernarr, good to see you, I trust the construction is going well?" The younger man smiled, stroking his beard absentmindedly. "Very well Daemon, the moat, main keep, armoury, great hall, dungeons, granary, crypt, kitchens, stables and living quarters have been completed, but they still need to construct the kennels, rookery, garden, library, ballroom, walls and towers. As per your instructions the plans are absent a sept and godswood, the planner was a tad perturbed by it but a few extra dragons shut him up." The northman paused for a moment withdrawing a letter, the seal upon it was a winged horse in gold wax.

"A letter arrived at the keep from your brother." Daemon took it, breaking the seal and reading it. Another request for him to proclaim himself the true king. Sighing he held the parchment over a candle on the table, waiting until the flame had almost reached his fingers before releasing it to finish burning on the stone floor. "Damn it, he knows the Bloodraven would gladly see us both to the headsman just for writing this. He should be more careful with such talk." He turned to Bernarr. "Send him a letter, tell him to meet me at my castle. I'll tell Daeron that I'm taking my family so that they can get a look at their future home." He hastily wrote a simple letter, sealing it with black wax before giving it to the Northman and making his way to the throne room.

~~~

Throne Room, Red Keep, King's Landing

Daemon ran his thumb over the pommel of Blackfyre as he made his way towards the throne room. A small smile lit his face, as was usual for him. He made a point of greeting the various courtiers that he encountered upon the way, grinning when some of the noble ladies blushed as he passed. Eventually he was outside the throne room, but was barred entry by two guards, Dornish by the look of them. By the seven hells, it wasn't enough that Daeron married one and sold Daenerys to another like a common whore, but now he had them running around acting like they were the ones to rule the kingdom. He managed to maintain his composure and smiled at them pleasantly. "I'm here to see my brother, so if you would kindly step aside." The two men remained stationary. Daemon sighed in exasperation before continuing. "Very well, would you at least inform him that I need to speak with him, surely the good king can spare a moment for his own flesh and blood?" One of the pair made his way through the heavy doors, leaving Daemon to wait in boredom.

by **New Minahasa** » Mon Dec 12, 2016 9:41 pm

House Yronwood

Ser Howell
The desert

A week had passed by. Ser Howell and his party were exhausted, days of searching through the desert to find nothing but sand and dirt, and the occasional bones. They were camped in the middle of the desert when a runner appeared. Ser Howell walked out of his tent, greeting the man. "Ser, one of our parties has found a large camp located within a valley south of here. The other search parties were notified as well," spoke the runner.

Ser Howell nodded. "How long 'til we reach your party?," asked Ser Howell. "Two days if we're fast enough," answered the runner. "Alright. Lead the way then, boy," said Ser Howell. Ser Howell prepared himself and the rest, then soon rode with the runner south to reach the other party. Two days passed, and they soon reached the southern party's camp. It was located on a hill overlooking the alleged bandit camp. Ser Howell and his party were the last to reach the camp, as the others had arrived earlier than them.

"Take me to your party leader," said Ser Howell to the runner. The young man brought Ser Howell to a tent located in the middle of the camp. "Ser," greeted the man inside the tent. A lowly officer of the Dornish army. "What's the report?," said Ser Howell. "Me and the men found this camp in a valley. There were no banners whatsoever to them, so we've assumed they were bandits. And we were right," said the officer. "How's that?," asked Ser Howell. "A day before you arrived, we were watching the camp when their men rode from the north, bringing slaves and spoils with them," answered the officer. "That's that then. Tell your men to rest. We'll ride at dawn," said Ser Howell.

The next day, at dawn, Ser Howell and the rest of the parties had gathered. They were all on horseback, two hundred strong. They rode around the steppe hill, into the valley. With a single blow of a horn, they Dornish horsemen strode. They marched into the camp, sacking and slaughtering everything inside. The fight felt like seconds as bodies fell upon the desert floor, blood spurting everywhere. Nobody was left but the slaves and Ser Howell's men. The deed was done. They soon left the camp behind, and rode to Castle Yronwood.

House Yronwood

Lord Grigor Yronwood
Castle Yronwood

"My lord!," a messenger approached Grigor hurriedly, shouting from across the throne room. The lord was just on his balcony, viewing the beautiful sunset before the messenger had interrupted. He turned around, facing the man. "What is it, good man?," said Lord Grigor. "My lord, a message arrived from one of our patrols that a village west of here was recently sacked and burned. Everyone was killed," reported the messenger. "WHAT?," shouted the lord in anger. "Another one of these "attacks"? Get me Ser Howell!," demanded him. "Ser Howell has not arrived yet, my lord. There-," the man was stopped as Ser Howell stepped into the room.

Ser Howell walked towards the lord, bowing before his presence. "The deed was done, my lord. We've brought an end to this pest," said Ser Howell. "Have you, Ser Howell?," asked Lord Grigor. "Then explain to me why a village west of here was ATTACKED recently. Haven't I told you NOT to disappoint your lord?," said Lord Grigor wrathfully. Ser Howell was shocked and confused at the same time. "But, sir-," said Ser Howell, interuppted. "No BUTS, Ser Howell. Innocent people have died. There are no use to apologize," replied Lord Grigor. "Now, your next task is to investigate this "attack" on our village. As soon as you've discovered these assailants, you are to report to me as soon as possible," ordered Lord Grigor. "On your command, my lord." He quickly left the throne room with a frown upon his face. Once again he rallied his men, and went west to investigate the attack.

by **Brotherhood Steel the 2nd** » Mon Dec 12, 2016 11:27 pm

Summerhall

The Stormlands, Westeros

His Lordship, Maekar of House Targaryen, First of His Name, Prince of Summerhall, Son of Daeron of House Targaryen

Summerhall

Fire and Blood...the house words of House Targaryen since the days of Aegon the Conqueror coming to Westeros and establishing the greatest dynasty that the world had ever seen to that point. Those three simple words held immense power formed the basis of how every Targaryen ruler has held together the Seven Kingdoms since the moment Aegon the Conqueror himself stepped onto the shores that now made up Kings Landing, and those words meant everything to what it was to be a Targaryen. For one Targaryen Prince in particular, those words rung truer than anything else as his path was one of proving his worth to carry the name Targaryen.

Maekar of House Targaryen, fourth son to King Daeron II of House Targaryen, was considered by many people within the kingdoms as the pragmatic and ruthless one of the Targaryen family; always since birth trying to prove his worth to his father and to himself to escape his brothers shadows. Never expected to rule or vie for the Iron Throne, Maekar had spent his years studying the art of war and tactics, as the young prince had always held a fascination with Aegon the Conqueror and the lore of how House Targaryen made the Seven Kingdoms bend to their will and forged the greatest dynasty that Westeros had ever seen. Spending the better part of the last two years at the Targaryen residence of Summerhall, Prince Maekar spent his time training with knights and military leaders from across the Seven Kingdoms; honing his skills in both personal combat and military tactics. One to always think ahead and plan, Maekar pragmatic mind always had him preparing for the worst and hoping for the best, as he knew that the worst would mean war and death for the Seven Kingdoms if his worries ever came to bear fruit.

Today happen to be one of those days with Maekar, as it seemed the wheels of fate were pushing. Practicing with his eldest son Daeron, age four, with wooden swords, the young Targaryen prince was determined to start his son on the path of becoming a great knight in service to the Seven Kingdoms. Sparring with one another, Maekar stood his ground and parried the attacks of his young son Daeron as he critiqued the young Targaryen's stance. "Come, my son, strike harder and with more bite as you are a Targaryen. One day you will be expected to lead other knights into battle in service of the king, so show me that you have strength." As Maekar finished, he held his sword in-front of him as Daeron rushed towards his father and proceeded to try to knock him down with a strike to the chest. Parring the attack with ease, Maekar proceeded to knock his son onto his back before helping him back up and speaking. "Now Daeron, you should know by now that you should never..." As Maekar was about to tell his son the finer points of attack, the prince could hear the familiar rattle of footsteps of Maester Donnel behind him on the far edge of the courtyard. Sure enough, off in the distance in his black robes stood the tall and frail image of a man that was Maester Donnel, advisor to Prince Maekar and Castellan of Summerhall.

Looking back at the maester, Prince Maekar sheathed the wooden training sword back into the weapons rack before sending off Daeron to be with his mother. With Daeron gone, Maekar proceeded to speak. "Maester Donnel, how urgent is this news that you bring to me that it requires you to disrupt my teaching with my son? Please speak bluntly, as I do not have the time for another one of your drawn-out lectures or stories to reinforce your point." As Maekar finished his thought and waiting for a response, he proceeded to sitdown at one of the benches located within the courtyard to catch his breath from training with his son just moments earlier. Maester Donnel, old and wise in his years, proceeded to smile at Maekar's remarks before continuing on with his message. "My lord, even after years of lessons and tutelage, you still have much to learn in the matters of being civil. Perhaps one day my lessons with make an impression onto you, but I digress. I seek your audience in private today as a messenger has come from Kings Landing with a letter sealed with the King's sigil. I was told to deliver it to you immediately, as the contents of the letter are for your eyes only." As Donnel finished his thought, he proceeded to pull out a rolled letter of parchment with the distinguishable seal of his father, King Daeron.

Looking at Donnel for a moment with a look of question, Maekar proceeded to take the parchment from the maester's hand as he made a slight comment back. "My father? I am surprised that he even wishes to write to me, as it has been over a year since we last spoke or seen one another since Baelor's name day celebration.What could he possibly want after all of this time?" As Maekar made his statement, his mind focused back to the last time he was in Kings Landing with the rest of the Targaryen royal household. It was at his brother's name day celebration, Prince Baelor of Dragonstone, that Maekar had gotten into a nasty and rage-filled argument with his father over keeping his uncle, half uncle at that, known as Daemon Blackfrye at the Red Keep while rumors we're beginning to spread that Daemon was seeking the throne from his father. Maekar had respect for Daemon as a fighter and as a family member, but he never could get over the matter that people from around the Seven Kingdoms saw him as the one to become the ruler of Westeros; given his stature as a bastard even though he was legitimized. Maekar had always thought as pragmatic as he could, and even though Daemon was family, he knew that he was a threat to his father's throne, as many nobles viewed King Daeron as a weak scholar king that bent to the will of the Dornish princes in the south. Maekar had made it clear to his father that Daemon should have been banished from the Seven Kingdoms or at least asked to denounce his claims to the throne, least these rumors push nobles and Daemon to rise up against the throne. As such, father and son argued and cursed at one another until Daeron had all but banished Maekar from Kings Landing that day, never to return lest at his command. Prideful then, Maekar knew the last year had been hard on the Targaryen family, as he now wished he could have taken back some of the words he spoke to his father on that faithful day.

Looking over the sealed parchment, Maekar proceeded to rip open the wax seal and read the contents of the letter itself to himself. Expecting it to be a long and eloquent-worded message from his father, given how much of a scholar the king was, Prince Maekar was surprised that the letter itself was both short and blunt to the point. As reading the letter, Maekar's expression went from one of content and confusion to one of sadness and sternness, as it seemed that his worries of the possible conflict were coming true. While not fully expressing the situation, King Daeron had ordered that his son return to Kings Landing to meet with him and his brothers to discuss matters of grave importance that reflected the entire Seven Kingdoms.

Once reading the letter again to confirm the contents, Maekar let out a heavy sigh as he looked back to Donnel before speaking again. "Well Maester, it looks like I have been called to Kings Landing by our grace, King Daeron. Inform the captain of my guards to have my honor guard ready to leave at first light tomorrow for Kings Landing. I'll speak with my wife to inform her that I will be leaving and won't be back for sometime. Also, make sure to send riders to the rest of the soldiers committed to me by my father and have them be ready to assemble back here at Summerhall. If they ask why, tell them that we will be training and hosting for a tournament of their skills. That should be enough to get them to come, lest my assumptions of my father's letter are wrong. Make the arrangements." Nodding back at the prince's acknowledgement, Donnel proceeded to leave Maekar alone in the courtyard of Summerhall as he began to relays his master's orders to be ready to leave at first light. Looking back at Maekar before he left, Donnel could see that the prince's expression was one of both sternness and one of anger, a look he knew only meant bad news from the capital.

With the day passing into night, Maekar sat at the table of his room reading over the letter from earlier as his wife Dyanna Dayne held their year old son Aerion looking concerned at her husband. Having meant at court at a young age, both Dyanna and Maekar were apart of a select group that had managed to marry for love over political convenience; as Maekar being forth in line for the throne meant that he would never have to worry about ruling over the Seven Kingdoms. Being his emotional support and words of wisdom, Dyanna could see that the news of the king summoning Maekar back to Kings Landing had her husband running a multitude of scenarios through his head. Putting Aerion into his crib, the young princess walked over to her husband and sat next to him; leaning her head against his shoulders as she spoke. "Maekar, my love, what bothers your heart so? Why are you so upset over the letter your father sent you?" Looking back to his wife, Maekar's stern face relaxed into a more gentle expression as he responded back. "Dyanna, it has been over a year since either of us as seen or spoken to one another, and now out of the blue my father, the king, summons me back to Kings Landing without warning besides noting that it is of grave importance to the realm. I want to believe that there is nothing to worry about, but given how we left on bad terms and with the rumors if late, I am worried that my fears may come to be true, which puts your lives at risk."

As Maekar finished his thought, his mind returned back to the argument he had with his father that had banished him from the court over a year past in reference to the possible threat that Daemon Blackfrye could be to the throne. Maekar knew that even in his passion and planning he could be wrong about Daemon's intentions and that his father could just want to make peace, but still Maekar had in the back of his mind that something was wrong and that he always had to be the voice of reason at times and be the stern force to make people see his way. As such, Maekar's actions had created a rift between him and the rest of his family over the last year and as such, the prince wasn't sure how he would be received when he returned back home to face his family; which in turn caused Maekar's body to tense. Seeing this, Dyanna proceeded to relax her husband with a shoulder massage as she responded back to her husband's worries. "Husband, tonight you not need to worry about your father or the Seven Kingdoms or any of that, as none of that matters if you cannot enjoy life and be thankful for the blessings the gods, both the Old and New, have granted you. Your father and family will eventually forgive you, just as you wish to express forgiveness to them, as you are blood at the end of the day, and in times of crisis, family is all you have to keep yourself on the true path. Now, come to bed with me and let us sleep well without care but for ourselves."

Smiling as hearing his wife words, Maekar kissed his wife before both headed to bed, as tonight would be the last time the two of them would possibly see one another again for a long while, and Maekar wanted to make sure that he retained fond memories of his love and of his children before heading out to Kings Landing, for his wife was right on the matter. Tonight, at least, he would not worry about the worst but instead spend the time reflecting on the good he had in his life, for his wife and children were his world.

The Stormlands

With the sun barely raising over the grounds of Summerhall, Prince Maekar Targaryen and 200 knights of his personal honor guard began their journey back to Kings Landing and the Red Keep to meet with his father and his brothers. With a look of calmness and determination, Maekar knew that even the vagueness of the King's request meant that he had to prepare for any outcome, given how it seemed Daemon would might make a move for the throne itself. Riding hard with his knights, it would be a two days ride to Kings Landing before Maekar would be able to speak with his father and brothers to see what the urgent news was that seemed to have had his father forgive him from his transgressions a year prior. With the prince riding towards the capital, elsewhere in the Seven Kingdoms, word would soon get the rest of his soldiers to assemble at Summerhall under the guise of training and a tournament to be held in the honor of Maekar's youngest son. However, even with his years of study and this past year of preparation, Maekar had hoped that he would not have to act on his worst fears of a possible conflict throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

by **Argentumurbem** » Tue Dec 13, 2016 12:01 pm

Ormund Baratheon

The Wide Way

It was at the third village that they finally met armed dornishmen. The sun had barely risen when the settlement was struck, eighty farmers cut down by a force twice their size and better armed to a magnitude too great to compare. Now the sun was past its zenith and beginning its long decline into darkness. The dornish party was some twenty strong, mounted on the national steed of dorne and riding beneath the heavy banners of Manwoody. Such was the efficiency of Ormund's band that they had left no survivors, no man, woman or child who could spread word of their presence. Indeed, the armed riders came with only the caution that was natural to the people of the sands. Taxmen, or simple patrolmen, more interested in returning to the unsightly keep of Kingsgrave than in keeping their people safe.

"For Arron's Furlong," Ormund had whispered as the stormlander arrows took flight, hissing their righteous intent. As he raised his mace, the defiled village of House Caron became the warcry for the mounted knights, leaping from the village like heroes of the ancient past to bring vengeance on the vile southerners. Within moments they were arrayed before the dornish band, speeding up from canter to a full gallop. Even as the final arrow found earth the stormknights found flesh, driving into the disarrayed mass of the Manwoody party with singular intent.

The fighting was over before it had even began, Ormund's mace still clean when the longbowmen had stripped the dead of all their worldly wealth. The bodies were dragged back into the village, left beside the villagers to bear false testimony to a battle between ruler and ruled. Maybe the dornish would believe such a tale. Even if they did, they would still look north for bloodshed.

"Home," the lord announced to his warriors, straightening as they cheered the order. They had not made much from the villages beyond a few score coins and valued trinkets. Most went to his company, payment taken straight from the loot. He had to take the small victories whenever they presented themselves.

They had been in dorne for five days. Five days longer than any of them wanted to be. Each man hoped that it would be the last five days. But as ever, the dornish would strike out without reason. And the stormlords would retaliate and reap a heavy price.

by **Kernan** » Tue Dec 13, 2016 12:23 pm

Aegor sat in his room at a small table, to small for him, hunched over the light of a single candle. Behind him his bed awaited him, called for him to sleep the sleep of Kings, a sleep that had eluded him for as long as he could remember. Aegor could feel something momentous was on the horizon, something that would change the history of Westeros for better or for worse. The thought of it kept him up this cold night, at the table, quill in hand and paper waiting eagerly below him; for he had a letter to write. It was a letter he had written many times before; so many times he couldn't count. It was a letter of great urgency that surely be disregarded by its recipient as they always seemed to be. Sure he got a response a few times, but they always were denials of his righteous request to start toppling the dominoes of fate. Aegor sighed as he dipped the quill in ink and began writing:

Dear Daemon Blackfyre

If the seal to this is broken I want you to burn this at once. I write to you again urging you heed my council. Take up arms against your father and the Targaryens while they are weak and the Kingdom is against them for this is our best chance. I again assure you that we are not alone in our want to depose the Targaryens, you have friends in other courts in Westeros. I dare not name them here but let me assure you, I have been around and we have sufficient support. With us at the helm the Targaryen's will be thrown into the Narrow Sea within months and once again a Westerosi house would rule Westeros. I am at your beck and call here in Stone Hedge, waiting for that fateful order to take up arms against those who have wronged us.

Aegor Rivers.

Aegor returned the quill to the well and then carefully folded the paper before bringing out a sealer. He had one made for him by a man in Riverrun and thought it made him feel more official, more at home. The seal he had chosen was one of a spear with skulls impaled upon it and Aegor pictured each skull as a Targaryen. Daeron, Daenerys, Aegon, and all his bastards. Except for maybe Daemon, he was the closest thing to kin that Aegor had ever known and because of so Aegor didn't think he could bring himself to kill him. Aegor rose from his chair and marched out the door and down the hall into the large courtyard that dominated Stone Hedge, inside which was empty except for a small shack in the far left corner opposite from Aegor. Aegor marched across the courtyard, painted with many flowers from the Reach, imported due to the Lady Bracken's taste for flowers and beauty. Aegor never saw a love to them, they were weak and easily crushed.

As he approached the shack he saw the door fly open and a little man hurry out and stand at attention. It was his squire who Aegor forced to live out here to toughen him to the elements. He then built this house here and has lived inside it, shoddy as the construction is. Aegor was sure a hard knock could collapse the whole thing, maybe he would try that...but that thought was soon pushed out. He handed the squire the letter and sneered.

"Have your must trusted messenger deliver that to Daemon Blackfyre at once. I want the messenger to hand it to him personally. Only me, you and the rat that delivers it are to to touch it before it reaches Daemon. Do I make myself clear?" he said in a hard but ragged voice. He really needed sleep.

The man only nodded before hurrying off to do Aegor's bidding. As he left Aegor gave a curt nod, he liked giving orders.

by **Eraus** » Tue Dec 13, 2016 6:10 pm

Donnel Arryn, Lord Paramount of the Vale,Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East

Donnel sighed as a he sat in his throne, the room was pact full of members of his court. This is how the boy treats me for awarding him the Gate. the old man thought as he watched quietly and awkwardly as waiting for his son Jasper to arrive.

The High Hall's doors opened and a tall armored figure quickly rushed forward. The crowd quickly realized it was Lord Jasper as he had on a coat with his houses sigil on it.

The boy quickly spoke up "Pardon my tardiness, I had an issue that needed to be dealt with. We can speak about it later father" Jasper said as he took of his helm and held it just under his armpit.

"We sure will." the elderly man said as he stood up and moved towards Jasper "Jasper of House Arryn, You have proven to me that you are a brave knight and a true valemen. I shall appoint you Keeper of the Gates of the Moon as a way to prove yourself to the rest of the Vale. Keep the Vale safe and secure while always remembering the vows you took. The vow to be brave, just, to defend the young and innocent and to protect all women" He said as he showed Jasper and the court a steel bastard sword which had a blue falcon on the pommel "I give you this sword not to take lives but to ensure that the lives of the vale are safe from any and all threats. Do you accept"

"I, Jasper of House Arryn do accept. I will protect our people from all threats be they from ourselves, Riverlanders or from the Dragons atop the river. House Arryn and the Vale will prosper as we are always as High as Honor." Jasper said as he took the sword.

"Now to feast" Donnel said as the court clapped and their silence ended.

by **Kulonia** » Tue Dec 13, 2016 6:39 pm

^{Lord Sylas Harlton}
^{King's Landing}

30 Minutes Later

"How can we be sure Lord Piper sent the man or someone else to kill your uncle? He could've been a.. a.. a.. fuck, I don't know," stammered Justin.

"I'm sure of it. His armor showed the sigil of House Piper. He must've been sent to kill Uncle so that we would declare war on them, finally giving 'em a reason to make my house go extinct. They hate us because of our ancestors. We'll show them," replied Sylas as he held the pommel of Treesplitter.

"Aye," said Justin. "Let's just get some rest. We should head over to the Red Keep, tomorrow. Jon needs to stay here."

"I agree."

As the lord and his sworn sword went to sleep, Goldcloaks were running up and down the road by the manse. "What the fuck? There's a fuckin' body hangin' 'ere!" yelled a Goldcloak as they patrolled.

"He's fuckin' naked!" yelled another as they cut the noose around the corpse's neck. "Report it to the Lord Commanda'! We've got a murderer!"

The Next Morning
The Red Keep

As Sylas put on his green court-clothes, Justin donned silver plate armor with the Harlton sigil draped over the front with a talbard. Lord Harlton grabbed Treesplitter and sheathed it in the scabbard he put on his belt. Justin grabbed a shortsword and his helm, pushing the face-mask up. They started down the street, looking at merchants, lords, and maidens as they walked towards the Keep. When they were allowed in, they pushed on towards the Throne Room. Once reached, a Kingsguard stopped the pair, asking for purpose of entry.

"We're here to join the court, Ser," said Sylas with his most noble accent he could make.

"You're noble, then?" replied the royal protector.

"As you can see by my sworn sword's talbard, we are from House Harlton of Castlewood, vassals of House Piper on the Blackwater Rush. We own a manse in the city."

"Fine. Head on in," said the Kingsguard, persuaded. Sylas dropped three Gold Dragons on the ground in front of him. As they walked in, the first thing Sylas looked for was the Iron Throne.

"There it is. The Iron Throne.. It sure is tall, Justin. How many swords is it made up of, again?"

"Fuck if I know."

"I wonder if the King is here," said Sylas, not in view of the king.

"I don't see Ser Blackfyre," replied Justin.

by **The Valyria Empire** » Tue Dec 13, 2016 7:17 pm

King's Landing

The Red Keep, Throne Room

His Grace, Daeron of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, Rhoynar and First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms

Daeron was in the middle of discussing a dispute between two representatives; one for House Rosby and the other for House Darklyn. Daeron listened intently, the two houses had a dispute over trading on the Kingsroad. House Rosby had set up an Inn which was taking business away from Darklyn's brothel. The two representatives continued to bicker while one of the Keep's guards made his way to Brynden. Once he reached Bloodraven he whispered into his ear.

Bloodraven then signaled to Baelor to come to him. After Baelor was in talking distance, he spoke first.

"What is the issue, uncle?" Baelor asked, as he turned his back to the Throne.

"My half-brother Daemon desires to speak to the King. Deal with him, would you. His Grace is occupied." Bloodraven replied, his stern cold voice.

Baelor nodded and made his way through the crowd until he reached the door. Daeron took notice to this quickly, but could not think on it due to the pressing matter before him.

Prince Baelor "Breakspear" of House Targaryen, Heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone

Baelor signaled to the inner guards to open the door, once they had finished Baelor stepped through, the necklace of hands bounced off his orange and black garbs. He quickly found Daemon who stood before him. Baelor glanced at the hilt of the sword Daemon carried before looking Daemon in the eyes.

"Ah, uncle. It is good to see you, my father is currently attending to the court. As Hand, I will try to do what ever is in my power to help you." Baelor spoke in his soft voice, followed by a smile. Baelor had been trying to keep the peace between his uncle and father for some time now.

by **Warg the Immortal** » Tue Dec 13, 2016 7:52 pm

Ser Daemon Blackfyre, Lord of Dragon's Tongue

Throne Room, Red Keep, King's Landing

Daemon stood, examining a tapestry Aegon the Conqueror. It was like looking at a mirror image of himself. Him in red and black, and Aegon in black and red. The only noticeable difference being a lack of crown on Daemon's brow. Sighing he glanced down at his sword, matching the one that hung from his ancestors hip. At least I have you. His attention was turned to the heavy doors of the throne room as Prince Baelor emerged. He wasn't surprised, his brother was always 'Too Busy' to concern himself with his brothers these days, the again, he almost never had before. At least he had sent one of his two nephews that were worth talking to. A pity he had those Dornish feature and shared a name with the worst king to ever sit the Iron Throne. He had much preferred the company of his nephew Maekar, a true Targaryen if there ever was one, unfortunately he had six ahead of him in succession.

Baelor greeted him pleasantly, making some excuse for why Daeron couldn't come himself. Daemon returned the smile, clasping the mans hand. Though he was his nephew they were the same age, Daemon being perhaps a shade taller and broader of shoulder. He glanced at his nephew's nose, remembering how Baelor had broken it when they were children, trying to climb the armoury. "Ah, nephew, good to see you as well. I suppose Daeron's absence could be expected, he never did have time for his siblings, aside from Bloodraven. Always busy...ruling, and such." Daemon paused thinking to himself for a moment; maybe thats why he didn't give a damn when he sold off Daenerys. Returning his gaze to his nephew he continued. "Anyways, I only wished to Inform your father that I will be departing King's Landing on the morrow to visit my lands. Its only about a day's ride and I wanted my children to get a glimpse of their future home."

by **New Granadeseret** » Tue Dec 13, 2016 10:55 pm

Lord Sanor Frey, The Twins

Let's see... 527 Stags for the staff, 7 Dragons for the new patrol galley... Sanor looked up from his desk, picking up the goblet of cider sitting next to the small pile of parchments. He took a small sip, rolling the powerful tart taste over his tongue as he set his gaze on the view from between the crenellations of the tower on which he'd set himself up. After all it would have been such a pity to stay inside on such a lovely afternoon, the sunlight glittering off the rushing waters of the mighty Green Fork beneath him. Fields of summer corn, stalks waist high at this time in the harvest, stretched out across the fertile banks, interspersed with clusters of trees both wild and cultivated into orchards. The sight of such beauty and bounty brought a smile to the young man's face; it looks like another fruitful year he mused as he casually continued with his work. Some lords might have considered such copper-counting to be beneath them: the attitude of a Lys merchant dropping and haggling over a few ounces of scents, but Sanor had found he actually enjoyed the work. The balancing of numbers was good exercise for his mind: a measurable and controllable part of the often-mercurial and stressful world of nobility; the sound of the quill scratching over the surface of his parchment nearly as soothing as the sounds of the birds chirping in the distance. He let out a soft sigh: for now, the lord was content.

And yet... in the back of his mind, there was always a small itch which bothered him. A combination of whispers, insults veiled in flowery language, and a nagging sense of injustice mixing together into a rarely intense but deep-seated gripe. He tried to push it back down, focusing on his work as a page dashed across the bridge below; one of Ser Haigh's nephews, he vaguely recalled. "Bah, remain master of yourself," he muttered in his effort, yet the feeling would not go away. That in the end, the steadily increasing pile of silver in his treasury meant little, that his efforts to be civil were in vain as no amount of treasure or noble bearing could purchase what he was keenly aware he lacked: dynastic legitimacy. His hand quivered for a moment, bringing him to pull the quill away before he stained his columns. Most recently, it had been a remark from the tree-worshiper Lord-Blackwood ; the man having quietly referred to his lovely lady-wife as a "Spicer's Bride" they last time he'd journeyed north. Simply because his ancestors had held no noble title, done no great deeds to give the Frey name the weight of their ancient lines. Such disrespect wounded him deeply: deeper then it might others, though he had kept his civility towards his guest for the rest of the evening. It took a moment for Sanor to regain his thoughts, giving his head a fierce shake before once again taking up his instrument.

Before he could start however he was interrupted by the quiet click of shoes on flagstone, turning his head to see a swollen figure in a blue dress and feeling the tenseness evaporate. "My love," the sweet voice addressed him, still carrying a faint hint of a Honeywine accent. "You really should tell the servants if you plan on disappearing like this." The young lady walked with a slight skip, Lord Sanor straightening up to meet her.

"Alessia, my heart, must I inform every scullery maid of my whereabouts at all times?" He addressed her with light humor. "I'll only be gone a half an hour more, at most. The castle's accounts don't run themselves you know."

Lady Alessia's lips took on a bit of a pout. "Come now, why can't we simply hire a steward to take care of that for us? You've far more important work to do"

Sanor raised one side of his mouth to this, continuing the numbers as if to demonstrate his point. "Do you take me for a fool?" He asked cooly, his wife raising a hand to her breast defensively.

"I claimed no such thing,"

"Of course you don't. But only a fool trusts all his coin in the hands of a stranger. And if one knows the man who's coin he's handling is a fool, then he can make a fortune." Sanor explained, Alessia noding in a half-understanding. He loved the woman to pieces, and there was no doubt she could read people but... Father above, she couldn't tell the value of a golden dragon to save her life. "But, if you came to inform me of some of this more 'important work', I suppose I could take a break."

His heart lifted up as her smile returned, the lady returning to her element. "Perhaps," she set herself in his lap, running a warm hand down the sleeve of her husband's arm. "Or perhaps I simply couldn't stand being parted from you one moment longer." Their eyes met: her smile clearly a playful one as Alessia leaned in to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. "But, actually, there is something I'd like to ask you, while we're alone."

Sanor's tone dropped to a whisper. "What is it, my lady?"

"Have you been... corresponding with Stone Hedge lately? You seemed quite engrossed the last time their messengers came by,"

Lord Sanor couldn't help but look over his wife's shoulder towards the doorway back into the keep: the clamor of everyday activity echoing through the corridors but nobody walking close to them. An unneeded reflex, perhaps. "It's been several months now." He informed her. "I'm not certain its wise to attach ourselves too closely to them. Rivers has never been the most subtle of men." The... 'conspirators', as he'd taken to calling them, had sent feelers to the Twin's several times over the past few years, be they in the form of courtiers or sealed boxes shipped by the Fork by discreet merchants, discussing treason against the Crown. Of course, before now their promises had been vague, timetable constantly shifting and roll of membership lacking, so he'd only done a little probing into their cause. Certainly not enough to attach him to the movement, but Alessia seemed to be quite a fan of the possibility of the galient Daemon taking the throne. Certainly more passionate then he was.

"Well... perhaps an update is in order," Alessia suggested, cozzying up and trying to sooth her husband to the idea. "It couldn't hurt, just to see what they have to offer." Though used to his wife's attempts at manipulation, Sanor had to admit the glow of her pregnancy did lend her words slightly more weight: reminding him of the potential for his children's legacy... that train of thought quickly halted by the dangers of their disinheritance if he made a stupid, hasty move.

She did have a point however...

"Alright. But simply to talk: no commitments," he informed her sternly. The woman seemed satisfied by the response, giving him a loose hug before relaxing her back against him, soaking up the sunlight. "You can't rightly expect me to write to him with you blocking my view though," he hugged back, gently raising Alessia back to her feet.

"Of course, my Lord. I suppose I can survive a bit longer without your warmth," she gave him one of her glowing, irresistible smiles before a parting curtsie. "Just make certain you're back inside before the hour's done. You have the guard to inspect," she reminded him. As Alessia returned to the inner Twins Sanor brushed off his lap and turned back to his work, still warm and happy. Shifting the current work to the side, he took a fresh strip and re-wetted his quill, carefully writing up the message which would be sent up to the rockery for delivery to Stone Hedge.

To His Honorable Ser Aegor Rivers, of Stone Hedge, Son of His Late Majesty Aegor Targaryen The Forth

May this message find you with good fortunate and health. I cordially invite you as my honored guest to my humble keeps at The Crossing, so we might discuss matters of the dignity and prosperity of both our houses and relations; matters which I'm aware you have expressed interest in in the past. I pledge upon my honor to give your positions and proposals due consideration, and respect the privacy of a fellow noble gentleman irregardless of the results. If you would prefer more humble and discreet accommodations , please inform me and I shall have agents lodgings to your liking in Lord Harroway's Town.

Lord Sanor Frey, Lord of the Crossing and The Twins.

by **Kernan** » Wed Dec 14, 2016 9:58 am

Aegor received the letter from the Twins while he was snacking on some pork from a nervous messenger. The boy, no older than ten, handed him the letter before bowing his head and running off. Aegor watched the boy leave and when he closed the door he looked around the room to find it mostly empty save for a few guards, but they were far enough away that they could not see what was written on the letter. Aegor tore open the seal and opened the letter and quickly skimmed it over and found himself nodding in agreement. The Twins wanted to talk about the coming war which bode well for their chances. Should the North declare against Daemon then with the Twins on his side, the North would stay where they belonged. He rose from the table, pushing the chair out so forcefully that it tipped over, and quickly walked to the courtyard then over to the small shack. Aegor beat on the door to call for his squire, but the door creaked and fell off its hinges into the small one roomed building. It fell flat onto the floor, just barely missing a table that was simply a piece of plywood set precariously on four chair legs. The squire sat at the table with his spoon hovering just outside his mouth as if he was just about to eat some more. When he made eye contact with Rivers the squire shot up and smiled.

"Hello sir! What do you need?" he asked

"Get your horse, we are going to the Twins." Rivers said simply. Then he turned and began to walk to the stables, the squire following close behind.

"May I ask why sir?" the squire asked

"No, you can't." Rivers responded without turning his head.

The pair approached their horses and Aegor reached for his. It was a large black and white spotted stallion with a flowing mane and blonde hair, it had brown eyes that were as dark as wet tree bark and was rowdy. Aegor claimed that it was the fastest in Seven Kingdoms and he believed it. The squire had a solid white horse with one eye that Aegor bought cheap at a market in Riverrun. Aegor got onto his horse with ease and watched the Poole boy try his damnedest to follow suit but kept failing forcing the stable hand to help him up. The squire thanked him quietly and the pair moved out to the Twins. As they left Aegor had a note written and flown to the Twins announcing he was on his way. Aegor just hoped that this wouldn't be a waste of his time.

by **The Valyria Empire** » Thu Dec 15, 2016 3:05 pm

Prince Baelor "Breakspear" of House Targaryen, Heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone

Baelor smiled, and placed his hands behind his back. "Very well, Uncle. I will inform my father at once. My father will be happy to know that his nephews will have a new place to call home." Baelor spoke, before he turned his back to Daemon. He nodded to the guards to reopen the doors and turned back to Daemon.

"May the Gods watch over you, Uncle. If there are any troubles on the way, or with the construction please send me a raven. I will do what I can in my power to help." Baelor then entered the Hall followed by the doors shutting behind him. Baelor made his way next to the Throne, out of the corner of his eye he noticed Bloodraven give him a skeptical look. Uncle, please trust Daemon for once. I do not want this family at each other's throats. Baelor thought as he turned to face the court, ready to assist his father.

by **Warg the Immortal** » Thu Dec 15, 2016 11:10 pm

[quote="Warg the Immortal";p="30637682"]

Ser Daemon Blackfyre, Lord of Dragon's Tongue

Red Keep, King's Landing

"Thank-you nephew, at least there's still a few good Targaryens left." Daemon stood for a moment as the doors sealed shut and he was once again barred from the throne room. He caught sight of Brynden. Another brother who scorned his presence and treated him worse than the bastard he was. He glanced at the guards who had returned to their positions beside the entrance. Scoffing he made his way back to the middle bailey.

As he made his towards the portcullis he looked to his left and saw the small council building. Yet another place where he was barred entry from. He had to get out of there, when it wasn't the Dornish stifling him it was Daeron and his milk drinking allies. He straightened his gaze and walked a bit swifter into the middle bailey. Aegon and Aemon had finished their training for the day and were now wrestling in the grass with their cousins, while Haegon and Aenys were teasing their older sisters with a beetle they'd found. He found his wife still under the shade of the sept, though now his mother had joined them. He walked towards them, scooping up little Maelys to carry him in his arms. "Rohanne, Mother, we will be leaving for Dragon's Tongue on the morrow. It's important the little ones do not grow too fond of the Red Keep. After all, the city can only hold so many dragons at a time." His wife looked at him quizzically, while his mother gave him a knowing look.

Another reason he could never truly love Rohanne, she never understood what it meant to be the bastard son of a King, she didn't know about Westerosi politics, she'd never really understand how important Aegon the Conquerer, Daeron the Young Dragon or Daemon the Rogue Prince were. To her these were just name thrown around. Not like Daenerys, she understood. He paused for a moment, thinking about his great-grandfather and namesake. Daemon had won himself a Kingdom, perhaps he could do the same, perhaps it was time he actually listened to what Quentyn and Aegor demanded of him. He pushed the thoughts aside for the moment as he made his way into the Maidenvault to begin removing his family's possessions.

~~~

It was now evening, the chests had finally been packed for him and his family, now guards hefted them onto carriages. Daemon needed to make a stop first. Donning a dark plain cloak he made his way into the cellar of the Maidenvault, pushing in what appeared to be a loose stone, allowing a stone door to reveal swinging open. His father had shown it to him when he was a child. It had been the passage Aegon had used to reach Daena, resulting in Daemon's own conception. He lit a candle from the sconce, giving him a small area of light for him to see his way. It was hard to imagine his father slipping through these passages, he only remembered him as the fat and slovenly man he had been. After a few minutes of complete silence and near darkness Daemon reached his location. He had found it once, while exploring as a child. He paused for a moment, remembering it had been Brynden's idea to explore the cavern, back when the two of them still found joy in each other's presence. Reaching his hand inside a small crevice he tugged sharply on a steel chain, opening into the vaults. Normally he would not lower himself to theft, but there was one item that he needed. It had held his gaze since he learned what it was. After a few moments of searching he found it, a thin gold crown. Plain, save for one circular bloodstone set in the centre, the crown of Daemon, when he was King of the Narrow Sea. He tucked it into his cloak and began making his way back to the Maidenvault, leaving no sign he had been there.

Emerging back into the evening air he placed the crown in a sack, and stuffed it into the chest containing his armour. After a few minutes the convoy of carriages and horsemen began making their way out of the Red Keep. Flanking each side of him was Robb Reyne and Bernarr Brude, the Red and Black Lions. Behind him was the carriage with his family. Soon House Blackfyre would lay eyes on their new home.

by **Kulonia** » Fri Dec 16, 2016 10:19 pm

^{Lord Sylas Harlton}
^{King's Landing}

^{King's Landing}

After seeing the King, Ser Brynden, and Ser Daemon Blackfyre in the throne room, he laid his eyes on a Kingsguard. The man eyed Sylas and Justin, carefully. Lord Harlton quickly realized this and told Justin they must go before noon. "Justin, we leave for Castlewood. Get Jon and the men and meet me at the manse."

"Yes, m'lord." As Sylas held the pommel of Treesplitter, he ran down the street to the manse. He was being watched by Goldcloaks as he hurried to his estate. Once he reached the manse, he donned his golden-yellow steel armor. He put on a matching helmet with a face-mask. He slipped a talbard with his personal sigil over his breastplate. As he put his sword in its scabbard, he heard his men gathering outside, Ser Justin and Jon at the front.

"Lord Sylas, the men are armed and ready to travel back to the castle. Orders?"

"Men, Westeros may soon be plunged into chaos. We must go home to defend Castlewood. The time will come, my friends. The time will come. We're heading home, now." Sylas walked over to his swift steed and climbed on. He guided it over to his small guard and lead them to the city gate. As the guards opened the gates, Sylas lifted his facemask to nod at a Goldcloak. The guard responded by holding his sword. Sylas hurried along as he looked towards the Kingsroad.

^{The Kingsroad}

At their encampment, the escort put up the banners of House Harlton. In his tent, Sylas was writing a message to House Frey requesting an alliance. He summoned Justin into the tent, after they ate and drank. "Justin, get Jon to send a raven to Lord Sanor. If we want to take Pinkmaiden, we'll need soldiers and allies."

"Right away, m'lord," said Justin, already heading for the squires' tents.

"We'll show them what Harltons can do. We will. Time for some rest," said Sylas as he climbed on to his cot.

by **United Socialist Republics of Lupina** » Sat Dec 17, 2016 12:41 am

Beware the Cunning Fox

Lord Reynard, Lord of Brightwater Keep
Brightwater Keep,
The Reach

Lord Reynard and his hunting party rode towards the keep that had been his ancestral home since the Age of Heroes with a boar and a fox from the previous day's hunt. It had been a daring and tricky little thing, but he'd caught the fox after a full day of chasing. His son; Erryk, grinned happily, no doubt pleased with himself for taking on the boar by himself; making his lordship very proud of his eldest son, he would certainly become a great knight one day at this rate, just like out of the songs the boy so loved to hear. It was days like today that Lord Reynard enjoyed the Great Spring was still upon the land.

He was met beyond the gates by his uncle; Ser Edmund, a tall man of five and fifty years, he always had a haggard look to him that made him appear thinner than he was. "I see you've done well." he observed, grabbing the horse's bridle as Lord Reynard dismounted. "Aye, it had been quite a chase, but both boar and fox fell. Erryk brought down the beast with a spear."

"I circled around the beast and stabbed at it before I made the killing blow." Erryk said with a grin.

"A fine thing." Ser Edmund replied simply. "Soon I'll be calling you Ser." He turned to Lord Reynard, "There is a matter that requires your Lordship's attention."

"Oh?" Lord Reynard followed his uncle as the horse was taken away by a stable boy. "What is it nuncle?"

"It is a blood feud that has begun between the families of Garth the Miller and that family of that mason's boy that was sniffing after his daughter." Ser Edmund walked with him towards the hall. Lord Reynard sighed, "I thought this had been settled before I'd gone to hunt."

Ser Edmund simply hummed. "It was settled, till the Garth and the mason came to blows and then a knife was pulled. The mason was cut and the miller got a trowel stuck in his gut. I put the mason in the cells, but both sides want blood, at least they want more of it before they'll cease their calls for vengeance."

"Madness." Lord Raymond muttered. He had hired a half dozen masons to begin repairing some of the guest areas of the keep for they had been left to decay for decades and had to be repaired if he were to honor any guests to his home. Not only was it costing him, but the effort to keep the masons from being distracted by these local disputes seemed to be more than it was worth.

"My lord?" Ser Edmund asked with an inquisitive look.

"Have the mason brought before me and have him say his account." Lord Reynard commanded, receiving a nod before he turned and headed towards the cells; leaving his lordship to enter the hall alone and walk up to his chair upon the raised dais. He had a servant bring him wine from the Arbor, with cheese and grapes for he felt in need of food and drink after the long ride back. Ser Edmund returned with a pair of guards with the mason between them, he was a small dirty man with yellow teeth and a pockmarked face, with a pair of tired grey-blue eyes. His cheek had a clear cut across it.

"I'm told you have slain one of the millers on my land."

"I did m'lord, but I did not mean to."

"That would hardly seem to matter to old Garth now, would it?" Lord Reynard observed. "Why did you break the peace that I arranged between your two families?"

"But m'lord, I did not break the peace. I was making sure that sneaky bastard of his was not trying to bugger me daughter and telling him that if he broke your lordship's peace, that he'd get what' comin' to him. That's when Garth came at me with his fists. I came back at him. Before I knew anythin', the bastard cut me and I hit him back. It was was protecting meself and mine."

"Indeed, you did defend yourself. Under the law you were in the right. But you still baited him into the brawl in the first place, which means you broke the oath you swore to uphold the peace that I had brokered for your families. Therefore, you shall pay Garth's family a handful of coppers in-compensation for breaking the peace and then you shall be sent to the Night's Watch as an oath breaker and take the Black." Lord Reynard waved him away.

The guards grabbed the mason and dragged him off, "Please, mercy m'lord, mercy! I did not mean to kill him or broke your peace!" Lord Reynard simply sighed and rubbed at his temples before sipping at his Arbor wine. Two foolish men and their families would suffer for it, each having lost the head of their families. By right he should have punished the man more severely, but the Night's Watch was a merciful enough sentence.Their families would likely be ready to slaughter each other if they didn't fear what judgement they would receive in turn for their own breaking of the peace. He just hoped that the work would be over and done with soon so this foolish madness would end and he could return to just enjoying these long warm days with such things.

Game of Thrones: A King Who Bore the Sword [IC]

Game of Thrones: A King Who Bore the Sword [IC]

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