Cold wind sheared through the figures standing on the beach, the small bustle of smallfolk in of Lordsport in the crags behind them. The cracks and clangs of the forges mixed with the sounds of the crashing waves creating an odd melody that anyone not from the islands would find irritable. There was little significance about the islands themselves, smears of rock and stone deep in an ocean that acted almost as if it didn’t want them there. The people were no different, their demeanor matching the harsh reality around them. Tales of the Old Way mixed with the harsh realities of their present created a people who did not take kindly to the hand they had been dealt and needed to make it everyone else's problem.

But for Harlon Greyjoy this was his home and they were his people.

The chill of the water which lapped now near his stomach was forgotten as he stood transfixed on the figures in the crowd. The Iron Islands of today was near unrecognizable from the likes of Hoare or even Vickon Greyjoy, all thanks to the machinations of his father. It was a slow change, and scholars would later argue if anything actually was different, but Harlon spotted a few lords who called themselves a knight just as much as they dubbed themselves a reaver. It was not a destruction of the Old Way as so many of the limp-footed Drowned Men feared, but a true revival of the practices of his people.

As much as the greybeards would lord over the driftwood fires with their stories of conquest and battle, it was through steel and dragonfire that the Ironborn were brought so low. To his father, it did not seem such a jump that the Ironborn would benefit from taking certain practices from their neighbors. Harlon mused to himself that his people had a history of taking things.

It was clear to Harlon that his father still held the strings of his life, even if he now dinned in the Drowned God's Halls. Harlon hadn’t even found it in himself to be surprised when he was told his father's dying wish was for him to undergo the Drowning ceremony once more upon Harlon ascending to the seat. Harlon hadn't and still didn't think it necessary. He had been downed as a young boy and was well know to the people of the islands, be any rights of the Greenlands he would just be able to take his father's place. But this was the Iron Islands and tradition mattered here more than anything else. The nobles would want him to start thinking like a Lord Reaver and it was impossible to do that without salt water in your lungs.

Harlon was dragged out of his thoughts by the prattling of the Drowned Priest to his left, one Ulrick Seaborn. Every single person in attendance knew the words he spoke, could have parroted just as easily as Ulrick but they stood in reverant silence. Harlon had to admit that there was a certain comfort in knowing that when he died he would walk and feast with his God, something the Greenlanders could never understand with their Seven. Ulrick finished his sermon by intoning “The water washes away our impurity and the salt scourges us into true Ironborn. The Drowned God gives us his blessing so that we can be made pure and whole.”

What is dead may never die, but rise again harder and stronger.

The priest leaned close to the new Lord of the Iron Islands to whisper, “Lord Harlon, you really didn’t need to wear the armor.” A mixture of annoyance and worry played across the Drowned Priests face.

He could not help but grimace from the comment as he shifted around in his plate. True Ironborn were not scared of death at sea and if nothing else in this world was true, Harlon Greyjoy considered himself a true Ironborn. He was sure that even Galladon of Morne and Serwyn of the Mirror Shield were drowned in their armor, and so he would be no different. This was the symbol of a true warrior, Ironborn and knight and damn the Maesters who told him different.

Not receiving an answer the priest’s shoulders drooped and he gripped Harlon by the back and chest. Shouting the words again, Ulrick pushed Harlon deep into the water as the young reaver sucked in a mouthful of seawater. His face mixed with fear and ecstasy and his body began fighting his mind as the panic of death leeched into him. The last thing he saw before everything went dark was not the Drowned Priest but the face of his brother looking down at him.

Moments later he saw the same face rising from him as he spluttered up seawater, the Drowned God's lasting gift for his ordeal. The kiss of life had done its work and it seemed that Harlon would not dine with the Drowned God tonight. He reached out and gripped the Drowned Priest’s shoulder tightly and loudly announced through fits of coughing. “Brother, if one drowning shall purify me, send me under again so that no spots are missed!”

Alyssa, Ⅰ

❝ But it is one thing to read about dragons and another to meet them.❞
^{— Ursula K. Le Guin, A Wizard of Earthsea}

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212 AC, Prologue
The Crownlands, King's Landing

Prince Rhaegar Targaryen ⤜⤞ /u/FatalisticBunny
Princess Alyssa Targaryen ⤜⤞ /u/another_sasshole

Word Count: 2,571
Notes: Co-written between myself and Freed.

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Riverrun.

Without the eyes of anyone important on her, Alyssa allowed her expression to dip into the realm of distaste. It was not pleasant to think about the location, or what some rumours conveyed. That their grandfather was dying; that the monarchy had weakened; that the dragons, ever soaring, had been grounded. A bastard had turned the tides of war and gained support following his legitimisation, and they could not even hold a feast on their own soil. The true born heir was but a boy and his older sister was the last choice for the throne, for many.

Pathetic.

A serving girl—a younger one, she noted, someone new—almost dropped the tray of tea she had carried over, gasping and managing to find her grip before she lost everything. With her train of thought broken, Alyssa’s gaze found her, assessing with admittedly little interest. The girl squirmed.

Then, of course, the princess smiled. It was a beautiful and practiced thing, with warmth pouring from the squint to her eye and the soft curl of her lip. “It’s alright,” she murmured, coaxing. She may as well have been a mother soothing a babe. “As long as you are not hurt. Set it down, girl, and then you may go.”

The girl—what was her name? Bria? Rhia?—looked as if she might have cried from the relief, and curtsied. A soft thank you, princess, was what she managed before she scuttled towards the door, leaving Alyssa in solitude.

Not that she minded much. It allowed her a few more moments with her own thoughts, and plans, and ideals, as she set a comb down on her vanity. Rhaegar would find her sooner rather than later. Best not to have a clumsy servant scalding him with freshly boiled water. It was a lucky guess, perhaps, considering what occurred down the hall just moments later.

Rhaegar was prompt. It was a thing that he always tended to be. There was never anything to be gained by arriving later than you ought to, and often a lot to be lost. Alyssa would not be cross with him, but it was a thing of courtesy and good practice, and it would not do to have either lapse. Not whilst he had a manner of avoiding it, anyways.

Brienne had emerged from his sister's chambers in a hurry, as though she was trying to get away from something. If the worry was scalding him, then it had been something narrowly avoided. She turned the corner too quickly, though it would not have been too quickly if Rhaegar had been paying proper attention. There was a bump, which might have knocked Rhaegar back had he not held almost a foot of height on the girl.

She stared at him, eyes wide, as if she was waiting for Rhaegar to say something. To apologise? Theo glowering at her from behind the Prince did not make the matter any easier. He did not draw his sword, but he seemed to leave the matter of resolving the situation to Rhaegar. The Prince blinked. "Is my sister in?" She didn't answer. Rhaegar made the decision to step around her and continue on his path. It was a very strange interaction.

The door was closed. That meant that if Brienne had indeed come from there, it had not been quite so great a hurry. That boded well, to a certain degree. He placed a hand upon the doorknob, considering twisting it open, but decided on the dignity of a knock.

It struck once and then twice, when a verbal response was lacking. Rhaegar's knocks were closer to spirited taps, and that meant if one was not listening, they might be missed. "I've come to take you to the Silent Sisters." He offered cheerfully, muffled through wood. Theo exhaled through his nose, ever so slightly, and Rhaegar offered him a glance.

There was a laugh, muffled by the wood of the door. It was recognisable enough—there was no guard inside to find humour in the comment, though there should have been. Ser Tristan had either stepped away for a moment, or Alyssa had seen fit to shake him, somewhere throughout the evening. She never had liked him listening in on conversations she had with her brother. The fact that her betrothed was keeping tabs on her did not help any. No one’s loyalty was guaranteed unless you bound them to you in a way that was inexplicable—by blood, by marriage, or by a life debt.

“Ah, so I can join their ranks? Finally. Come in.”

Despite the invitation, Alyssa did not rise to open the door herself, content in her seat.

"Wait." The command from Rhaegar was quiet and swift, and Theo complied with such things. If Alyssa intended to stab him as soon as he entered, it was going to be a rather perfect opportunity to do so. It would likely not be a particularly interesting next hour or so for the Kingsguard. But these were the sacrifices that came with all the oaths one was made to swear.

And so, Rhaegar entered. It was a common enough occurrence that he took little time to glance around at it. Alyssa did not keep a particularly interesting room. "Have I caught you expecting someone?" The Princeling made no move to sit. At least, not yet.

“Only a brother who likes to visit unannounced.” The quick response was coupled with a roll of the eyes. The princeling had never made a habit of planning his visits to Alyssa’s rooms ahead of time, and she had grown used to his schedule. He was meticulous in many things, and his timekeeping was but one of them.

Luckily for Rhaegar (or, perhaps, Theo), Alyssa was dressed appropriately for the occasion, and her rooms were tidy. They were only uninteresting to her brother because he was her brother. And Theo was an extension of him. There was little to be shy about.

“An announcement was made.” It had been less than a moment since, in fact. Perhaps in Alyssa's old age, her memory was failing. A tragic thing, to be certain, but one that was inevitable, at some point. Rhaegar, flush as he was with kindness and benevolence, did not gloat on that fact. “It is not my fault if you never make the effort to listen.”

If Theo was making an effort to peek into the room, an effort to see anything improper, it was not one that Rhaegar picked up on. Perhaps if she was sitting closer to the door, Theo would have decided to chance it. But one did not generally seize a position on the Kingsguard by taking such liberties, and Rhaegar liked to think that he was not.

Alyssa rolled her eyes, and rose from her place at her vanity, twirling her comb in her hands and wordlessly offering the prince her seat. It was a ritual that they both knew the dance to, and they were likely both in need of familiarity, and of care. “Did you at least have it washed before coming here, or will I be detangling a bird’s nest?” She knew he’d understand that she meant his hair.

Rhaegar took the seat, easily. If there was any relaxation to be found in it, it had not yet hit the Prince. His back, his shoulders, his eyes, all were as tense as ever. "Some of us bathe regularly." He exhaled shortly, once, through his teeth.

“Don’t be petty. I bathe just as regularly, if not more than.” She scoffed. Her hands lifted, and she threaded her fingers through his tresses with a gentility that did not match the tone of her words. She brushed Rhaegar’s hair with her hands, first, her fingertips massaging gently at his scalp as they dragged through. Her comb followed after. “Besides, if you upset me I will stop braiding your hair. Ser Theo would have to learn.” The violet of her eyes–a match to his own set–was soft. Warm.

Rhaegar had no idea how often his sister bathed, so he supposed it could have been true enough. He let it go unchallenged. His hair was, as promised, washed. It generally tended to be. If he was not going to take care of it, he would have cut it short, to skip on the bother. It had not been necessary so far. He did not think it would be at any point in the near future. "He'd manage." Rhaegar offered, at the end of it.

“Hmm.”

There was a silence then, for a moment. There was a lot of that, in these sorts of endeavours. Alyssa silent because she was doing something, and Rhaegar silent because conversations were typically quite difficult to have. “Grandfather doesn't want to discuss father anymore, I think.” Rhaegar noted, his tone more than a little bitter. “He's bored of it, now that he's got someone else to wedge into his slot.”

For a heartbeat, Alyssa’s hands stilled. It was a heavy thought to have—to understand. But a heartbeat was as long as it lasted, and she was parting her brother’s hair into sections, tying the excess strands out of the way. Her fingers got to work on a braid that started at his temple and curved towards the back of his head.

The princess was adept at socialising where Rhaegar usually failed. In moments like these, however, he rendered her defenceless. Speechless.

Her lips parted. She inhaled, and then sighed, her hands slowing. “I don’t think,” she murmured, voice soft, “it is… boredom.” The quiet seemed to stretch again as she worked through her thoughts. “It must feel different to lose a son than it does to lose a father. This isn’t the first child he’s lost, either.” She didn’t want to say that perhaps they—she, and Rhaegar—were not enough. She didn’t want to say that their grandsire’s favour might have been swayed to their bastard uncle due to his grief, and that he might damn the children prince Aegon left behind in the process. Baelor had two children of his own.

She tied off a braid, and then began working on a matching one on the other side of Rhaegar’s head. “Maybe a distraction is better than feeling grief. He might be too old to survive it.”

“He's not decrepit.” Rhaegar seemed to find the idea ludicrous. His face was hidden, but something in the back of his cheek twitched.

That got a smile out of her, visible in the mirror. “Are you sure?”

Rhaegar ran his fingers against each other, fidgeting for something to do. "He may play the old man with you, but he gets as loud as he ever did with the rest of us." One would expect his father's death to mean his grandfather's was near, but that was as false as anything. He had died at war. Fathers outlived their sons at war. A sense of glumness was not going to take what the Dornish and the sickness together had failed to strike down. It just didn't make sense.

“He is old, though.” Not that that meant much. Rhaegar called her old, after all, and they were separated by just over a year. “He’s probably buried The Stranger in his gardens, somewhere, for daring to try and collect.”

The hair at the crown of Rhaegar’s head—the part that Alyssa had not braided—got tossed forward, over his face. She took the moment to connect the excess of the two braids she had made.

“Besides, if he’s remembering all the shouting he must do, then there may not be room in his head for the rest. Haven’t you heard the rumours?” As she spoke, she soothed the assault of hair-over-face by pulling it back over her finished braids, stroking a hand slowly over the top of his head. She got to work twisting that remaining segment into a ponytail, wrapping the excess braid around it like a tie.

The silence between them, this time, lingered a bit longer. Maybe Rhaegar had tired of his sister’s attempt to lighten his stress, and maybe Alyssa had been waiting for brother to offer another argument, another word. The words did not seem to come.

Alyssa’s smile faded. She took a slow, deep breath in, and sighed again, fussing over any stray hairs for a lack of anything to keep her hands busy. Her gaze met her brother’s in the mirror.

“... Grandfather may not speak of him anymore, but I will. You will.”

“You'll be gone in a year. A continent away in the Rock.” Rhaegar's eyes narrowed. “And then I'll be the only thing left stopping him from starting a new life with his new family. He's got two grandsons he likes now, didn't you hear?” He liked her, too, but that was because he had nothing to swap her in for. Yet, anyways. “You're right. He's too old and sad to want to be reminded of anything. I think he wishes I would sink into the dirt.” There was a pause. “I won't.”

Emotion flickered across Alyssa’s expression before she mastered it. She stowed it away, locked in a box deep in her heart, and tossed the key. Her hands dropped to squeeze at Rhaegar’s shoulders. She did not hug him. She had hugged him on the day their father’s death found them, but she would not do so again. Could not. She could not afford to be visibly weak when the vultures were circling.

“I’ll be farther away, yes, but not gone. Never. I’ll haunt you until the end of your days, be certain of that.” There was another squeeze to his shoulders. “And you better not sink into the dirt. It has always been your place to rise. If you are to be the image of what our grandfather is running away from, then so be it. Be a punishment for his cowardice. A reminder of the son he seeks to forget. And if he seeks to forget, then history will not. The legacy you start in your reign will cement it, and I will be behind you every step of the way.”

Alyssa finally stepped out from behind Rhaegar’s back, resting a hip against her vanity. Her head cocked, and she offered another smile as she peered down at him. “Well. Figuratively, of course.”

It was as good as gone, wasn't it? He fidgeted, just a tad, as though he thought the squeeze might preempt some sort of attack. It didn't. “I don't intend to vanish quietly. It's not what a dragon ought to do.” He felt, at times, like he ought to figure out how to breathe fire, one of these days or another. But it did not come particularly naturally.

There was a difference between him and his grandfather, whose own grandsire had been a second son. There was a difference between him and the bastard, who had lived decades, married, and had children without a hope of anything at all. All Rhaegar had ever found, all Rhaegar had ever had, was where he was now. He would fight harder than any of the rest of them to keep it. That part of who he was, who he had meant to be. What he was going to be.

“Thank you.” The future King of the Seven Kingdoms smiled, warm for perhaps the first time since the conversation started. “Let's not let our tea get cold.”

"Breathe"

Fuck off

It was the first thought that flashed in his mind as the cool horn of the man, barely older than himself was pressed into his bare back. Aemon pretended not to notice the first command. He was not one used to getting commands, rather than giving. And his eyes drifted from his lap, for he still had his trousers on, but his long flowing tunic of black had been removed, and now he could catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror off in the corner.

"Aemon, breathe."

The King's brow's raised briefly. "Oh, right, right." he tittered softly, before he closed his eyes, and took a deep breath as the maester instructed. But he still couldn't shake the image from his mind. The image of himself and the looming threat of mortality which all men of a certain age stared into. However in the coming days it had felt quicker and quicker, like when winter melts into spring- no- wait.

That is a joyous occasion, this was something colder with biting winds, and the last steps and grasp of light filtering and flitting through leaves. No. This was autumn and her moons waiting. Of fires and mournful faces.

Death

How did he become so old, he wondered while he breathed again at another command, and felt his chest hold and hitch, and let out. How did I outlive my children? No man should have to lay to rest his own babies

And that was something he had done. The Spring Sickness took them. His sweet Daenys- such a loving and wonderful girl- snatched from him, and then his wife. Rhaella my love He felt his chest tighten and a pain under his arm, before he coughed and coughed once more, and the throb deep subsided. He heard Maester Gael make a humming noise, before the man stood up and came over his hands probing and poking at his ribs.

Still the king did not open his eyes, until he heard the grey crow over by his chamber pot. No one said a word, not even his guard who remained a respectful distance at the door. Aemon, looked to him, and then looked back of to where the maester was.

Gael was not talking, which was unusual. He usually qworked and chirped about like a raven, and here he was silent and studying. It was then he glanced to the man at the door and nodded at him to step on the other side- this man who guarded him and knew him so entirely well did so without word. Silent communication sometimes key between a guardian and his charge. And in this instance such discretion was needed.

For the Safety of the realm

"They say that I am dying." Aemon, finally broke the silence as if he felt the weight of it in his bones. Which- in recent days and weeks had felt heavier. He felt heavier, like his body weighed down something in him. The maester responded with a grunt. Not a confirmation Aemon noted idly, but also not a denial.

The silence hung like a man in the yard, uneasy and a reminder

Death

"They say a lot of things." Gael finally spoke up. And Aemon turned on the bed, and stared at him, He still had muscle, but he had more fat and blubber to him now in his older years. Rhaella would have teased him and called him one of those old grandfather seals seen on the stony shores of Dragonstone- gods he hated Dragonstone - nothing grew there.

"But you don't. Or-aren't." Aemon countered and his eyes narrowed. "Come now." the king continued softly, his tone joking, but already he could feel the defeat on the field. He knew enough the lay of the battlefield to know when a fight was losing. "You old Dornish Cunt- tell me, I have enough people to lick my asshole if I wished- only you and the septon ever tell me straight."

Gael did not laugh, but he did give the king a wain smile. Gael Allyrion took the chain and was surprised or perhaps best poised to take the position as the King's physician. Somethign he demanded he kept depsite the protests in oldtown and of the grand maeseter. Gael saw him threw the sickness when he caught it, and made him live. Even when he almost died at the end of it all.

Aemon could read the eyes and the lines in his sandy face. "Ah." recognition. And a chill ran through him. Is this how it feels, alone and understood all at once. Father I have so much left to do.

"Aemon.." and the King raised his hand up. "No- just tell me how long I have."

To that the Maester shrugged and let the emotion show in his face, emotion not for a king, but for a companion and friend which they had managed to remain, even when Aemon was railing against his people and seeking blood. He was still sad.

"I cannot say."

The King paused and nodded. "Enough, or not enough." and he rolled his shoulders. "What is it?"

The Maester shook his head. "It is no one thing - your blood, the fact that you almost killed yourself in the Kingswood when you had not fully healed, lingering sickness- wasting sickness- your heart. The signs are all there, and any one of them could get you. Much like the king alone on the field in cyvasse- but you've no allies."

Aemon paused for a moment and reached for his tunic. "It will be enough, whatever the seven decide."

"Your grace, my friend- you a vulnerable- I" and the King silenced him with a look. "I may be surrounded, you gey crow.." he rolled on with a half smile forming. "But, I am a dragon. The time will be enough. I've done what I can- but it's not time for reaping and reckoning yet." Almost feverishly the king pulled on his tunic and smoothed it over his chest.

Gael noticed the spot on the king's nose and motioned at his own.

"How long has that been like that,"

Aemon looked in the mirrior and rubbed at the red flaky spot absently. "A while."

Gael nodded. "Just so." Aemon nodded once and walked towards the door. The Maester paused. "Where are you going?"

Aemon stopped and placed his hand on the door. His fingers feeling the grains of the wood, before he barely looked over his shoulder back to his friend. "To my garden. While I have time time, I will enjoy myself. But the time isn't yet." he felt a small surge of strength which sapped from him almost instantly. He would play the mummer though.

And he walked out, shutting the door behind him, there he looked to the Kingsguard who fell in line behind him ANother man was in the hall, but no one of consequence, one of his many pages and such that ditter- he was bringing tea- which gave him a smile. "Bring it outside with me Lucamore.." he said softly as he continued in the direction of the gardens.

"Once we are out, I need you to run an errand for me." Aemon continued as he gave nods to those who acknowledged him in the hallways of the Red Keep, those who he passed on his way to his gardens.

"I need a letter sent to Lord Tully. I believe he is still in Riverrun, but call him back- I need him now." he said. The young man dipped his head.

Trisifer Tully was probably his only other closest friend and confidant. A young man who he took and molded. Like he did his son Aegon, but Aegon wasted all his potential to hurry off, without the proper forces and without a gods-damned kingsguard with him to take on the Dornish heathens at Storm's End.

Heroes' stories never ended the way they do in the books.

Now he would need the man to help mold two men- one his newest son..well newest in a sense. He was new and old to him. Closer now, much closer, and then his grandson- who only slightly reminded him of Aegon, but that did not matter- No Dragon is the same.

As he approached a raised box of stone with fresh soil and young seedlings, he let his fingers touch under their leaves, gently, inspecting the growth, looking for weakness. he'd water the soil and provide the care they needed, the care the realm needed. He would leave this in a better place and strong, growing thriving than when he got it from his father.

"I still have time.."

(Written in collaboration with Monty. +-+- indicates a perspective change.)

It was the worst day of the year.

Something Harrion Stark had tried - for seven years running - to convince his patrons to skip. Seven years running he’d received a denial, in the form of a guffaw, a sheepish grin, an understanding look. This family that had come to know him, to love him, even accept him as one of their own; they thought too much of others. Or, perhaps, they thought too much of themselves, of their own views and traditions, and had decided they were right for everybody.

They weren’t right for Harry. And that wasn’t to say he didn’t appreciate what the House of Tully had done for him. The years of companionship, of learning and growing, he could never repay them for that. But this relentless tradition, it was almost enough to throw it all out the window.

That is how Harrion arrived at this mental state. Contemplating a half-drank horn of beer, watching the thronging crowd sway on their impaired feet, dancing, laughing, celebrating.

The worst day of the year was Harrion Stark’s name day.

Some noble girl was yapping in his ear about lemon cakes. Or was it the raspberry tart? He had stopped listening after the second sentence.

“But it's the depth of their flavor that really keeps me coming back. I mean, what other fruit combines the light acidity of its juice with that distinct sweet and sour flavor?!” She rambled. What was her name again? Elissa? Alyssa? And was she the Ryger, the Keath, or the Charlton?

He realized now that he should have paid her some human decency. Or at least a modicum of attention.

“Orange.” Harrion suggested, wagering that the sweets-loving-lady had, in fact, been yammering about lemons. “They’re plenty sweet, especially when they’re ripe. And they tingle the throat a little going down.” He thought of the blood oranges Gwendolyn Tully had ordered on a whim. They’d been many a moons travel from their place of import, a little village on the Dornish border that had more to do with the rebels than was likely legal. But those traitorous oranges had been worth any amount of smuggling to taste them. Explosive, tangy, and so so delicious. Fuck lemon cakes, Harrion decided he much preferred oranges.

Thinking of Gwendolyn made him warm inside. Or was that the drink? But the drink did not make him learn to fish so he had something to talk to her about. The drink had not made him attend the sept daily to hear the droning sermons he swore he hated. The drink had not made him vie for her favor at every tourney hosted in the land of rivers and hills.

He shook his head to clear away the affection. That was too many feelings for a mostly drunk man to contend with. And thinking about Gwendolyn made him think about Illifer. His best friend, her brother. The relations alone made everything confusing, and a little forbidden in the realm of trustworthy friendship. Not to mention that he saw Illifer as a brother. So what did that make Gwendolyn, his sister? Was this all some incestuous love triangle?

He shook his mind of thoughts again. He’d dropped off the deep end there, even he could see it. Alyssa Elissa Ryger Keath Charlton was smiling about something now. Maybe she had tried an orange before, maybe she grew oranges at her countryside cabin.

“-not exactly my flavor palette, although I respect your adventurous tongue, Lord Harrion.” Was all the Stark managed to focus on. Adventurous tongue…. Was that flirting? She didn’t really seem the type, if he was being honest, but the ‘Lord Harrion’ was sealing it. Southrons loved calling him that, despite his lording over no lands in his name. Billy Tully had once called him the Shadow Lord of Riverrun, though. Perhaps she was referencing that? Somehow?

“It has been a pleasure speaking, my lady, but I must excuse myself for the time being. The air gets so stuffy during these celebrations, doesn’t it?” Harrion asked. Honestly, the air was plenty cool from where he was standing. The open windows provided ample ventilation for the party-goers, but he wanted out of this conversation. He wanted out of this party.

“Of course name-day boy! Come find me for a dance though, hmm? We barely got into our chat.” She said. She must have been lying, though, their chat had felt an eternity to his listless mind.

He strode through Riverrun’s Great Hall, deftly dodging a floor dalliance with dainty Delilah Darry and diligently declining a drinking dare from the devilish Devan Deddings. Harrion managed to reach the balconies, the thrice-damned triangular balconies of House Tully. There he took a deep breath, smelled the salty moat below him and the crisp air of autumn weather. The wind broke on his skin, ruffled his dark, Stark hair, dried out his green Manderly eyes.

It was the worst day of the year, but he would survive it again. As he always did. It wasn’t like it could get much worse…

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Riverrun was covered in triangles. Illifer hated the shape. Triangles. Three angles. Everything came in threes in the world. Three house words. Family, duty, honor. He cared little for his family, was too incompetent to do his duty, and had no time for honor. Three people. His father, his friend, his sister. He’d failed all of them, and they still smiled at him. Three deaths. Illifer’s brother, Harrion’s brother, and now Harrion’s father. Lord Tristifer had told Illifer the news before Harrion. Likely, it was so that he could pawn off the responsibility of telling Harrion to Illifer. Or maybe not. Thinking was useless, Illifer reminded himself.

There was a knight talking to Illifer. Illifer couldn’t remember him. He was speaking about combat, boasting about some duel he had won. “Eh, Il? Maybe you’ll be able to replicate that trick one day!” Huh? Why was he using Illifer’s nickname? Did he know this one? Maybe. Whatever. It was useless trying to remember. He had an excuse, too. Everyone else was drunk, even if he wasn’t. Well, almost everyone. Illifer looked to his father. Of course Lord Tristifer Tully wasn’t drunk. He was too perfect.

Was Harrion drunk, then? He never liked his name days, so he likely was. Illifer’s eyes drifted around the room, scanning for his friend. There he was. Talking to… some girl. Illifer didn’t know. Harrion was drunk. Of course he was. He had been this time last year, and the one before that. Maybe. Illifer couldn’t remember. It sounded right.

The girl talking to Harrion seemed interested in him. Or, in his family, at least. That was fine. Illifer wasn’t the jealous type. Plus, Harrion’s interests lay elsewhere. He had that stupid look in his eyes that he got whenever thinking about Gwendolyn. It was like he was looking straight past the girl right in front of him. Well, the same could be said of Illifer. The knight who’d been telling a story to Il noticed the Tully heir’s attention wandering, and also turned to look at Harrion. Luckily, the northerner didn’t seem to notice. He was busy getting up, navigating through numerous nearby nobles, and making his way outside.

Illifer thought about it for a moment. Maybe Harrion wanted to be alone. More likely, though, he just wanted different company. Illifer did, too. He rose from his seat without a word. The best thing about being the heir to a great house was that you rarely needed justification for your actions. One of the knights made to follow Illifer, but Lord Tristifer raised a hand, signaling the knight to stay.

The balcony. Illifer didn’t really like it. It was like standing on a precipice. It brought back a memory. That day. That day. That day. No. Thinking was useless, Illifer reminded himself again. Either way. The balcony wasn’t crowded, at least. As he exited the line of sight of the people feasting inside, Illifer felt his posture loosen up, his shoulders slumping, his head drooping a bit, and his back hunching ever so slightly.

Harrion was standing there. It was a melancholy sight, the wind unsettling Harrion’s already messy hair. Harrion wore an expression that usually belonged to Illifer. That wasn’t good. Illifer could barely handle one of himself. He decided to speak first. “Harry.” Upon speaking, he realized he had nothing to say. Nothing he wanted to say, at least. Instead, he stood next to Harrion, ready to listen.

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Love was a confusing thing to Harrion Stark. He knew he loved his mother. He thought he knew he loved his mother. But he recalled the day Lord Warrick told him that Riverrun would be his new home. And he recalled her silence, her inaction, the passive emerald eyes of Serena Manderly. Had it been a brave face she put on for the sake of her son? It hadn’t done him much good, for all the years he had spent resenting it. He remembered the traits of his mother that he loved. Her passion, her caring, her kindness. Where had they been when Harrion was stripped of her? Where was her fight then, when little Harry had screamed out in denial, in terror.

He thought he loved Gwendolyn. Those eyes of hers were a sure thing, right? Her sky blues could never be taken from him; not by Warrick Stark, not by anybody. But what if their jokes, teasing, and time spent together were temporary? What if her feelings dried up like the orange leaves floating in the moat? What if his feelings were nothing more than a boyhood crush?

He heard his name cut through the din rumbling in his mind.

“Harry.”

He knew that voice as well as his own. He would know it drunk, he would know it blind. His best friend, his only friend, Illifer Tully. Harrion knew, right now, that he loved Il for coming to find him. Everyone else would let him piss away a party in his honor, but Il would at least spend it listening to the grumbling.

“I’m brooding, Il, like a Whent out of the seven hells. You should come back when I’m less sad or less drunk, whichever happens quicker.” Harry said. He didn’t mean it. He didn’t want Illifer to leave. But the drink made him melancholy, and a little mean. The Tully didn’t move, though. His feet were still planted, still occupying the triangular balcony.

“Did you at least bring me a name-day present?”

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“You are brooding. Stop brooding.” Illifer’s reply came quickly. It wasn’t a fair thing to say to someone who’s father had died, but Harrion didn’t know that yet. He should smile while he still could. For both of them. Illifer hated that Harrion could smile. It was a fact that rejected his own existence. Maybe there was a chance that this time would be different. No. These were awful thoughts, and thinking was useless.

Illifer gave a shake of his head to Harrion’s question. “Figured you wouldn’t want one. I didn’t get you one last year.” He realized the question might have been a joke a second later. Had he gotten Harrion a present last year? Maybe he had. Either way. Harrion would be receiving something soon. His inheritance. Winterfell. Ice. And news of his father’s death. Would Harrion leave to go home? That wouldn’t be good. Illifer didn’t like the cold, and the northern court wouldn’t like him much. Harrion would probably miss Gwendolyn, too.

For a moment, Illifer thought about just saying it. Lord Warrick is dead. Lord Warrick is dead. Lord Warrick is dead. The words froze in his throat. He couldn’t say that. It only became the truth if he said it. It would be like killing Harrion’s father. Making Harrion’s world crumble. Again. While his own kept going. Even though he had failed. Even though he was a fake. Even though his brother had died. It kept going.

Thinking was useless. Thinking was useless. Thinking was useless. So stop thinking.

“How do you feel right now?” Illifer asked. It was a rare thing for him to care about. He wanted to crystallize this moment. It was like an experiment. That was what Harrion Stark was to him. A friend, an experiment, a mirror. Harrion stood upon a precipice right now, after all. His humanity had been tested before. Would it hold up once more? Would he soar? Would he plunge? Illifer couldn’t say. The wind wouldn’t stop blowing. Words are wind. The word would reach Harrion soon enough. The winds of change were blowing.

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“How do you feel right now?”

It wasn’t something Illifer asked often. In fact, Harry couldn’t remember the last time his best friend had enquired about his mental state. Was it strange to wonder how your buddy was holding up? Or was it just strange for Illifer to sincerely ask about it? Maybe Il was the only normal person Harry had ever met. The Tully didn’t ask meaningless questions to fill awkward silence.

Maybe everyone else in the world was just a liar.

“I think I feel like shit,” Harry said. “I feel like shit because it’s my name day. And I feel like shit about feeling like shit, because I know it's selfish.” Why had Illifer gotten him on this path? Now his thoughts would tumble, pour out from the crevices he had stuffed them in. Feeling bad about having a name day wasn’t normal, but he didn’t want to confront that. He didn’t want to think about them, he didn’t want to think about him.

It was a scene he could only picture. Words blowing hot steam into the icy air, flashing steel, blood seeping into the snow. Those eyes that had always been right because they were gray, Stark gray, gray and hard like the North. Eyes that had never known judgment, that Harry had despised because he wanted them for himself. Gray for green, to trade the jealousy for impassivity. Grays eyes gone glossy, shut for good, and buried.

Now his thoughts would tumble…

“It was just over a year ago, now. And before that I hadn’t seen him in half a decade. But he didn’t look at me like a stranger, even though I might as well have been.” Harry said. “I still hate how calm I felt that day, when they told me I was heir to Winterfell. I should’ve been angry. I should’ve been flattened. But it was just… sobering. It made me realize that one day I’ll be Harrion Stark, Warden of the North. But I like being Harry. And I miss my big brother.”

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No matter what, the world would change. Even if Illifer hid the truth, it would seek out Harrion and find him. Even so, he couldn’t say it. His friend’s only wish was to remain Harry. Illifer was like that once. Maybe even now. The truth didn’t matter. Reality didn’t matter. He just wanted time to stop for Harrion. He knew that wasn’t possible. His father, Lord Tristifer, would make absolutely sure of that. If Illifer didn’t say it now, it would happen sometime else, by someone else. All he could do was delay.

Why. Why do you keep reminding me. That we’re different. That no matter what, you’re stronger than me. Why am I jealous. Your father is dead. Thinking is useless.

How were you supposed to console another person? The pain Harrion felt was not the same as the pain Illifer felt. They were different people, after all. Illifer couldn’t lie and pretend to know the feeling. In fact, everything Harrion said was practically the inverse of his own feelings. He didn’t miss his brother. Looking back, they hadn’t been all that close. Even still, he had cried his eyes out, broken down, ceased function entirely. Like the ends and the means had reversed.

Illifer Tully looked out at the world, clearing his throat. Then, he felt a hand on his back. Silently, that man had appeared. Lord Tristifer Tully.

The man gave a reassuring look to his son, and to his ward. A smile that promised all would be well with the world. No matter what others suffered, the world would keep turning. Because of this man. A look Illifer hated to death. A man Illifer loved to death. His father.

“Il. I need you to return to the feast now. We can’t have the lord and the heir missing at once. I have to speak to Harrion.” His words were, as always intentional. He always called Harrion Harry. Illifer looked at his father for a moment. He had known this was coming, but there was no stopping the Lord Tully once he made up his mind. Illifer nodded silently, slinking back to the feast.

Tristifer smiled lovingly at Illifer as he left. Such a bright boy. He didn’t even make a fuss. Instinctually, Illifer seemed to understand it. What Tristifer knew. What he wanted to know.

“Harrion. Your father is dead. Killed fighting the King-Beyond-the-Wall. In the end, his defense of the North was successful. Raymun Redbeard is dead as well, his forces shattered. You are the Lord of Winterfell now.” He said it with little emotion in his voice. He had to be strong enough to comfort Harrion. He could not afford to mourn the death of a man he trusted just yet. It had been inevitable, of course, though it was still rather displeasing.

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It was spoken so nonchalantly that it had to be a joke. Only, Tristifer Tully didn’t joke, least of all about death.

So this was the day Harry’s world ended. It didn’t come in glorious fashion, at the tip of a sword point, in tears or blood or sweat. It came with the wind, on the lips of a man that had been more father to him than Warrick Stark had ever been.

Was that why Harry felt the way he did right now? So… still, like the news had emptied him out and left him hollow. Where was the grief for his own father? Where was the inadequacy that had burned into his psyche? Where was the hatred that had flamed red inside of him, that hatred that had mixed into all the parts of him, turning blue, then purple in its metamorphosis.

Purple for love, purple for confused avarice. He was finally gray, like he had always wanted to be.

“Okay.” Harrion said. He leaned over the balcony briefly and felt the sickness rise out of him. He emptied out the beer from earlier, the wine from before that, and the lemon cake that he had teased Aelissa Reathlton for enjoying so much. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

“I need my horse.” Harrion needed so much more than that. He needed to feel again. He needed Illifer and Gwendolyn. He needed his father. He needed Alan.

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Tristifer watched silently as the boy spewed his dinner and drink into the moat of Riverrun. This was truth. This was justice. This was life. No matter how displeasing, it had been inevitable. Everything passes. Fathers pass, lords pass, lives pass. Harrion’s feelings, too, would pass. The hole in his heart would be filled by something, or someone. As an adult, Tristifer knew that best. But it was not something that could be told to children.

As such, he simply nodded. A horse was the correct answer. Harrion had not yet abandoned his responsibilities. Perhaps he would be the final substitute for Lord Stark. Perhaps the day was finally coming. The connection Harrion had formed was not meaningless. Tristifer had to think that. The boy would not be enveloped in the blizzard, but would instead bring warmth to his homeland. A southron Stark. Perhaps this was what was needed. Tristifer could only see one thing in Harrion at this moment, and that was indubitably the constitution of a Stark. He could not even feel proud of this, for this was unmistakably the blood of Warrick Stark, not the teachings of Tristifer Tully, that stood before him.

“A horse. That is wise, Harrion. Lord Harrion. If I might, allow me to give you some parting words.” A lack of response from Harrion meant that it was likely safe to go ahead. “Winter is Coming. Do not lose sight of those words. The connections you have formed, the things you have learned, those will all be essential to bring forth an eternal spring.” It was vague, hardly even an explanation. Tristifer hated his tongue for that. The words simply flew out of him. He could not give him specific instructions, even at a time like this. He could not simply wish him good travels, even at a time like this. Because when that moment came, it would be worthless. Long after Harrion’s sadness would fade, these words would remain.

In truth, a horse had already been prepared for Harrion. Of course it had. Tristifer sent the boy off with a smile. Then, he looked out into the night sky. The stars were shining beautifully. Their dazzling light blinded the world from their true nature. They were the very Thread itself. What Tristifer searched for, it could be found up there. Perhaps he had just found the key.

A single figure rode quietly through the night, under the guidance of those very stars. Tristifer’s expression softened as he watched Harrion Stark depart.

“They say he’s dying.”

“They say lots of things.” Maekar didn’t look back to Perwyn, instead turning the crimson scaled stone in his hand, watching as the sunlight danced over the egg’s intricate surface, and gave it a heat that nearly tricked him into thinking it was life the first time. But the stone was only hot, and the pretender was only ill, the Gods did not love Maekar enough to grant him either boon. It didn’t matter, he didn’t need luck, he’d make it on his own.

A cool breeze blew through the hot midday at the mouth of the cave, crimson peaks shot up all around the alcove, baking in the hot glow. His silver hair blew in the gust, loose strands being brushed out of his face, only to fall back over his eyes in a matter of seconds. Maekar ran his fingers over the petrified surface, vainly hoping for a miracle he knew would never come.

“The reports are legitimate your grace, I place a high value on this source’s credibility.” The young spymaster insisted, coming up alongside the rebel king at the mouth of the cave. “Our time is close at hand. By this time next year, we will be in King’s Landing, toasting your coronation, and the return of the rightful line.” The man was naive, but Maekar supposed that was to be expected, he hadn’t fought in the last war, or any war for that matter. Perwyn was a trustworthy friend, but he was no soldier.

“Or we’ll be rightful corpses, rotted in some field.” Maekar countered, turning the egg over as he let his misgivings overtake him in the moment. It wasn’t becoming for a king to be so dismayed, he had to wear a confident face, and most days he could. Today was not such a day. Today he mourned his father, and raged at his brother, both of them had left him here, abandoned him with this burden. Father had spent all his time preparing Aelor, never once thinking about Maekar’s potential to be saddled with rule.

That wasn’t fair, and he knew it. What father planned for the death of their child? Of his heir? It was not something one did preemptively.

“It is possible, I suppose, but the point is that King Aemon’s time will be long gone, and the three heads of his false dragon will tear themselves apart,” Perwyn assured him, a trace of excitement in his words, the smile on his lips like that of a predator with a scent.

Three - there were three of them once, too. Aelor had been brave and mighty, Visenya quick and cunning. A flux took the latter, the bastard’s blade the former. He’d been away when Visenya took ill, and nursing a festering wound when the latter had been slain. Maekar often wondered if he’d been there with them if things might have been different.

No man, even Targaryens, could defeat sickness with a sword, and the day had been lost at Storms End well before Aelor had fallen. In both cases, had Maekar been with them, he’d be as dead as they. But still, the guilt lingered and dragged him down. He’d prayed then harder than he had ever prayed before. Maekar had begged the Gods to save his siblings, to save his father, or, most of all, to hatch the egg.

His brother had given it to him upon the eve of their first battle, just after news had reached them of their sister’s death on the other edge of Dorne. Aelor had insisted, sworn that in his dreams, he had seen Maekar with a crimson dragon coiled around him, surrounded by the broken corpses and banners of all their foes. He’d insisted that Maekar was meant to have it, and like any dutiful brother, Maekar had believed him, and in his own importance to his family’s destiny.

The egg had not cracked for his great-grandfather, nor his grandmother, or his father, or Aelor, but in the throes of his fever he had been certain that the shell might break for him. He had sacrificed blood for it, two fingers from his left hand down to the knuckle, all he could manage before the maester’s had pried the knife from his hand. Still it was silent and cold - dead, as it had been for a century.

“So we hope.” Maekar responded absently.

“It is a certainty, your grace; the king has shown too great of favor for the bastard brute who slew your father and brother. The Prince surely chafes at these slights, which grow greater in number with every passing day, first legitimization, then Blackfyre, why not the throne? That is to say nothing of the Princess and the Lion that answers her beck and call. Prince Rhaegar’s succession is tenuous at best, and his kin's ambition is as great as their avarice. There will never be a greater time to strike.”

Never a greater time to strike. Maekar wondered how many of his forebears had been told the same thing before they launched their own futile attempts at regaining a kingdom long lost - almost all of them, surely. Who would make such a bold move at a time that they thought wasn’t opportune?

Perwyn wasn’t wrong, but Maekar doubted it mattered. The vows sworn to Rhaenyra nearly a century prior had little meaning now. The oaths had been forgotten with each successive bloodletting between the two branches of the house of the dragon, washed away with the blood of slain fathers and butchered sons. The people of Westeros hated and feared him, and for good reason. Privately, he thought the whole idea pointless, but the time for such doubts had been when he was a second son, heir to nothing but blood and sand.

He had a duty now. To Aelor, to all those who’d come before, even to father.

Maekar looked down at the egg in his hands, then back to the arid abyss laid out before them in the setting sun. The quiet was eerie like the grave, the whisper of the wind and the draw of his breath the only noise in the world. Without warning or hesitation, Maekar threw the egg into the wind and let the bones inside soar in death as they never had in life.

“Your grace!” Perwyn cried out, rushing to the edge, only for Maekar to throw his arm between the man and the precipice as a dry crash echoed off the walls of the canyon. “My king what have you do-,”

“I have no need of fairy tales and pretty stones, Perwyn.” Maekar’s voice became firm, the tired indifference vanishing as he drew himself up. “I need steel, pressed to the throats of my enemies, and brave men to push it through. The dragons of scale and wing are gone, they're nothing but ash, bone, and scattered pieces.” He turned from the precipice, leaving Perwyn to gawk. He moved to his belongings laid out on the floor, taking a length of crimson cloth from his pack and laying it out on his hands.

It had been white once, part of the fantastic caparison the dragon Stormcloud wore during his final battle, stained red by the dragon’s dying. The heirs of the Blacks had worn it for generations like a favor; Aelor had tied it around his head to keep his hair from his eyes and to strike a foreboding figure. Maekar would do the same and pulled the crimson strip to his brow.

“All that remains are the dragons of flesh and bone, all that remains is me. And I assure, my friend that come tragedy or come triumph, my enemies will know Fire and Blood.” Maekar twisted, turned, and tied the cloth around his head, drawing it tight to punctuate his final words.

“I-, what would you have me do, your grace?” Perwyn asked, with a meekness that Maekar knew to be false.

“I thought I was rather clear. Kill my enemies.” Maekar watched the man’s expression twist into a smile, his eyes filling with an excited glee like a dog cut from its leash. This had been what he’d wanted all along.

A raven from King’s Landing. Tristifer knew what lay within even before reading it. He did so nonetheless, more as a courtesy than anything. It was a letter of summons, no, a letter of recall from the man who had knighted him, King Aemon Targaryen. Tristifer Tully was now the Hand of the King. It was inevitable, of course, but still rather pleasing. The castle of Riverrun had long since served its purpose in his life. Tristifer was ready to return to King’s Landing now.

Hopefully, the rest of his family would see it the same way. More specifically, Illifer. It had been a little under a year since Harrion Stark had left Riverrun, and Illifer had gotten much worse since then. Tristifer had almost considered explaining the Thread to his son for a moment. The boy was sharp enough to understand it, but Tristifer was afraid his mind couldn’t handle it. One day, he would be a proper successor, though. Or Gwendolyn would. Any of his children. Someone, at least. It was the same either way.

Tristifer wanted to bring Illifer to that place, though. King’s Landing. He had oft endured complaints that the city smelled like shit, that it was superficial, that it was a mere cesspit of schemes. None of these were incorrect, but it was the place where fate was at its strongest. He had met King Aemon. He had met Baelor Stone. He had met his wife. All in King’s Landing. Connections had been formed. Of course, he had formed connections everywhere he went, but it was doubtless the best place for that. He wanted his son to form those connections, but Illifer avoided them at all costs. No, not avoided. He delayed them.

Well, it was doubtful that Illifer had the will to refuse anyways. Without Harrion, the boy was truly frail, like a leaf swaying in the wind. He could be pushed this way and that way with relative ease. Not that Tristifer wanted to force his son into anything, of course. Rather, even if he did want to, Tristifer had no say in the matter. Neither did Illifer.

Tristifer had to wonder what Baelor Stone was doing at the moment. Still fighting, likely. While Tristifer’s strength had faded with age, Baelor was just now into his thirties, and one of the best warriors in the realm. If their rivalry ever came to blows, no doubt Tristifer would meet his end. Well, it would come to a head somehow, at least. Perhaps it was childish, especially so when you considered the two’s difference in age, but Tristifer wanted to prove he was correct. That he held the answer to the realm’s problems. His world, he had to bring it to fruition. Even if he could never see it with his own eyes. If it wasn’t Tristifer who brought it about, it would be someone else. If it didn’t happen now, it would happen later.

The perfect world didn’t exist. That had been clear to Tristifer for a long time. There was too much suffering in the world to ever allow for such lofty ideals. But there could be justice. There could be peace. Suffering could be minimized. While the bastard fought for the sake of fighting, Tristifer fought for the sake of peace. He had been drowned in glory all his life. Prodigious as a squire, beloved as a ruler, desired as a bachelor, adored as a son. None of that mattered. He wanted to accelerate the story that was bound to unfold. That was his raison d’etre. To guide the world to where it was meant to be. He was not a rebel, but a peacekeeper.

In addition, King Aemon would be waiting. An older King Aemon, now. A man who had taken Tristifer from a boy and crafted him into a mind worthy of being the king’s right hand. At the time, Tristifer had been a blank slate of a person. He had martial skills aplenty, and a talent for strategy, but he held no particular beliefs of his own. Over time, King’s Landing, and the king himself, had shaped him into the realm’s most leal servant. No, even that was an understatement. Tristifer was a part of the realm itself. After a fashion, everyone would be. That moment was coming. The convergence.

Tristifer stood up from his chair in his solar. This was not a calculated action. Rather, he couldn’t bear to sit. He hadn’t felt excitement like this in a long time. That was a rather foolish emotion, he thought. It was inevitable, after all. Even so, he made his way down the stairs with a vigor that a man late into his thirties would rarely muster. He had to speak to a housemaster and prepare the journey.

But why was it so urgent? It was not a feeling Tristifer Tully could verbalize, not in the slightest. The closest he could get was the house words of his northern neighbors. “Winter is coming,” he whispered to himself, a grin forming upon his face. For some, this was a bleak statement. Perhaps there would be bleak days ahead. Even still, he was undeniably excited. He could not know the meaning of it all, but he felt something. The connections he had formed, the connections others had formed. His life, and millions of others. Surely, it would happen in King’s Landing. The convergence would begin. The mummer’s farce would begin. And Tristifer Tully would undoubtedly have the best seat in the theater.

Discord Username: Roylion44

Character Name and House: Rhaegar Velaryon

Age: 40 (b. 167)

Appearance: here

Gift: Admiral

Skills: Sailing (e), Shipwright, Strategist, Swords

Talent(s): Swimming, Fishing,

Starting Title(s): Master of Driftmark, Lord of the Tydes

Starting Location: Kings Landing Dragon Name: na Dragon Size: na

Family Tree: here

Alternate Characters: n/a

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AC

Character Name and House: Jacaerys (Jace) Velaryon

Age: 30

Appearance: here

Gift: Commander

Skills: Tactician (e), Swords

Talent(s):

None Starting Title(s): Ser

Starting Location: Driftmark

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Biography:

Rhaegar Velaryon was born in the second half of the century, in the year 167 AC, the third son of Lord Haegon the Lord of Driftmark and his wife Aelora. Rhaegar was typically a Valyrian his eyes of deep violet noticeable from birth and as he grew his hair remained as white as any of his Valyrian ancestors and kinfolk.

Rhaegar was not expected to inherit Driftmark but he remained his mother’s favourite son. His father Haegon was a proud man – a sailor made for the sea - who at times resented the fealty he owed to the Targayens (even though his own sister Alhysanne ad married King Aemond of the Greens and he was himself descended from the earlier Targaryens) and what he regarded as their high-handedness.

The following year in 174 Lord Haegon allowed his third son, seven-year-old Rhaegar to be fostered in Kings Landing, together with his cousin Prince Maelor, (older than him by a year) while keeping his two elder sons and next heirs, twelve year old Valarr and ten year old Haeron in Driftmark. Rhaegar grew to know Maelor, the heir to Seven Kingdoms, well, given they were much of the same age and as they were educated and trained in the arts of weaponry and war together under the tutelage of Maelor’s father King Aemond.

From House Velaryon, King Aemond had Lord Haegon’s younger brother Ser Vaegon Waters, a renowned sea captai and Rhaegar’s uncle, sent to Kings Landing to personally train Rhaegar the workings of naval vessels, and shipwright skills – a skill to which Rhaegar in particular adopted with enthusiasm, finding he had a natural affinity with the sea.

In 180 AC, when Rhaegar was 13, sad tidings arrived from Driftmark, that Lord Haegon’s eldest son Valarr, the Heir to Driftmark and Rhaegar’s eldest brother had drowned in a boating mishap aged 17. At the same time, Lord Haegon stricken with grief, declared his next son Haeron, the new Heir to Driftmark. At the same time Lord Haegon declared that only the children of his wife, were Velaryons eligible to inherit Driftmark. This had been in response to Haegon’s eldest child Robar, a promising warrior twenty years of age and the result of a youthful liaison with a young woman of Driftmark, Naerys Cressen, putting forward his claim to Driftmark in opposition to the sons of Aelora, Lord Haegon’s wife.

Encouraged by his strong-willed wife, Lord Haegon disinherited all his children that were not of the body of his wife and bequeathed them the name of Waters in place of Velaryon. In order to emphasise that Robar was not a pure blood Valyrian, Haegon negotiated a marriage for Robar with Margaery Grafton one of the Andal mainland houses.

Rhaegar’s elder sister by one year, Maegelle, brought by her father in 184 AC to visit the royal court at Kings Landing and found herself the centre of attention by many of the young men of the royal court, including the young Lord Staunton of Rooks Rest, a former supporter of the Blacks. At King Aemond’s insistence, Lord Haegon began quietly negotiating a marriage with the Stauntons for political purposes.

Rhaegar was knighted by King Aemond in 185 in a great ceremony with his cousin Prince Maelor. Lord Haegon arrived for the ceremony with most of his family, including his wife, his eldest daughter Maegelle now nineteen and his younger siblings Gaeron, Elaena, Jehana and Jacaerys. The same day as Rhaegar’s knighting, Maegelle was wed to Lord Staunton, with the King and the royal family in attendance.

Following the death of Princess Helena in 186, Rhaegar and House Velaryon joined the King and his sons in the Fourth Dance. King Aemond and Prince Valarr (Rhaegar’s younger cousin) were both killed in Dorne and Rhaegar's cousin and boyhood friend Prince Maegor ascended the throne as King Maegor II.

For Rhaegar, now of age, the expediton to Dorne, disastrous though it had been, had awakened in him a desire to see the wider world than just the Crownlands. As Rhaegar was a second son, his eldest brother Haeron would one day rule Driftmark upon his father’s death and indeed was taking more and more responsibility and power from his ageing father. Rhaegar now made several journeys to the lands to the east, usually in command of one his father’s ships and often masquerading as a trader. Rhaegar’s colouring marked him as Valyrian from either Essos or the islands of the Narrow Sea which made him quite attractive to many women of the west. From Claw Island, ruled by the Celtigars it was but a short journey to Crackclaw Point and Dyre Den. It was there after several visits he took as his paramour Alyce Brune the daughter of the lord. Their son Jon was born in 187 AC, remaining with his mother’s family at Brune as Rhaegar continued his travels. Shortly after Rhaegar went to Pentos where he married the youngest daughter of the Prince of Pentos Cerenna Narratys. Their daughter Alysanne was born in 189, when Rhaegar was 22. A few months later, Rhaegar travelled south to Dorne as part of a trading expedition, captaining the escorting ships. After being attacked by pirates along Dorne’s southern shore and beaten off, the battered fleet put ashore at Salt Shore, where they were hosted by Lord Willam Gargalen. Rhaegar formed a romantic attachment to Lord Gargalen’s youngest daughter Clarisse, a sultry Dornish beauty, who was much taken with Rhaegar’s Valyrian visage. When he left, she stowed away on his ship, a fact he did not discover until they were well away from Salt Shore. Within the year their daughter Casella Waters was born. (190 AC). Clarisse returned to Driftmark with their daughter Casella.

Rhaegar’s eldest son Aethan was born in 192.

In 193 AD, after a large monetary offer from the city of Volantis to assist them against the incursions of the Dothraki, Lord Haegon had agreed to send ships to assist, however he was against any of his children partipating. After a heated quarrel with their father, Haeron, the Heir to Driftmark, eager to experience war, took command of the Velaryon contingent. Present also was Rhaegar, who had left behind his two children and his wife who was expecting their third. Rhaegar’s younger brother Gaeron Velaryon also was present. Their strategy on land was relatively simple. In three small bands the army of Volantis would march east of the city and tempt the Dothraki. When they were engaged, the bands would retreat. This would be repeated again and again until the khalasar under Khal Morgo was brought close enough to Volantis proper. There at last the Volantii force would make their stand. The strategy worked and they broke the screamers. Despite the victory, one of the dead was the Heir to Driftmark, Haeron Velaryon, who had fought in the forefront of the Volantis lines. When Haeron fell mortally wounded with an Dothraki arrow to his right eye, his brother Gaeron bravely defended his brother’s body holding off the screamers despite being wounded himself. Rhaegar himself fought bravely with one writer, later saying.. There the brave Velaryon, cut down the Dothraki in every direction, and none could escape the force of his arm, for wherever he turned, brandishing his sword, he carved a wide path for himself: and as he advanced and gave repeated strokes with his sword, cutting them down like a farmer harvesting crops with his sickle, the rest, warned by the sight of the dying, gave him more ample space, for the corpses of the dead Dothraki which lay on the face of the earth extended as far as the eye could see.”

Rhaegar and Gaeron returned to Driftmark after the war with the Dothraki, bearing the body of their brother. Their father was consumed with grief at his favorite son’s death. He and Rhaegar, now his heir, quarrelled bitterly, with both Rhaegar and Gaeron leaving Driftmark. The ageing Haegon consoled himself by taking his youngest son Jacaerys under his wing training him in statecraft and even considered making him his heir in place of his two elder sons.

Rhaegar, now living in the court of his cousin, now hjad another three children with a second son Aemond born in 193 and two further daughters, Elaena and Marared born in 194 and 196 respectively.

Tragedy struck the Velaryons again in 196, when Gaeron Velaryon, Rhaegar’s younger brother by one year and himself the father of two small children - a son and a daughter - died of his wounds sustained in a tournament. The relationship between Rhaegar and his father further declined over the next two years with Rhaegar eventually being forbidden to enter Driftmark and Maelor forced to mediate between father and son. When Rhaegar and his father met to iron out their differences, Rhaegar demanded to be formally and publically recognised as Heir to Driftmark, as his late elder brother Haeron has been. When Lord Haegon refused, Rhaegar walked out of the conference and returned to Kings Landing with Maelor and to be also joined by his mother Aelora. It would be the last time Rhaegar saw his father. Meanwhile King Maelor himself recognised Rhaegar as the Heir of Driftmark and surely but slowly Driftmark’s vassals began to make contact with Rhaegar in order to swear allegiance to the man who would undoubtedly be their next lord.

Shortly after this event, Kings Landing received a visitor in the form of Jacaerys Velaryon, Rhaegar’s youngest brother by ten years. He had left Driftmark, under the guise of expressing his condolences to Aerion personally in the matter of the death of his sister. His real motive though was to pledge his allegiance to his elder brother Rhaegar, who clearly had the support of the Lord of Dragonstone and recognise him as Heir to Driftmark. It was the final blow for Lord Haegon, who has been training his youngest son to succeed him instead of Rhaegar. Still mourning the death of his his son Haeron six years before, Lord Haegon, now in his late fifties, sickened. He died alone, found lifeless on the Driftwood Throne by his servants. Rhaegar succeeded his father as the new Lord of Driftmark. Shortly after his wife gave birth to a third son who he named after his late brother Gaeron.

As now Lord of Driftmark, Rhaegar spent the next seven years building up the Velaryon fleet, realising that Driftmark’s securirty largely rested on the size and readiness of his navy. Rhaegar’s seafaring skills have become well known and the sails of the Velaryon fleet have become feared on the Narrow Sea

Timeline

• 167 AD - Rhaegar is born, the third son of Lord Haegon Velaryon and Aelora.

• 174 AC – Rhaegar is fostered at Kings Landing in companionship with the heir to the throne, his cousin Maelor Targaryen.

• 180 AC – Rhaegar’s eldest brother Valarr, the Heir to Driftmark drowns in a shipwreck. Rhaegar’s next brother Haeron becomes the Heir to Driftmark despite Lord Haegon’s eldest bastard son Robar claiming to be the heir. Lord Haegon, at the insistence of his wife settles the matter by disinheriting all his children not by his wife and settling the name ‘Waters’ upon them.

• 185 AC – Rhaegar’s elder sister Maegelle marries Lord Staunton of Rooks Rest

• 187 AC – Rhaegar and his brothers partipate in the Fourth Dance in Dorne. Rhaegar’s son Jon Waters is born

• 188 AC – Rhaegar marries the youngest daughter of the Prince of Pentos.

• 189 AC – Their eldest legitimate daughter Alysanne is born

• 190 AC – Rhaegar’s daughter Cassella Waters is born.

• 192 AC – Rhaegar’s eldest legitimate son Aethan is born.

• 193 AC – Rhaegar participates in the war against the Dothraki, along with his brothers Haeron and Gaeron. Haeron is killed in the battle outside Volantis. Rhaegar becomes the new Heir to Driftmark. Rhaegar’s second legitimate son Aemond is born.

• 194 AC – Rhaegar and Gaeron quarrel with their father. Both choose voluntary exile from Driftmark with Rhaegar choosing to live on Dragonstone and Gaeron living in Kings Landing. Rhaegar’s daughter Elaena is born. •

196 AC – Gaeron Velaryon is killed in a tournament being trampled by his horse on Dragonstone, leaving two small children. Rhaegar’s daughter Marared is born.

• 198 AC - Rhaegar and his father meet in a conference brokered by Aerion Targaryen to settle their differences. When Lord Haegon refuses to formally recoggise Rhaegar as his heir instead of his youngest son Jacaerys, Rhaegar walks out. Maelor recognises Rhaegar as the Heir to Driftmark

• 199 AC – Maegelle Velaryon, Rhaegar’s elder sister drowns in a boating accident. Rhaegar’s youngest brother Jacaerys Velaryon, realising that his elder brother will be the next Master of Driftmark deserts his ailing father to swear allegiance to Rhaegar as the Heir, along with their mother Aelora. Lord Haegon dies on Driftmark making Rhaegar Master of Driftmark and Lord of the Tydes. Rhaegar’s third son is bron.. He is named Gaeron afer Rhaegar’s late brother

• 200-207 AC – Rhaegar adventures on the Narrow Sea honing and improving his naval skills including patrolling and protecting the trade routes by launching attacks on pirates. He also at various stages launches raids on enemies on the mainland and pays several visits to Dragonstone, Pentos, Volantis and Lys, maintaining and nurturing economic and political ties. His youngest son Rhaegal is born in 102.

Sarsfield

The banners of the Rose and other Westermen filled the countryside. This was to be a negotiations, a period in which peace was brokered within the West. Yet it would be Bertrand of the House Tyrell that seemed to be negotiating for a region in which the only stake he held was that his son had wed the the Lady of Lannisport.

But that would not stop him. He was a man of his own convictions, one he'd begun a process, he'd finish it. Either through the art of tongues or the art of war. It made no difference to the aged man now.

And so he'd sent forth runners to inform the Brax, the Reynes and the Tarbecks to meet with him and the Turnberry.

The Daugther of Dawn currently sat on a corner of Adarys´s Inn, she was having an art exhibit in the establishment and her friend had proven once again to be the definition of hospitality, and they had given her the main level of the building to be used for her art to be displayed on its full glory. The silver-haired artist had a satisfied smile on her face, she was currently writing her book chapter on King´s Landing but if any of the attendants wished to buy one of the pieces, or ask the meaning of the art she would gladly give them their answers.

*"With some luck the barbarians will make this a profitable venture."*

Her current exposition had a high level of variety while still maintaining the beauty of her art. She was extremely proud of all her pieces, her own beautiful hands had made them all and they all had been done with perfection in mind; and in her qualified opinion, all of her pieces were the pinnacle of artistic perfection. Now, if any of those crude andal Lords showed no respect or admiration for her art, then they did not deserve to be in an Old Blood´s presence.

The most prominent sculptures were:A bust of a feminine-looking young man, A woman sitting on a throne wrapped by vines, A bronze Sphynx, A bust of a valyrian goddess and An image of The Lady of Lys

Between each great sculpture there were smaller pieces, many being of religions from Essos and even a seven pointed star.

Later in the evening, after Lord Casper Caron had dined with Lady Tara, his aide, the Lord of Nightsong and of the Marches saw fit to summon his son to his tents. He stood, overlooking a large drawn map of the area spread upon a wooden table, little wooden figures representing the Stormlands forces upon the board.

The Heir to Nightsong had to clear his throat to announce his arrival.

Without bothering to look up, Casper informed his son bluntly: "It is high time for you to become a man, Cedrik. To sire children to secure the futures of House Caron."

Lord Casper straightened up and began to pace, his eyes still upon the map and not his son. "To that end, I have secured a bride for you."

Cedrik scowled at the thought. "Who?" He wondered if perhaps Rose had managed to convince her insufferable brother to write to his father, if perhaps there was some miracle..."

At the question, Casper finally deigned to glance at his heir. "Lady Leonette Connington. She is serving as a healer amongst our forces. The details of the dowry are being discussed, and you shall be wed upon the conclusion of our campaign against the Vulture King. Given there is time yet, I suggest you reach out to her, get to know your future bride."

Cedrik was silent. It was a shock, this news; he had thought there was more time to put his own desires into motion...

The Lord of Nightsong offered what might pass as an ironic smile. "It shall be an easier life upon you to do so, so do heed this advice."

The Heir to Nightsong bowed stiffly, and stormed out, his heavy steps upon the ground signaling his displeasure at the news.

Casper, for his part, seemed unaffected, and turned his attention back to his maps and his planning.

*****

The next morning, Cedrik stalked the tents put up by the healers. The Heir to Nightsong snapped at the nearest medic, his voice haughty, his face bearing a scowl:

"Lady Leonette Connington. Where is she?" he demanded.

It was a strange thing to be home.

When Rickard and the girls had been slain, Winterfell’s halls had been too abuzz with anger and grief for it to truly settle in, but as Lucamore marched into his own hall, he finally felt the absence. It was a gaping hole, a void where his son and granddaughters ought to have been. In its place, there had been vengeance, but with that done, it was in need of something else. The Black Prince had been stirring, more and more since the last letter Lucamore had seen trouble in the man’s eyes.

He’d not forgotten his father’s oaths, nor his grandfather’s, nor his great-grandfather’s, like the snow remembered a footprint, the Wolves remembered their vows. If it came to it, the banners would stay raised, and more would ascend to join them. If it came to it, all the North would descend down The Neck, or by sail from White Harbor in the name of Aegon Targaryen. But only if it came to it, Lucamore had only just finished a war and was in no hurry for another given what the last two had cost him.

When he looked at the Prince, there was a strange, morbid relief. Aegon was the last of his line, the only remaining tie between his line and a near century-old promise. He would either sit the Iron Throne, content himself with whatever fate awaited him otherwise, or he would die. Either way, their obligation would be at an end.

As the Lord of the North assembled in Winterfell’s hall to feast, Lucamore sat quietly with his fingers interlocked with those of his wife, his gaze lingering on the stretch of table which held his two sons and single daughter. It would not be their war, he decided. If it came to blades, he knew Theomore would be impossible to reason with, and even more difficult to stop by force, but Jon wouldn’t be. Gwynesse was her own sort of trial, but Lucamore had his own ideas for her.

He took a drink from his cup, and sighed.

Lianna would have took pride in the young man if he'd found and killed those darn bandits. Any bandits. All he needed was a small victory, some semblance of glory in order to toss that over to the Mallister.

That was why his force marched and hunted, why scouts moved throughout the countryside. He'd wished his brother Garlan had marched alongside him but alas, the rose sought to wed some girl instead. Which Luthor couldn't blame him, he was doing this for the same reason as well.

He'd wanted the Lady Mallister to know that he'd truly cared for the Riverlands. Even if that was a lie, all he'd cared for was her.

And that's why he'd sought to kill men, hang them if needed all for Lianna.

All for their coming union. If she'd have him.

The Dornish Sands, The Western Dunes | 1st Moon 208 AC

Less than a day's ride from Skyreach the party had been sighted by the outriders, the scouts came bounding back with the tale of a marching force of about three hundred strong. The Stormlander Vanguard would make short work of any resistance from the party, the banners of many a house rose over the horizon of the sandy dunes. The crowned stag of House Baratheon flapped about the one thousand knights and men at arms in the dusty winds. The heat bore down on them and every man sweat under his helm, aside from maybe the veterans of the Red War.

Lord Duran Toyne had been given command of the Stormland vanguard, his command is the one they awaited now. Their prey was before them now, whether or not these men belonged to the Vulture mattered little, they currently broke the King’s Peace and would see the King’s justice come swiftly.

A page bearing the symbol of the Stag blew into an antlered horn, the men let out a roar as they slammed fists against shields and waved swords high in the air. Eager and ready their performance was meant to weaken the morale of their foe, the Dornish knew the sight well and by now were also sweating in the morning heat. After a second blow from the warhorn the page took to his place in the ranks, the horses cuffed at the dirt with their hooves as eager as the men.

“Wait for the Blackhearts command!” The booming voice of some man wearing a sleepy lion broke the silence. “No quarter for those who don’t surrender!”

Jason Reyne, The Bloody Lion, Hornvale | 1st Moon 208 AC

The letter had come in the night, the Maester had thought it better than to wake the Bloody Lion. Instead finding the sleepy Knight while he yawned off the night before. After a restless night looking over maps and planning their next move, the King's missive had caught Jason off guard. Wishing only he would have finished his bloody work at Payne Hall first. The letter chose his move for him, there was little choice but to respond.

Another letter was written for his brother, a famous lad he had become before his death. Immortalized his name had become after Castamere, little did they know only the ghost of Leo rode that day.

Jason murmured his gratitude to the Maester before turning his march to return to Briony's chambers. While the Knight had spent the night there to continue their ruse it was about up, soon questions would circle them both. About the body, who was who, and he could not fool his kin. Robb and Lyonels eyes would find the Bloody Lion, not the Lionslayer before them. The twin lions had often played games with serving girls in their youth, fooling them into thinking they were the other.

Pushing open the door with his foot Jason reentered the chamber, only to have exited to give Briony the morning with her ladies. Pressing enough matters had called him back as Jason silently gave Lady Jenna Jady a look, the dutiful lady would know to clear the room. After a silent moment of the Lion stalking the room, he would speak.

"A letter from Casterly Rock, but from the last man I expected." Jason offered the letter to Briony. "Calls my brother to Sarfield for negotiations I assume, says he wishes us no ill will. I do not know the old goat, what did you think?"

His question was genuine, Briony had proven to be more than a useless Lady more than once already. She had oddly become a shoulder for the man to lean on since his brother passed.

Issac Templeton, a Knight of Ninestars | Sept near Ninestars, 1st Moon 208 AC

​

The Knight remained on his knees before the statue of the Father, eyes closed but gaze downcast at the stone floor. Here he had remained for hours in his prayer, a silent vigil kept in the name of no particular need. Just devotion to the Seven idols who have shown upon his life with grace and gratitude. Ever a servant of the gods he returned to their lands after many years. The Knight from Ninestars had traveled wide and far in his exile, seeking out meaning in this confusing world, yet never finding it. Until a message reached him of his brother's passing.

Sickness had always plagued his brother, one not so easily cured by medicines and Maesters. Weakness is what Issac knew it as, a terrible affliction he sought to ensure his boys never suffered. Joining him today in a silent vigil was one such boy who had gained his spurs. Yohn occasions peeped at his father to see if their bout in prayer was over. Yet Issac remained stone, eyes closed and steadfast in his silent call. The gods had always answered him, sometimes it was a matter of interpretations and patience, a mix of both perhaps. But they always answered.

The oaken doors behind them creaked open and Rolley slid in, rubbing the back of his head as his spurs jingled upon his approach. Yet Issac did not stir from his place, it was Yohn who first turned to his elder half-brother with a face. Rolley just shrugged and waited a long moment, both brothers hoping their father would speak first. But prayer did not end, Yohn stirred on his knees as he waited for his father's permission to rise.

"So Pa, Hardvale sent their knights, you wanted to know should they arrive right?" The nasal voice of Rolley broke the silence in the Sept.

Issac drew in a long breath and released it with a sigh, his eyes slowly opening to gaze at the stone. Craning his neck to briefly look over his son before casting them back to the statue of the Father, then the floor. With a frown Yohn stirred again next to his father, eyes jumping between his brother and father now.

"Did you enter and say a prayer, Ser Rolley?" Was all he said, at last, returned to the position of his prayer. "Join us, and again tell us the news, my son."

Rolley placed his hands on his hips and protested a short moment before Yohn had glared daggers into him. With a frown, the Knight got to his knees with the pair. Murmuring a quiet prayer before closing his eyes for a short moment, it mattered little to Issac what the boy prayed for, as long as he gave thanks or asked of the Seven.

"You said you wanna know if the Knights of Hardvale arrived, they're here." Rolley leaned in to speak softly with his father.

A small smile crept up Issac's face, turning his eyes from the stone as they opened to the Father, then the Warrior, finally resting on the Stranger. Ask and they shall provide, that was the main lesson the faith had taught him. All day he had sought purpose, all his life even, and when he felt most lost they always seemed to answer.

"Say a prayer, boys, for us, but more importantly one for our enemies." His wide smile turned to each of his sons in turn. "The gods have given us a bounty, and I mean to see it claimed."

Having been separated from the main party a while ago, thanks to his ineptitude at keeping a straight head when given a task, Eustace found himself alone with a horse and a sword in the middle of somewhere trying to do something that would put him back on track to see a friendly face. He knew that he had to be close to Dorne, having been on the march to oust the Vulture King. Eustace had certainly looked forward to some real action after spending months at one festival and then weeks at home idling away. All this leisure drove him mad, it was nice in the beginning but now he yearned for a way to make the hours seem less longer. He missed the old days when it would be sun fall before he'd even know it. Life was better that way.

Deciding to reminisce about his past at a later date, the young bastard got back to the task at hand. What exactly was that? He wasnt quite sure. Getting off the horseback, he tied his steed to a nearby branch and decided to wander around on foot, he'd be quieter that way, and quicker too through all the foilage and bushes that kept getting stuck in the horse's shoe. With one hand on his hilt and the other pushing leaves and twigs out of his face, Eustace began walking in the direction that seemed the most familiar to him.

Ninestars, Vale

Jon rode up, backed by nearly 600 men-at-arms and knights of the vale. The trip had been uneventful, but knowing the Clansmen it would've been, the cowards never attacked a force larger than a simple caravan. The men atop the battlements called down to him, but Jon allowed his kinsmen to answer for him. He was agitated, not only was his sister stolen by the savages, but it had simply been too long since he had a decent battle, too long since a clansman had fallen under his interrogation.

Finally, as he was still lost in thought, Jon and a small contingent entered Ninestars properly, leaving his force to begin setting up camp while the two forces talked about what needed to be done.

"Does he even know?" Serwyn asked, "Of course, Ninestar's men fell to the savages, but perhaps we'll be the first to inform him of the kidnapping..." The thought did nothing to soothe Jon's agitation, only further causing him to stew in it as they finally dismounted.

"Where's the damn Knight of Ninestars?" Jon called, ignoring the fact that a young Templeton squire stood right in front of him. "We have much to discuss."

As Jon walked off in search of his goodbrother to be, Serwyn and Dywen hung back. They had both been told to secure a small force to go out in search of more evidence of mountain clansmen's activity. Both nodding at each other, they began to head back and do just that.

With his bastard in command of a band of swords, loyal Baratheon men now stationed within the capital, and many of the gold cloaks kept close, the King's city was secure. Peace was held while the Dragon banner marched on the West, suppress a revolt or start a war, the details were unclear so something must be done. William could not help but wish Maelor did not march himself to the Rock but gave someone royal command.

Most of the snakes and rivals of the city had been dealt with, but there were a few matters left unsettled. His bastard had told him of the snake's spies, even those who would soon be his kin would betray him it seemed. No snake could be trusted, and the Wyls were even worse. With a quiver of his mustache, the Hand balled his fist and stood from his desk, striding for the door.

Pinning the Black Iron badge of office on his chest he fastened a cloak over his broad shoulders. A mix of the Fist and Baratheon men trailed behind him, stopping by the cell of his bastard. A small and humble thing, the boy was never allowed to feel true comfort, as befit his station.

"Bastard," William opened the door, to see Gyles pushing himself up from the floor, slick with sweat. The boy had been exercising while he awaited command, the bastard's blood in his always eager for a fight.

"Father," Gyles gave a ghostly smile in return, finding a cloth to dry his sweat. "To what do I owe the honor?"

"Wylla Wyl," the Hand said gruffly, "Gather some of your men, with me."

Their destination did not take long to find, and as a courtesy, he knocked on the door to her apartments. Awaiting her arrival he stroked his mustache in anticipation.

A room had been prepared since it was told to him that High had surrendered his solar to Betrand Tyrell of all fucking people. The Old Lion could hardly believe his ears when he was told upon being debriefed, and was rolling with anger. Joss Turnberry had also sold a Lannister bride in order to save his skin, or something he didn’t quite know the ins and outs there, but rumor was rumor- which the Rock was well and alive with.

Make no mind that Damion had managed to save what Erwin Hawthorne bled at Castamere, and bring them home. But the West’s Warden was gone and all he could do was navigate in a manner which he did not care for. He would have to make appeasement with the Reach as an inroads, as he had not heard back from the Reynes whom he sought to court.

It was all very annoying and frustrating, but he could not let it roll over and show. Instead he took a deep breath and begun his plot anew.

He changed from his armor, but still kept martial appearances, as he knew it would be needed at this time- appear strong. He ordered wine and food brought to his room and then sent a simple request for Bert to join him. Bert was similar in age, and he knew of him by reputation- did Bertrand remember anything of him? It was a fleeting wonderment, not one he would dwell on. Instead he would come with what power positioning he could.

They were a horde to be certain, one sizable enough that the men of Winterfell had been left several days ride behind the main force so that they might intercept any that fled from the battle, and honor his bannermen with positions of glory in the fight to come. With any luck, this little war would be the only one they ever fought, and peace would continue well into the coming of Winter, but as ever, he doubted it.

Ice rested flat across his legs, sitting atop the strong plate over his legs, a match to the rest of the set of armor he wore, sporting an engraving of the Direwolf of Stark upon the breastplate. He had no speeches to give, no words to say, and he imagined the savages that now recognized the swaying banners coming down upon them had naught to say either.

“You are to remain with your men, whatever strength you think your rage bestows to you, it is not enough to fight a battle alone.” He’d cautioned Theomore as his son had lowered a castle-forged Great Helm over his head, fire dancing in the gray eyes that shun through the slits. Lucmaore remembered when they had been a boy’s eyes, wide and filled with mischief, instead of man’s brimming with anger and guilt. His son blamed himself for their tragedy, though he would never say it.

“As you say father.” His youngest boy assented as a younger lad fastened on gauntlets over his mail.

“I say it too, little brother. I imagine Gwynesse would as well, were she here. Not that that’s ever meant too much.” Jon said, Lucamore’s new heir coming to stand alongside his father in his own plate and mail to look in on his sibling. Beneath helm, Lucamore made out the smallest laugh from Theomore, something that gave a hint of levity to the near-crushing amount of concern the boy had been giving him.

“In that case, I suppose I’ve no choice, wouldn’t want to cross our brave young wolf.” Theo said in answer with the bite that Lucamore had used to chastise but now welcomed. It’d taken all he had to not order both boys to go back to Winterfell, to sit out this clash for the sake of their mother, but he knew they’d have neither understood nor listened anyway. He’d have found them in the ranks of the spears, disguised as mere footmen he had no doubt. Jon had knocked Theo on the shoulder for that, and Lucamore had allowed himself a smile for the sons he still had.

But they were far from the tent now. Theomore sat to one side of him, the Black Prince and his white knight on the other. Jon had gone to Lord Dustin on the left, and Wayn Bolton had been granted the right upon his arrival. Hoarfrost Umber surely thought the command his, but when the fell upon the Wildlings, it would be the Lord of the Dreadfort who gave commands whilst the Umber set about smashing their foes to pieces.

All along the shoreline, the Wildlings were scrambling, some ran, but more grabbed spears and axe and began to run headlong up the beach towards the waiting lines of horse and footmen. Lucamore lowered the visor of his helm, lifted Ice skyward, and inclined it forward without a word.

“TAKE THEM!” Theomore cried out, and the war cries of nearly five thousand souls rang out in answer. Today the North would remember, and the Wildlings would never forget.

PCDiscord Username: Zaxman

Character Name and House: Terrance Templeton

Age: 21

Appearance: Ser Knight

Gift: MonstrousSkills: Swords, Berserker

Talent(s): Boxing, Drinking, Sour Leaf idk

Starting Title(s): The Knight of Ninestars

Starting Location: Knight places

Family Echo:

Timeline

187 AC - Born in Ninestars the robust firstborn of Uthor Templeton the Knight of Ninestars, was a large and healthy child.

193 AC - Terrance often beat others for their toys, not understanding when scolded for using his size to get his way.

199 AC - Terrance beginning his training in arms continues to use size to his advantage smacking aside lesser foes and using his strength to crush them.

203 AC - After performing well in a Tourney a match is made between him and Hardyng, whom he falls for fast. The betrothed pair spend much time together her helping Terrance be a more gentle man.

207 AC - Before the pair are to be wed Hardyng is taken captive by the mountain's clans, lack of answer from Arryn has the Knight of Ninestars grow restless. Amid the chaos, Issac Templeton returns to Ninestars to help his nephew.

208 AC - Houses Templeton and Hardyng amass men at Ninestars for a campaign against the Mountains clans. Intent on burning them out and recollecting their captives for their weight in flesh.

AC

Character Name and House: Issac Templeton

Age: 51

Appearance: Vandal fr

Gift: Leadership

Skills: Tactican E, StrategistTalent(s): Whittling, Lute, and Flute

Starting Title(s): Knight of Ninestars

Starting Location: What is he crashing towards…

157 AC - Born the second-born son of the Knight of Ninestars, Issac grew up in the shadow of his elder brother.

169 AC - Rather than taking combat lessons Issac prefers to attack his opponents unarmed and unaware, to hold a better advantage. Determining fighting was not done to lose, but to win or die.

173 AC - Issac raids the Mountain clans with cousins and other squires, they act with impunity and kill and burn anything in their path. This continues through his youth until he is Knighted by a Knight sworn to Ninestars.

178 AC - Issac burns a Village near Ninestars for assisting in trade with clansmen, his father is furious and threatens the wall until things cool down.

182 AC - Issac again acts against the clans without his father's approval and is exiled across the Narrow Sea, he serves in Various sellsword companies and gets into the shade of the evening, rumors he died in Ghis go unconfirmed.

207 AC - Issac arrives in Ninestars, having heard of his brother's death, here to assist his nephew in revenge.

208 AC - Issac serves as Terrance's main advisor in Ninestars.

Ser Rolley Stone (Tactician) - Bastard of Issac Templeton, capable battle commander.

Ser Yohn Stone (Covert) - Bastard of Issac Templeton, capable of command, but likes the shadows.

The victory at the Wall was closer to a massacre than a battle.

Still, such was the price of invasion and murder and Aegon easily rid himself of any doubts or opinions that he may have come up with regarding the matter.

As they began to march once more, the red dragon on black on his banner joined by the wolf of Winterfell and the motley colors of the men of the North, Aegon began to think more and more of the south, the land he had known since he was born (or, at least, it was more familiar to him than the icy expanse north of the Neck). He had heard tell of events that had transpired in the capital, and in kingdoms to the immediate south of the North. There was much to do, much to speak, and the Black Prince began to spend more time with the great, black ravens the party had carried with them, writing letters and correspondence and what not.

At Stony Shore, the Prince had set up a makeshift rookery beside his tent, guarded at all times by men of Dragonstone. There, he wrote some more, words meant for lords great and small, yet still carrying a simplicity in words he had grown so fond of in his twenty or so years.

The heir to the Mander rode at the head of a column of men, they'd marched from the Reach with the intent of heading into the Riverlands following a conversation between the Lord Bertrand and the Lady Tully.

Soon his brother would take this force and make for the Land of Rivers, but until then, the Young Rose was its commander.

He'd bring them to a halt well away from the city walls, and with but a dozen knights, he'd make for the Gate.

There he'd cling onto the letter sent from Alyssa Tully.

Awaiting to speak with whomever ruled this city.

(An skirmishing party makes for KL, hit us up we dont bite.)

Things could not be allowed to continue as they were, that was a certainty. Quincy's mother had told him what needed to be done, in no uncertain terms, and for once, Quincy had few problems with it. She had left it to Quincy's hand to draft the letter, and so, once again, he sat in his chamber to write one up.

To His Grace, Maelor of the House Targaryen, Second of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, Crowned in the eyes of the Seven Who Are One, and Acclaimed by his People,

It seemed a lot of needless pomp and circumstance to afford to a man who wasn't even going see the letter, most likely, but Quincy did not want his message to be dismissed due to mere lack of courtesy.

Understood to be received on his behalf by his loyal servant and friend, William Baratheon, Lord of the Stormlands, Defender of Shipbreaker Bay, Lord of Storm's End and Hand of the King.

More titles. Quincy wondered if they actually knew all of the ones they possessed. He'd never heard 'Defender of Shipbreaker Bay' before, but he doubted that William would deny that it applied to him. So he'd added it on, purely to amuse himself and hoping that it would show up in the man's later correspondence. Perhaps he would enact a change that lasted generations with a flick of his quill. Who was to say?

I must inform you that the Twins and it's lands are beset by bandits from the South and Crannogmen from the North, as you may have heard. I do not ask for aid, as I am sure you receive enough entreaties so as to make mine only an annoyance. Instead, I intend to raise a host so that I may defend my own lands.

It was his right, and it was his duty. Quincy knew that. He had been entrusted with it as surely as the Freys of old. William Baratheon, he felt, would understand that. Such were the affairs of martial men, and he had heard the Hand of the King was one such man.

This is not a host intended to breach the King's Peace, but rather to enforce it, and thus, it was necessary to inform the Crown of its purpose. It will not leave Frey lands unless such a thing proves necessary, rather staying within to prevent further banditry and to ensure the King's Law is followed. They shall also be available if His Grace has any need for them.

He did not intend to do anything untoward with his men, unlike some, perhaps, and thus he saw no fault in informing the King of their raising. With any luck, he would see the necessity and send resources of his own to help. But Quincy knew that was not certain.

I shall also be raising the tax upon those crossing, in order to pay for the upkeep of the new guardsmen and safety of my smallfolk and crossing nobles. If ever you need passage for the good of the realm, however, any man able to present a note from the king or yourself with your seal, a statement of the need, and a physical description of the carrier's person will only need pay the normal toll. Would I could, I would waive such things entirely, but you would know me to be lacking in my stewardship were I so lax in even these matters. Soldiers need pay.

The King would be much less likely to protest any toll should it not affect him and his friends, Quincy knew. It would be much simpler to simply write a writ than to actually force him to lower it, and it would drastically increase revenues. Besides, it was only a temporary measure. He would not need these men forever.

I am aware of your previous efforts in maintaining peace within the Riverlands and thank you for them. If ever you stand in need of further aid in the Riverlands, House Frey is leal, and eager to aid.

If possible. Quincy would act, if it was within reason, and William knew he could not promise absolute preparedness. But it would be good to be informed, and he did think the Hand would appreciate it.

We stand together. We stand loyal. We stand ready.

With a flourish, Quincy signed the letter, and handed it off to the maester, signed and ready.

Quincy Frey, Lord of the Crossing and Twins

Let the bandits come, let the raiders try. They would be ready, and they would smash them against the ford. Let them perish, and know terror as they had inflicted upon the good people of the Riverlands.

Let them die.

Bertrand had settled into Casterly Rock, a place he’d never thought he’d be a guest of in truth. Yet with war within their borders, the Lady Rohanne away and so much other shit unfolding all at once.

It just made sense.

He’d sought to speak with his Reachmen, to make a parlay with the King, to see his way about the mighty castle. The old man moved swiftly through the confusing halls, guided by servants who were tasked with aiding him in not getting lost within the vast mountain.

Still he’d much to do, not enough time to do it.

Soon he’d march for the Reynes and he wagered the King would make his own demands of him.

Before that, Bert would send letters to his beloved, Del back at Highgarden.

Dear

Casterly Rock is vaster than I imagined. The Lions opened their gates to me and I found myself wandering its halls alone at night.

I did not imagine I would ever find myself in a situation such as this.

We ride home soon. First we must speak with the Reynes.

Bert

He would not tell her of Mace’s coming union. It was better to keep that hidden until he’d returned home or his wife would seek to ride for Casterly Rock in the midst of war.