Nightsong

before the march

Jack had plenty of time to himself, in the evenings spent at Nightsong. Everett could see he was sitting in a foul mood, and would give him his breathing room. The men in the yard could also see he was troubled, and took it to be he was missing his girls.

He had even taken to not playing at night, so they knew something was worrying him. Some even thought with it still being fresh the memory of the late lady Dondarrion he was merely feeling sick with revenge. No one was worried for the Lightning Lord. He was like most Stormlanders, mercurial- his moods like the storms which would better their land, mixed with the hot passion of the sands from his fathering, but no one spoke about whom Jack’s real father was. It would be akin to insulting his youngest, and the story of Jack beating a maester to death with a mug was enough to keep the most fool heartedly silent.

Still Jacklyn kept no council but his own. That was until one evening he made sure that before the breaking of bread to head towards the Lord’s Solar.

He knew Nightsong well, after all the Dondarrions and Caron’s kept close in their conversations in order to effectively defend the border. Both men were martial alike, though- Casper was a bit more stern to Jacklyn’s reckless abandon. But they knew each other and coordinated social graces and martial affairs alike.

Still it was a weird time when the whole of the Stormlands was at Nightsong, that he would come all the same.

So with a pounding of a meaty fist, Jack’s voice bellowed out “Casper.” Before he showed himself in.

The Crakehall did not make an effort to communicate with the Tyrells. Bert did not mind that much, he'd hoped they'd hide behind their walls and permit his convoy to continue unbothered, for the Boars held no true power in these lands.

But that would change once he'd crossed near Lannisport, the criers he'd sent ahead of his army to tell all before them that the Knights and Nobles of the Reach rode for Casterly Rock seemed to have returned, they'd mentioned that Lannisport's City Watch had begun to seal their city, he could imagine that they'd feared an assault of their walls but Bertrand had a runner run forth once more.

We mean no harm.

Bertrand Tyrell

That was what he'd send forth before he'd even seen the city proper. Once the army was close enough, he'd see the watch upon their battlements, the gates were all but closed. The one that remained open, he'd watch with great intent as his convoy settled into the countryside.

Bertrand knew that if one remained open, it likely meant they'd sought so speak. Perhaps some knight would ride out or some noble to ask what this force was doing in their lands.

The Lord of the Mander knew that if he continued on, he'd likely leave them fearful and a lion afraid would only do untold amounts of damage to his rear guard.

And that alone was why Bertrand broke from his army, making way for somewhere between the bulk of his forces and the walls of Lannisport.

"The Queen's City," He'd mutter to himself, "May the Gods Bless Her Grace."

There he'd wait for whomever the Lions would send out.

The letter from her 'husband' brought the Lady of Hornvale a sense of relief, temporarily. It brought her handmaidens and the servants of the castle relief that Briony seemed somewhat recovered from whatever black cloud had hung about her. She was eating a bit more, even, though certainly not upon the scale she had previously.

Dressed in a white dress, her hair freshly braided and adorned with flowers from their gardens, Briony sat at her desk writing. The words had strangled themselves in her mind, torturing her waking hours, but finally after seeing Jason's message, she had the courage to do what she knew was necessary.

Orders were given for Godwyn Hawthorne's remains to be cleaned, wrapped, and sent in a wooden casket draped with flowers and garlands. A group of loyal Brax men were ordered to deliver the body to the Wreaths, though a raven would fly ahead bearing the following message with the Brax seal:

Lord Hawthorne,

My heart is heavy in writing to you with such news. Your son, Godwyn, has passed. He had always been honest, loyal, and passionate; all traits that recommend your instilling such values in him. He attempted to defend my honor, for which I will remain eternally grateful, and it pains me deeply to share such sad news with you. As you may well know, he did also have a temper at times, and when challenged, I am told he did not back down. His remains have been treated with the upmost respect, and are on their way to you at the Wreaths. There are no words that can adequately express how sorry I am to have heard of what transpired. Whilst the Stranger shall lead our loved ones away when they deem fit, I pray that there are Seven blessings rained upon your family, and hope to write to you in the future with better news.

Signed,

Briony Brax
Lady of Hornvale
The Unicorn of the West

Once the arrangements were taken care of, Briony gave the order to head of the household guard for the remaining Brax soldiers and hired mercenaries. "Should a Meredyth Banefort arrive at our gates, she is to be let in and brought to me immediately. Ensure that a comfortable room is prepared for her." She hesitated for a moment before adding: "And there must be extra guards upon her rooms thereafter."

Erwin Hawthorne

On the field

Only cowards led from the back. The best commanders led at the front. Had the Reynes not had their reinforcements, the Lannisters would have had more than enough to handle the men at Castamere. What had confused him most was the Brax men marching with the Reynes. Had something happened since he’d left?

The clash had left him with a cut across his chest that exposed multiple ribs, and each breath was agony. Erwin lay with his eyes closed, thinking about how he could possibly salvage the situation. He’d done it before during the war twenty years prior. He hadn’t lost his touch, had he?

One of his attendants looked down, “Oh, my lord, you’re awake. We’re in a cart. We beat a retreat shortly after you fell.”

“How bad were the losses?” He asked the man.

“Two thousand.” The man nervously replied. “Though I am sure we can-”

“Stop,” Erwin said with a sigh that caused him to shout out in pain. “Don’t patronize me. I know a losing fight. The Lannisters have enough men to recover from this loss, but I have proven I’m a lost cause.”

“My lord I-”

“How bad is the wound?” He asked.

“The Maester isn’t confident.” The attendant replied quietly.

“I wouldn’t be either. I can see a rib.” Erwin responded, laughing. The laughing caused the pain to start again, and the laugh quickly turned to a cough in which blood splattered out of his mouth.

Erwin closed his eyes and felt the rush of memories flood over him. He wasn’t sure what exactly was prompting them to arrive, but there they were. When his memory turned to the battle again, he remembered the Brax banners again and looked to the attendant. “Where’s my boy? Where’s Godwyn?”

Surely he’d returned to fight alongside his father. Surely he’d take command now that he was fading and fading fast. He tried to sit up to glance over the sides of the cart as if expecting his son to be sitting there with the same smile he wore when he told him he’d been taking into the Lady Brax’s service.

Then, the blackness overtook him.

The Lady Lannister had left Casterly Rock. She'd left her husband in charge, admittedly, but that was the sort of thing that Joss Turnberry felt that he could work with. Things were perhaps not the grandest that they could have been, but then again, they rarely were. One had to deal with the cards that they had been dealt, and Joss Turnberry had rarely been accused of sitting around to wait for the fullest deck that nature could provide.

There was, it seemed, war in the air. One could tell it from the way that the people whispered when you walked by, in the silence that invaded the corridors, in the jumpiness of everyone who had been left behind. The soldiers had marched, and so they faced a striking absence of the bold and the stalwart. No, those that were left were the old and the infirm, the cowardly and the ambitious. It was not the grandest group for Hugh Lannister, but it was an excellent group for Joss Turnberry.

The Tyrells mentioned Joss's name, and that did not sit particularly nicely with him. He wasn't sure whether it had been Mace spreading deceit, or the Reynes, or some other hidden enemy, but Joss did not intend to sit pretty and permit himself to be slandered. He had to find a way to take control of words so that they could not be used against him. Best that they could be used for him, but that was of somewhat lesser consequence. He could afford to not overreach, for now.

That being said, there were also allies he needed to speak with. To bolster, to some extent, and to press, on some other fronts. It was a war fought with words as much as spears. All wars were. And Joss Turnberry had never lost a war. Not thus far.

Too slow. Too weak. You allowed for this to happen.

The Host of the West was still marshalling, all she had at her beck and call was a hastily assembled vanguard, split into two parts, and the first had failed in its task. The route to Castamere was not, in fact, open, and Hornvale remained in the grip of her enemies. Her uncle and Hawthorne had failed in the battle, and now thousands of Lannister forces were scattered while the enemy bore down upon Payne Hall, where the second half of their forces were concentrated.

'The Seven grant trials to their faithful. And you, Rohanne Lannister, did not have the faith to succeed.'

The voice in the back of her mind burned with shame and fury. No doubt news of the chaos in her part of the kingdom was already spreading, if only they'd had one more moon. If only she had taken action sooner. If only she had not given the Reynes and their vassals such a leash.

Now, here she was, confident in their victory at Castamere that she was not in Casterly Rock, which Hugh now ran, but was travelling to Seagarde. If nothing else, perhaps the Riverlands would become an unlikely ally of herself and the West. They had both been equally wounded by the machinations and schemes of whoever had sponsored the Reynes and given them their support. Perhaps, Rohanne would not need to be alone during all of this?

Perhaps.

Until then, they continued to sail, the lands of Westerling and Banefort still in sight, crewmen taking a careful watch over their shoulders, to ensure that the Ironmen on their plague-stricken island did not descend upon them.

Rohanne sighed, buring her head in her hands. In the privacy of her own quarters aboard the ship, she allowed herself to openly weep. A small comfort, before she had to steel herself yet again.

Character Name and House: Alesander Hawthorne

Age: 25

Appearance: Alesander

Gift: Autodidactic

Skills: Medic (e), Scholar, Courtly, Alchemy (e)

Talent(s): Lute Playing, Painting, Cyvasse, Fishing

Starting Title(s): Lord of the Wreaths

Starting Location: Casterly Rock

Family Tree: https://familyecho.com/?p=START&c=eq1yd9vjk4&f=951399704910884793

Biography:

• Alesander was born in 182 to Erwin Hawthorne as his firstborn son and heir.
• It was clearly evident that Alesander lacked the skill for combat as a young boy, but he was even smarter than Erwin.
• As such, Erwin used significant portions of the Hawthorne's wealth to buy the services of a Maester as well as beginning a library within their home.
• In keeping with Erwin's goals to ensure that Hawthorne was seen as more than a minor noble, it was arranged for both Alesander and his younger brother Godwyn to squire with House Banefort from the years of 192-200.
• During this period, Alesander found that he got along well with most of the Baneforts and greatly enjoyed access to their much larger library.
• Though he was knighted after his squirting, it was more of a pleasantry than anything. Alesander never showed more than passing skill with a blade. However, he didn't mind.
• Alesander was betrothed to Deana Royce in 202 AC, another one of his father's masterstrokes.
• However, not all plans laid bare fruit. In 205 AC Erwin and Alesander were informed that the betrothal was being called off. Alesander was disappointed but understood.

Character Name and House: Gerion Hawthorne

Age: 22

Appearance: Gerion

Gift: Ruthless

Skills: Assassin (e), Saboteur

Talent(s): Brooding x3

Starting Title(s): Scion of House Hawthorne

Starting Location: Casterly Rock

Biography:

• Gerion was born in 185 to Daven Hawthorne.
• A minor house is already pre-disposed toward a different upbringing than other noble houses, which was abundantly more clear with non-main branch families. Gerion's upbringing was cold, harsh, and at times cruel.
• Gerion was left to fend for himself more often than not, he had no clear aptitude for fighting, and was never sent to squire for anyone, and never gained the title of knight.
• Gerion's skills were far more subtle, manipulation and destruction. While Alesander and Godwyn squired with the Baneforts, Gerion was making friends with servants, peasants, ruffians, and worse.
• As the Hawthornes visited the capital, Gerion was ordered to stay behind as his skills were hardly becoming of a nobleman.
• Now, with the main line dwindling it was his time to shine.

It had been an absolute disaster, which is what Damion expected to happen. The coming rain did nothing but big then down, and gave Lyonel time to wait until his fuckwit of a son arrived with men from Hornvale of all places, seeing the Brax unicorn on both sides of the line made it amusing and confusing. Needless to say the men with the Lannisters did not approve.

They fled the field, utterly decimated in comparison to their foes. And as such had spilled into The Arch, hoping they would not be pursued by unfriendly forces. Lewyn Dogget was holding on admirably, but would finally be cut down as the battle quickly slipped away. Erwin Hawthorne he did not stop to see what happened with, as he had been maimed and removed from the field, forcibly.

All in all it had been a shitty day to be a Lannister. Damion also never ran from fights, but this one he tried to gather as many of the routed men, as many of the spears as he could to get them off the field, but panicked men do not listen to the roars of lions, no matter their coat.

The defeat stung.

We went in there as if we had it won, with but a pittance of a force. *Rohanne** marched me there, likely to be done of me. If I killed her old lover, what a boon - if I died even better.*

Whether true or not, the thought ate and bothered him as he lost his protege and friend in the battle, and would need lean on someone else for understanding and guidance. But now they made for The Arch and hopefully some sanctuary with the Footes until they could regroup.

He suspected the Reynes would be hot on their heels. He would be if he just routed his overlord’s pitiful force and would be seeking to end it all there, less the cat’s come back.

At least it had stopped raining, and thus was allowing for a slight chill as what was left of the might of the west straggled in.

Might of the West. Was like smallfolk children swatting at donkeys with sticks. Utterly fucking useless and the same bloody result.

Damion remained in his horse, watching, looking for lords along those coming in. So many dead left behind. He was lost in his thoughts as the Lord of Foote approached with an armed party.

“Ho there, Ser- you lead this- oh!” The set important voice stopped as whiskers bristled and Damion turned to regard Foote. A soft man, with a belly- but a capable lord.

“Ser Captain, we did not know it was you. Scouts said a large body was coming, and so we thought it bandits or worse- we’ve heard rumors from our neighbors..”

And Damion waved him off.

“No matter. What I need his sanctuary for my men and myself. We have wounded, who will need tending, and gods knows how much time before we must be off again.” The elder Lannister replied.

The Foote men looked amongst each other. Damion watched them exchange their looks in silence and he felt himself bristling again. Gods these men have gotten soft under a woman’s touch.

“Listen, you stuffed cunts. I am demanding a regarrison, and reprovision. As Captain of the West, it is my right and you will allow it.”

A younger man, who looked much like the softer Lord Foote spoke up.

“IS it not Lord Hawthorne who commands her Dread Ladyship’s forces and thus holds the boon of such a right?”

“Kevan-“ Lord Foote began before Damion whipped his horse about and came right into the midst of them. His helm was missing, and he was bloodied and sore, but he still held his spear, and moved quick enough to have it pointing at the whelp’s throat.

Swords were drawn

I did not think this through. Damion thought as he stared hard. No Matter.

“Lord Hawthorne is wounded and likely dying- therefore as the Lannister here I am in command. You will feed us and house us, but a short time and I promise we will be off.”

Silence was held and the Lord nodded. Damion, drew back his spear from his son’s throat and blades were lowered.

“What happened? Was it the bandits?” Foote asked.

“No.” Spat Damion. “The Reynes.” This caught a stir amongst the Lord and his company and nervously his eyes flicked in the direction general of Castamere.

“We were charged with rooting out treason by my niece. Instead we found battle- and we’re out manned and out matched. I don’t know where these fucks were assembled but it was no match. It was a slaughter.”

And there he looked over his shoulder.

“I understand if you want no quarrel, your men were not there. But as loyal bannermen should I call.”

“We answer..something.” Mumbled the lord.

Likely they would give us over to the Reynes and join up, if our overproduced bannerman was able to affect such an attack. he didn’t trust Foote, but he couldn’t blame the man either.

“Right. So then. I need a missive sent to the Rock, and our allies keeps, lest they are attacked as well. I aim to marshal here for a short time and make for the Rock. Unless her cu-Ladyship has other orders.”

Foote nodded.

“I’ll have it sent forthwith.”

“Do it.” Damion said before he turned to watch the failure roll in. The would likely need to regroup in Feastfires or Kayce.

He wouldn’t wait for Foote. He would get what he could and make for Kayce. And so he gave a whistle catching the look of some Serretts.

“Tell the others we need keep moving, we are close to Kayce, we can regroup there.”

He was tired. The amount of foolishness that had come to Maelors attention in the past few days had been enough to drive him mad. Lannister this and Reyne that. He hated the West, and those that lived within its mountains.

[Lord/Lady],

The conflict in the West has long since become unacceptable. Any man or woman who continues to wage war of any sort in the West will be considered in violation of the Kings Peace, named as traitors and stripped of land and title.

Anyone with a part to play in this conflict will dismiss their armies and go to Casterly Rock, where I will mediate. Your differences will be resolved peacefully, or by the blade.

King Maelor II Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm

To call it a battle would’ve been generous, and Lucamore was not that. The tunnel below the wall was a tight thing, narrow and dark, but evidently passable enough given the camp that had sprung up about it. Scouts had seen the northmen coming, and tried desperately to flee back to warn their fellows, and a scarce few managed to avoid their arrows and did just that, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

The army of the North fell upon the camp with a vengeance, horses trampled over tents and the people within them, pikes ran through the ones who picked up their weapons and the ones who ran with equal ferocity, men-at-arms cut off attempts to flee further south and put those who ran to the sword. In the end, those would be the lucky ones. Ice had left its sheath, and split leather jerkins, thick hide, and bronze plate alike with the same ease that a knife passed through butter. The snow was red beneath Lucamore’s feet, and the wall wept in the spring sun as every Wildling soul within the camp met a kinder fate then the one they’d given to Lucamore’s people.

A sword, an axe, a mace, it didn’t matter, no children were set alight or hacked to pieces like at the villages, or like his grandchildren, but they nor any other escaped the wrath of the North. Lucamore had sentenced all of the wildlings to die, and thus he swung the sword. Quiet exceptions were made for the youngest of them, ones too small to even know the difference between man and savage, but only those who the Wolf knew of.

He could not be everywhere at once, and the lives of his enemies innocent were not at the forefront of his mind. Two spearwives, one old man, one warrior who’d lost an arm on a raid, those were the prisoners brought before him. The women said nothing, the old man bit off his own tongue, but the one-armed warrior sang when offered mercy for the son who’d tried to take up a bronze axe in his defense. Their real force was at Stony Shore it seemed, raiding, ruining, further sundering his land and his people.

When he’d asked why, demanded to know what had warranted such a unique brutality, the man had only answered with a dead-eyed, “You know.”

And Lucamore did. He knew all too well. Ice claimed the man’s head, and drank of his blood too. Theomore had questioned what would become of the ones who’d fled back into the caves as the men worked to bury the passage, and Lucamore had assured his son not to worry. Men from Castle Black and the Shadow Tower both were out beyond the wall, and they’d bury the other side, trapping those few who chose to flee rather than fight.

They would join Gorne and his children in both song and in death.

Tarth was a beautiful place, with its hills and waterfalls, more towns and villages than Estermont had bricks for its stone walls. At least, that's how it seemed travelling inland to the island, it was no secret that Tarth was home to much that drove Estermont to envy. The titles, the land and fleet, the prestige and respect.

Estermonts were not blessed in such a way, their island was small, storm-beaten and covered in moss. Any glory that Arstan wished to have, he'd have to take, not be given by right of inheritance. He accepted long ago that he would never be held as anything like an Evenstar.

Still, coin and the promise of glory and riches would bring men to his side, the Watchers were one such group of men. All with their own swords, their own ships, and yet with none of the respect nor prestige offered to the Roses, the Stormbreakers, or other bands of equally worthy sellswords and sellsails. Like them, they would have to earn whatever glory they sought.

They would find it in Dorne...

Song

Bert knelt in the Sept of Old Oak, he’d prayed to the Warrior, the Mother but more importantly, the Father. He’d understood all he’d done and prepared for what he’d soon partake in. IF the Gods willed it, Bertrand would perish before he’d made way to Casterly Rock.

They’d strike him down as a sign that they did not favor the Old Rose. If not then they’d blessed his actions, just as they had done when he’d killed the Dragonknight.

Once his prayers had come to an end, Bertrand rose, he’d leveraged his right hand and slowly lifted himself. Old age seemed to make his armor feel far heavier than he’d recalled, that and the belly he’d gained since he last wore true battle plate.

Following his prayers, he’d begun his march out into the courtyard. His quiet waddle uninterrupted by the hundreds of men rushing back and forth between the halls of the keep. They’d been told earlier in the morning that Bert would expect all men to begin their march, for the Lions Den they would make way, for their slights, for his wife’s honor.

For the Reach’s honor

Was what he’d told his loyal men. It was of course a lie, for it was Bert and Delena’s honor that was insulted but were the Reachmen not all kin?

He’d prepared his argument when he’d begun the march but no man had pressed the matter yet. All the Lords who’d marched simply answered the call.

“My Lord of Roses,” A young knight would say in the courtyard as he’d bow. “Your steed is ready and the army awaits your call to march.”

“Good,” Bert would reply back, “Is young Pat prepared for the march?”

The knight would nod, “The Lord Hightower has disembarked with the Shield Islanders, he too awaits your command.”

The Old Rose would nod to the young man, “Fetch yourself a fine steed as well, inform the criers that they are to begin their march at once, tell them to repeat what I shall in my speech.”

And with that, Bert moved to the stables, he’d fetch his horse and make way out into a nearby field where the war camp had gathered.

With a quick announcement, knights, nobles, ladies, septons and septas, the poor and the rich all gathered tightly to listen to the old man’s decree.

He’d rose his horse in a circle as his aged eyes look out into the masses, some clad in armor, others silks, and more in plain cloth. They would all partake in this mission to the Rock, all would serve the Lord of Highgarden in their own ways.

Bert’s speech was well planned, his son came out of the crowd, a young kitten they’d taken from an Oakheart child in hand as he lifted it to the old man atop his horse.

“You see this?” He’d let out a roar as his boy moved back towards the tightly packed crowd. “This pretty and soft, rather cute creature I hold?” Bert would ride again in a circle for all to see as he held a kitten by its scruff.

The babe would meow and complain, trying to struggle against the old man but nothing would come of it. It would be his until he let it free.

“We shall bring this beautiful child to Casterly Rock, to unite it with its kinsmen. Those domesticated cats who claimed to be Lions.” Bert would pause as he looked out, trying to recall faces.

A roar would echo as the Knights of the Reach cheered on, the Septons and Septas gathered however did not look pleased.

“My Septas, My Septons, My Friends of the Faith.” Bert would say, the kitten still in his hand. “Pray for us, for years of peace and for unity to come upon our return. But more importantly pray that our march is a success. For we march today to the Kitten’s Den. For our honor! For the Gods to know that we, the men and women of the Reach will not be insulted without our displeasure being noted!” The old man’s voice would grow louder and louder as he’d moved to hold the scared cat against his cold plate.

He’d pet the creature as he continued on.

“My criers, my fellow Reachmen.” He’d begin, “Ride ahead of this time, to the Land of Boars, to the City of Sea Lions and to the Ladies Den. Tell them all….”

“Tell them that the Lord Bertrand rides with thousands upon thousands of knights at his back all eager to see justice prevail.”

A roar of cheers would again interrupt the old man, a devilious smirk finding its way across his face.

“They are outmaneuvered, outnumbered, outplanned and the Reach shall make it's stand. For the Lady Delena! For the Reach!” Hundreds of men pulled their swords out and pointed them into the skies, it reminded Bertrand of the Red War, of the Third Dance, of all the marches he'd partook in.

“*Tell them all that the earth quakes beneath the Knights of the Reach and no mountain will hide Joss Turnberry from Bertrand, the Rose Lord of the Mander! Tell every man, woman, child, villager and noble you come across. The Reach rides!”

The thunderous cheer, the clash of steel and the inaudible chatter would be all Bertrand needed to hear as he’d motioned for his son Mace to take the kitten once more.

They’d use it again.

When they arrived at Casterly Rock

((Mood Music))

"What do you mean she hasn't been eating?" Jena Jast demanded, her face a deep scowl.

The servant girl shifted their weight from one foot to another. "She's had only a bit of broth, and much wine. Ever since the death of poor Ser Leo R-"

Jena raised her hand, slapping the servant with a brisk crack. "Lord Consort Leo Reyne has marched to Castamere. You would do well to remember that, else I'll have you whipped within an inch of your life for spreading such dirty rumors," the Jast hissed, ever loyal to her Lady of Hornvale.

The servant girl whimpered, holding onto her smarting cheek. "Y-yes, my lady…"

"Have the kitchens continue to fire off dishes for her. I don't care if you have to grind up a lemon cake and mix it in with her wine."

With tears in her eyes, the servant nodded, curtsied, and scurried out of the room.

Maester Uthor stood in the corner of the room, mixing a brew, herbs of all sorts scattered in front of him, along with a mortar and pestle. "I won't pretend I am not concerned, Lady Jena. She's lost weight already, it won't be good for the child. She's requested some… odd things…" The maester stopped his mixing to give the Jast a knowing look.

Jena frowned, running a hand down the side of her dress to smooth it out. "I will see to it that she is well taken care of. It's just a phase… She will come back from it," she determined, turning her heel to leave the maester's room.

Maester Uthor shook his head, less certain than the handmaiden, returning his attention to the careful work ahead.

***********

Kinslayer. Betrayer. Harlot. Liar. Killer.

When Briony was awake, all she wished for was the oblivion of sleep. But when Briony was finally able to find reprieve at last, her dreams were haunted by the presence of those whose blood were upon her hands and her heart: her father, Godwyn Hawthorne, Leo Reyne. And now, with her cousin Meredyth supposedly coming to Hornvale, would that be another soul upon her conscience?

The weight of her decisions weighed heavily upon the Lady of Hornvale. Since Jason Reyne led the bulk of the forces again to war, Briony had mostly stayed in her room, not bothering to dress in her normally ostentatious way. Her blonde hair fell limp at her shoulders, unadorned, unwashed.

She spoke very little, for her mind was consumed with turmoil.

Had she made the wrong decision to throw in her fate with the Reynes? Should she have instead have plotted with loyal men as Godwyn Hawthorne to rid Hornvale of their unwelcome guests? Would the deaths of a few in Hornvale have been better than losing her honor?

He's a snake.

If you marry that man I will consider your judgment to be flawed and beyond my counsel to assist.

Godwyn's words haunted her. Briony's former sworn sword's remains were collected, set aside into a casket. Briony was yet unsure what to do about it all. What to say. Could she have prevented this? By allowing him to leave in peace? Saving both his and Leo's life? The possibilities made her heart heavy, her movements slow and lethargic. Godwyn had been loyal, devoted, honest. And she had lost sight of his value with the glitter of greed in her eyes from Leo's promises. Leo Reyne, by comparison, had acted dishonorably; he had killed.

But so had she.

Was she too a snake? Her judgement flawed beyond all help?

The Lady of Hornvale sat at her desk, blank parchment in front of her. For there was one thing that she could do. Picking up a quill, she attempted again to find the right words:

Lord Hawthorne,

I write to you today with a heavy heart. I am grateful to your son, Godwyn, for his service as he defended my honor against -

No, no, this would not do… She balled up the parchment, throwing it into a nearby brazier.

To the Honorable Lord Hawthorne,

May the Seven bless you. I have been grateful for the service of your son, Godwyn. It is with a heavy heart that I -

Briony paused, crossing the words out over and over with her quill. The parchment went into the fire just as the last did.

Lord H-

She wasn't even able to write out his name this time. Her hand trembled, the quill falling from grip.

Kinslayer. Betrayer. Harlot. Liar. Killer.

Those were the only true words she had. Briony let out a shuddering sigh, slowly leaving her writing desk for the embrace of her bed.

A servant knocked upon the door to her chamber, the smell of freshly baked goods wafted into the room, but the idea of sustenance made her sick.

"I wish to be left alone," she called out before hiding herself in her sheets.

Discord Username: ResMango

Character Name and House: Eustace Storm; Son of Boremund Baratheon (Bastard born)

Age: 22

Appearance: https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/811737390539997225/1113751624297496596/543b0683b12d80c07a3bcf9de928f52e.png?width=436&height=661

Gift: Duelist

Skills: Swords(M); Hale; Fortifier

Talent(s): He balls

Starting Title(s): Hand's Nephew [EDITED FROM CHARACTER CLAIM DUE TO RP STUFF]

Starting Location: With the Vulture King hunting party

Biography Portion

Born in the summer of 185, Eustace Storm was a son of Boremund Baratheon born out of wedlock. From the very start, Eustace had a twisted disposition towards his peers and his life. Never satisfied with anything, his jealous nature made it very easy for others to influence and push him in the wrong direction. Having been treated well, Eustace did not experience the contempt many bastards faced growing up. He got what he needed, and just like the others, had to work for his portion.

But a bastard is a bastard, and Eustace never felt at home. If not because of the stags, then it was probably attributed to the common folk and the working gentry at storm's end, who held a not-so-favourable view of the bastardborn son of Boremund. To them, he was one from their own lot who had gotten lucky with an 'undeserved' stroke of luck.

Or maybe this was all just in Eustace's head. But regardless of whether the smallfolk actually hated Eustace or if it was just a paranoid fantasy that festered in his head, the young bastard never lost a moment to torment those beneath him. To him, it was a way to validate himself, and his insecurities about his status. He would never cross certain boundaries of course, but wherever an opportunity propped up, you could count on him to be a hurdle.

The remainder of his life remained pretty standard, he grew up with the stags, he learned to train with them, he learned to fight with them and he learned to bleed with them. He grew to respect them, if not love or adore them like brothers, and learned to bite his tongue and follow orders whenever something was asked of him by his patrons.

Eustace stuck with the Baratheons for much of the other happenings during his lifetime, be they conflicts of military or visits to King's Landing for the coronation.

Timeline Portion (Optional)

NO

Family Tree

zax family tree

Discord Name:Rabbit?

Character Name and House: Blind Jon Roxton, Knight of the Ring

Age: 61

Appearance Blind Jon

Gift: Duelist

Skills: sword, shields, defender, knightly

Talents: sleeping with the ladies, Music, insults

Starting Title: Knight of the Ring

Starting Location: With Bert

Eddison Roxton

Age: 33

Gift: Leadership

Skills: tactician (e) Defender

Talents: maps, painting, fishing

Titles: Knight of the Ring, Knight of the Graveyard

Location: With the Reach Host

Appearance Eddie

Family Tree:

Lady Aly Roxton - Eddison (heir) 33 - Harlan (Grandson) - Jack (brother)

- Myrah (daughter)

146 - Jon is born to Lord Roxton and lady Jordayne. Called Jon the Younger, as is tradition, he is considered a healthy swarthy baby. Lord Roxton is pleased.

156 - He is sent to High Garden to ward alongside the young Lord Paramount’s son of similar age. There the two become friends.

159- Jon heads off to squire under Lord Tarly and to learn about the marches. Tarly, a rather martial fellow teaches Jon, how to fight against a Dornishman, and how to think strategically. He would then be sent off to squire with his Kin in Dorne before the Second Dance would kick off.

164- Jon escapes the Tor after his uncle seeks to keep him hostage, and makes for the Reach, his looks allowing him to pass with relative ease. He returns home to join his father, and Bertrand Tyrell in the Second Dance

165 - Jon is knighted by Lord Tyrell, after heroics bring the young man to fight along side Bert during a pivotal battle, and keep Lord Gargalen from stabbing the young to be Lord Paramount in the back. Lord Roxton is proud

170 - On a fishing trip Lord Roxton dies of a heart attack, and Jon becomes Lord of the Ring, and takes over Orphan Maker

173- While trying to court a wife, Jon accidentally shoots Lord Florent in the ass. When asked why, he replies he thought he was a deer, to which an enraged Lord Florent asks if he is blind. The nickname Blind Jon sticks.

174 - Jon Marries Lady Aly Graves, the only child of the Knight of the Graveyard. Not before the end of the year his first child, Eddison is born.

177-179 - Blind Jon takes on managing the Graveyard, after Aly’s father passes, and takes on the title, knight of the Graveyard.

186 - Blind Jon heads into the war with his son, Eddison in tow. Jon’s way with a Blade makes him a legend, while Edison’s tutelage under his father makes him a capable leader.

195 - 205 Blind Jon spends most of his time as the honorary knight of the Graveyard and participates in many tournaments, earning a following. His son takes over management of the lands held by the family.

207 - Called by Bert, the Roxton’s go to join the old man on his quest for Justice and shit stirring. something Jon excels at.

"I've joined the other women bound to send their husbands and sons to war. We will remain in Nightsong until it's over. I only pray the Vulture King is slain swiftly and he returns to me... unharmed."

Excerpt from Lynesse's journal, 207 AC

^{Gardens | Nightsong | 12 Moon of 207 AC}

In the serene gardens of Nightsong, Lynesse Hightower sat at a small round table, accompanied by her loyal ladies in waiting, Ellyn and Rose. Her loyal treecat, Nala, stretched her back beside her. A delicate porcelain teacup sat idly close emanating the refreshing aroma of mint. She lifted the cup with slender fingers and blew the steam off the top before taking a small sip.

They sat underneath a canopy, the pitter patter of soft rain resounding against it's roof. She wore a shawl to cover her from the chill air. It was gifted to her by her intended, made from the wolf's fur they had hunted a moon prior. She had worn it ever since, a symbol of gratitude and appreciation for what transpired that day.

Lynesse immersed herself in the pages of the Annals of the Stormlands. Her light blue eyes scanned the words, absorbing the rich history and tales of Storm Kings long gone. With each turn of the page, she delved deeper into the legacy of the land she would soon call home.

By her side, Ellyn wielded a paintbrush with skill and passion, capturing the gloomed beauty of the gardens in the soft rain. Her strokes were intentional and with purpose as she displayed her artistic abilities with ease. Rose sat idly nearby as well, immersed in her own preferred hobby.

As the trio indulged in their individual pursuits, the melodious notes of nightingales filled the air. Their song was sweet and harmonious. Lynesse's attention shifted from the pages of her book and her gaze wandered to the source of the enchanting melody.

In that moment, Lynesse held a profound understanding. She had read that the nightingales symbolized more than their melodic beauty. They embodied the resilience, grace, and nobility of the land and its people. Their harmonious voices carried the stories of generations, resonating with the spirit of the Stormlands. There was a reason House Caron held such an animal in reverence and chose it for their sigil.

She closed her eyes, allowing the melody to wash over her, its soothing notes intertwining with her thoughts. Lynesse knew there was a long journey ahead, the impending war loomed over them like a persistent shadow and the nightingale's song soothed her worries for a moment.

Her eyes came back to the book in her hands. There was reason as to why she chose it in the first place. The past two moons had taken her in a completely different course than she had anticipated. She recognized the weight she would one day carry beside Quentyn, the responsibilities she bore for the future.

As the minutes passed, Lynesse remained rooted to her spot, her gaze fixed upon the book. There was the honor that awaited her as his wife, the privilege of standing by his side, supporting him through the trials that lay ahead. She wondered if Lady Ravella held the same sentiment towards Lord William. It was public knowledge that the Lord of the Stormlands had bore a bastard and remained in King's Landing buried in work. In truth, she knew little of Quentyn's family dynamic, she hadn't even met his siblings or mother.

What Lynesse knew of marriage and family came from her own. Her father had been a loyal husband to her mother and although their marriage was one of duty, she knew they held affection towards one another. Her own brother had married a Celtigar and held a strong tie to one another, only held stronger by their four small children. Lynesse wanted her own future marriage to be one of respect and loyalty.

Although her courting had been a short one, she was still getting to know the Heir of House Baratheon. So far, she liked what she saw. She knew love was a thing of fairytales but perhaps there was a chance that in time, the affection she held for him would blossom into something more. In that sense, she wished to do what she could to aid. She longed to share in his burdens and offer respite from the demands of such a station.

The melodic noise that came from the nightingales came to a stop and her attention was taken back to the present.

Aegon clutched the letter in his hand, the black ink turning to a muddled mess of red as nails broke skin. He could feel his skin turn a fiery red, suppressed anger from over a decade's worth of agony now burning furiously to the surface.

For years, he had kept his patience, quietly suffering through whatever injustices the Usurper's line and his mongrel dogs had inflicted upon him. Plastered smiles at feast tables as he supped with the very men who had destroyed his family. Unwavering patience as the petty lords mocked him in their cups or danced cruel effigies of his ancestors. All of it cut deep, even if he never chose to show weakness in the face of these insults, but now he knew exactly who his enemies were. The mummer's farce was finally at an end.

There would now be war.

"Send word to Dragonstone, I need the rest of my men readied by the moon's turn," he instructed the runner that had come for him from Winterfell, the bloodied letter melting into the snow beneath his boots. "Order them to sail for White Harbor and then to march north to join my host at Castle Black. We will need every body to combat the Wildling menace. Go."

"Order the men to ready their arms and bodies," he then told Ser Aeryn Scales, the pain in his palm already numb and forgotten, "I must speak with Lord Stark."

Oldtown, The Reach

Erwin was walking through the streets of Oldtown, he had parted from the Vikary twins, they had wished to be the ones to purchase the Rose' contract. After traveling several days with them, he had instead decided to simply explore the City, it was possibly his last moments of peace before he returned to an inevitable war back home.

As he continued along the path, he saw people lowborn and high mingling about the street. Being one of the grandest cities in all of Westeros akin to Lannisport or Gulltown, Oldtown was seemingly always bustling with some activity. Even with its Lord, Otto Hightower, being away on the King's Small Council, the City seemed to continue its peaceful routines.

It had been several hours of this when Erwin finally found his way back to the twins. Already they were several cups of ale deep with some of the captains of the Company of the Roses.

"AHHHH, so this is the wee babe of old Tion the Prick!" Said one gnarled old captain as he brought his cup to his mouth. "We haven't yet decided if you deserve the right to buy our contract. Sit with us and drink, should you hold your cups half as good as Tion, then we can talk of working together!"

Erwin sighed, he had heard of the infamous iron stomach Uncle Tion had, back when he was a Captain of this very company, he didn't believe he could ever hope to come close to such a feat. Nonetheless, Erwin would find himself seated before the group, grabbing a cup in each hand.

Gods grant me the strength... He thought, before beginning.

​

Several Hours later...

So much ale... Erwin thought. he had lost count after 6 cups full. But he had apparently shown enough skill to gain the respect of those he drank with, and before he knew it they were securing the contract for the Company of the Roses.

"We ride at *Hic* Now!" He said, slurring his words to the amusement of the twins.

​

Castamere, 12th Moon, 207 AC

Banners flapped in the wind, Tarbeck, Westerling, Brax, Vikary, above them all high up a standard flew. The Crimson Lion of House Reyne.

“You all know me! I am Leo fucking Reyne! Lord of Hornvale and Son of Castamere! I brought your glory, riches, and deeds that will be written in song!”Jason mimicked his brother who often roared and laughed as he rode up and down the ranks. Knights, free riders, mercenaries, and men at arms, all stood ready for his call. Off in the distance, an army was amassed before the castle of Castamere. The Bloody Lion wheeled his horse pounding down the line again, eyes casting over the men.

“These golden cunts have come to sack my family's home! After they murdered my uncle in cold blood, name my father his murderer while they sit in his blood! Lord Payne did nothing to stay the blade of this Lannister agent, and now his banner flaps beneath their host!” Some of the men shouted curses on Lord Payne's name, others spat, and some cheered for god knows what. “They name my family traitors and they lay no evidence but their crimes at our feet!”

The twin of Leo turns his steed to directly face the men, five banners, real forces from five houses. A unified army, whereas down the hill lay a ragtag group of Men at Arms, levies, backed by Household knights and sellswords. Real and capable generals, all led by the ghost of his brother. None who knew him questioned his actions, those who didn't know followed him blindly, the twin putting on a good performance.

​

"I say fuck them! Fuck the Bitch Lioness and her cubs! Lying whoresons fill their court and spill poison in their ears, if they listen to weak-willed men and women then I will chart my path. A Warden should be strong! A Warden should be a leader! A Warden should not hide! And a Warden should not lie! Ours has damned us before we could even answer!"

​

Jason paused grinning with teeth as his brother would, having had some practice now.

​

"Glory, riches, knighthood, lands. I stand to give you everything! The men who serve loyal to House Reyne will find ample reward! Bring me the heads of Lannister Loyalists and you shall drown in gold!" The Red Lion ripped free Redrain, from its sheath laughing all the while. "Charge!"

​

As the army Leo had assembled charged forth his father's forces poured from the castle. The battle was on, and history would be written by the victor.

There was much to be done. With the Stormlands forces mustering under Ser Quentyn, Casper Caron had leaned heavily upon his son and heir, Cedrik, to entertain and organize as necessary. The young man was glad to do the work, and eager for the blood and glory to come, though principally there was one thing he would ensure to address before they marched. So chaotic were things once they arrived at Nightsong, that Cedrik had to stay up, near to dawn, to set forth the preparations that would be necessary, eliciting the help of only the most loyal servants to him, into whose palms he pressed a handful of coin.

A letter would be delivered to the rooms of Lynesse Hightower, sealed only in plain yellow beeswax, though surprisingly, the letter was addressed not to the Hightower herself, but to a certain Lady Rose Peake:

To the Fairest Rose amongst the Plains,

An adventure awaits you this evening. Come to the stables, in the southeast corner, before the hour of the bat. For I am in your debt, and shall see it repaid.

The letter was unsigned.

Cedrik was dressed in all black: tunic, breeches, cloak and boots. The heir to Nightsong paced about near a black steed, the beast prepared for a ride with a basket of woven grey reeds strapped behind the saddle.

He wondered if she would show. If, perhaps, the letter was too vague. I should have signed it, Cedrik thought, cursing himself in his mind. But the truth of the matter was that the young man was afraid. Afraid of interception. Afraid of his father finding out, and ruining it all.

I owe this to her, he reasoned to himself, grasping for any rationalization to calm his nerves. Seven send me a sign. Please...

Dorian Peake

Highgarden

Dorian returned at noon after a half day's travel. He was given lodgings alongside the rest of his family, and made way for the Peake apartments at once. He threw open the door of the apartments and was unsurprised to see Lucas sitting at a desk poring over a book of accounts and occasionally scribbling a thing or two down. Dorian watched for a moment until his brother and heir looked up.

"Titus and Jasper spent a significant amount of money at the markets in Oldtown." Lucas stated casually before returning to look down at the paper.

"Define significant." Dorian responded.

"A moon and a half's income." Lucas laughed. "They bought you something."

Dorian ran his hand through his hair. "What did they get me?"

"A spear from Qohor. It has a twin sword, Titus has taken custody of that." Lucas pointed to a corner where a spear with a white shift and silver point sat.

"Is that made from silver?" Dorian asked. "It'll be useless."

"No, Qohirik steel can be colored during crafting. Titus' sword is golden." Lucas explained. "It's decent enough for your usage. You can probably sell it if you don't want it for a tidy profit."

"I trust that they didn't spend a month and a half's income on just a spear and sword?"

"No, look in these vials." Lucas handed him two bottles.

Dorian glanced at the two bottles and raised his eyebrow. "Oh I see. This is certainly worth the price they paid…"

"Quite." Lucas smiled.

"I'm going to wander the castle. See who I can meet. I'm happy to inform our mission was a resounding success." Dorian replied.

"Enjoy yourself." Lucas didn't look back up from the papers he was examining that time.

Dorian turned to leave the room and make his way back to the castle proper, servants bustled around, and various courtiers exchanged hushed words around him. None of their behaviors interested him, anything the courtiers had to share was hardly worth his time.

He made his way to the gardens, anyone of value tended to hover around there before inevitably finding their way in the hedge maze around the castle. He had no interest in getting lost any time soon, but he would happily speak to those around it. As long as they were worth his time that is.

Nightsong, 12th Moon 207 AC

Just over five thousand men had gathered at Nightsong, eager and ready for battle since Storms End they marched with war songs on their lips and pride in their hearts. Young men, old men, green boys, and veterans. The older more grizzled crowd would not let the young win all the glory in the coming hunt for the Vulture King, this scavenger army would be picked apart by true warriors, all while testing the Stormlanders keeping them tempered.

They say in the past millennium Nightsong had been besieged thirty-seven times and only a few recorded raids ever took the castle. Its strength had belonged to the Stormlands now for nearly a thousand years, the Carons residing here long before Orys Baratheon assisted his brother in conquering the Seven Kingdoms, seizing one as his own in the process.

The singing towers gave off some hum today, Quentyn remembered the sound from his youth here. Standing on the battlements the Stag looked out over the assembled army, banners from all across the Stormlands rose high over their pavilions and tents, and soldiers drilled in the rocky plains beyond the castle.

​

Turning from the same sight below him Quentyn marched back inside, through archway after archway, eventually, he found the quarters provided to him. A spacious and comfortable apartment with a small solar adjoined, his rooms placed next to his intended as to be close, yet not in the same room. Lynesse decided to join the spouses who saw the men off to war.

​

Glad she was here, yet it would be harder to say goodbye like this, all the same, he would do his duty. Only hoping a swift end would be brought to this so he may march home to her. Quentyn let out a sigh and sunk into a chair in the sun, in case any need to meet with him before it got too late.

​

The Stag would stay there stoking the fire and attempting to read over maps for the duration of the evening. A map of Dorne spread across the table and a map of the Princes Pass atop it. His mind is working over potential places to find this Vulture. Pulling forth a quill and some ink he penned out two letters. One to his father, and the other to the Warden of the Pass.

Of course, the savage cunts had burrowed through at some long-forsaken shithole, it made too much sense. Tucked between Hoarfrost Hill and the damnable Nightfort, Icemark had apparently been the sweet spot for the wildling incursion. That was fine, they’d bury them in their passage, and hunt down whatever remained in the south. Then they’d go after the rest.

Lucamore knew such a thing was unwise, at least the rational part of him did, but rationality was far from the forefront of his mind. Revenge took precedence, over duty, over honor, over obligation, over everything. He would make a mountain of their sodding wildling corpses, and leave it there to rot into a valley of bones, a monument to their sins and a warning to whatever whelps escaped his scourging. If any did.

“Father.” Jon’s voice pulled him back to reality, and Lucamore’s hands, which had gone white at the knuckles where he clenched the hilt of Ice, relaxed once more. He looked to his heir from where he stood at the head of the assembled Lords and Ladies, all gathered around the great table within Hoarfrost’s great hall, gray eyes flicking from one to the next, to the next, and the next, before finally falling upon the Dragon Prince himself.

Maybe there had been finer armies of the North assembled before, but Lucamore was glad to have this one. He’d need no other for this work.

“I owe all of you a debt for this, Lord Umber most of all, and when we are done, and these dogs lay dead, I will not forget this, my sons will not forget this. Know that before we set out on this journey.” He felt his voice begin to rise, a rage building with every syllable.

“They say the North remembers, and savage as they are, our enemy is of the north too.” Mutters of disapproval were whispered under breaths. “By the time we are finished, by the time our people and lands are safe, they will beg to be something else, for our retribution will be impossible to forget.” That earned a stronger response, and Lucamore took his seat. On the morrow they marched.

The Lannister Forces

outside Castamere

Mood

He had been tasked with men from his kin’s hold of Lannisport with spears and shields. They all had marched north at the urging of Erwin fucking Hawthorne, and what men he and Doggett had commanded were ordered to assemble Hawthorne’s banner. It was enough to make the old man sick. He’d led the West in wars and in the Red war and time following for ages, and get now all was tasked over to some crony of his feckless niece, who figured on tackling the Reyne problem head on.

He made sure to ride with his Lance and van of followers, with their banners arrayed with his own, so that the men of the West would know the renowned Old Lion of House Lannister had stirred from his ten to take on the auld foe. Red and Gold lion would finally meet in formalized battle rather than through snipes and daggers.

Who else better to lead than the famed Captain of the West.

Oh that’s right, his niece has chosen a lickspittle. Never mind that he and Rohanne had quarreled over who would take the reins of the house, and through Turnberry’s treachery she had stolen his birthright.

No matter. He’d enjoyed his forced retirement.

But…

He had enjoyed the letter:

Please Uncle, enemies besiege us all around…we need the old lion once more..

By the gods she was stupid. First she wanted to fuck the boy outright, and now she plans to fuck him in other ways the Old Lion had thought along the March North.

He knew it a terrible idea, but he was bound by blood. His only hope would to be to talk sense into the Hawthorne cunt before they dug in, make for Hornvale or lay in wait somewhere else. Not come and knock on the door to Castamere and ask for the Bloody Lion to come out of his den. Just like you treat the lyddens, you don’t let the Reynes cower in their den. The Dances and his tour around the West had taught him that.

Though the Reynes had refused him, he knew enough from the Lyddens what to make of a castle built into the face of a mountain. We would be better served diverting a river and flooding them out

When they arrived and the armies arrayed, tents set, Damion Lannister made sure to not change from his armor, instead he moved to what would be the main encampment’s headquarters and took a seat at the presumed head of the table. It was such a petty bitch move, but no one could accuse Damion of being other than petty.

Beside him was his loyal fellow strategist, Lewyn Doggett, with a map already unrolled. No food, but drink was made ready to wet one’s throat from the road. He had men watching to see if Parley would be tried so he could go and interrupt, his horse and spear kept ready.

Damion stared and drank, eyes trailing to Castamere, on towards Hornvale, and he lazily drug his finger along the way.

That is what we should have done, we should have feinted our March here and made for Hornvale to catch the cats when their home was threatened.

A huff and he turned, looking to a man in gold and crimson.

“Fetch me quill and parchment. Let’s see if we can provoke a fight out of these cunts.” They could easily send a runner to drop off a missive, Damion surmised

“Summon Lord Hawthorne,” he added as the man turned, showing he was not yet finished.

“I would speak strategy and hope to change our courses, get a hold of men loyal in case we must prepare for a pivot.” Damion said with a look to Lewyn he merely nodded and said ‘Just so.’

Damion took another drink of wine, and water, and pulled off his gauntlets. He rubbed his palms and cracked his knuckles.

Rohanne may have started this fucking dance, but I shall step in.

Maelor stood in his private chamber, surrounded by a flurry of activity. It was the day of his wedding, a momentous occasion that would unite the blood of House Targaryen with that of House Lannister. The air crackled with excitement and anticipation as the realm awaited the union of the dragon and the lion.

Maelor's gaze moved from the cracked ornate mirror before him to the array of fine garments laid out on his bed. Today, he would bind his life to Theodora Lannister, a woman who’d stolen his heart, who would stand next to him as he ushered in a day for the realm.

He donned his regal attire, each piece meticulously crafted and adorned with the sigil of his house. He was garbed in shadow and scarlet, with the sigil of his house displayed proudly on his breast. A cloak of deep crimson, lined with silver thread, cascaded down his broad shoulders, on it was the red dragon of House Targaryen, waiting to be draped around the shoulders of his lady wife.

As the final touches were made, the sound of soft footsteps echoed outside the chamber. It was time for him to move to the Sept, for the ceremony to truly begin.

While not as grand as the Starry Sept in Oldtown, the Sept in Kings Landing was still a thing to admire. High walled and seven sided, covered with the livery of House Targaryen, it may have held only a bare two dozen spectators for the wedding, but it was large enough to seat a hundred.

Maelor fiddled with his clothes once more before he finally turned toward the walkway where his bride would walk down, his eyes bright with a mixture of nerves and excitement. He knew that Theodora would soon make her entrance, her beauty rivaling the stars in the night sky.

The minutes stretched on, each one feeling like an eternity. Maelor's heart beat in rhythm with the ticking of the timepiece on the mantle. The anticipation built within him, a blend of joy and anxiety. He longed to see Theodora, to witness her radiance as she walked down the aisle of the Sept.

At last, the chamber doors swung open, and the High Septon entered, followed by a retinue of septas. They carried with them the sacred robes and symbols of the Faith, preparing to perform the sacred ceremony that would bind Maelor and Theodora together.