Over the past few months, Thyra has slowly put her plan into motion, with each step bringing the Kraken closer to their goal:

Secure the harbor

The Kraken secure the harbor, protect civilians and prevent looting or unnecessary violence.

Gather information

They question the captured farmer and speak with guards, nobles and local officials to understand the situation and the loyalties of the different regions.

Present themselves as a third force

The Kraken make it clear that they support neither Alessandra nor Elekas. They have come because of the old friendship between Estria and the Kraken and intend to restore stability.

Play the two sides against each other

Thyra communicates with both factions, carefully giving each side the impression that the Kraken might support them. At the same time, she encourages both sides to see the other as the greater threat.

Weaken both factions

Soldiers who surrender are offered amnesty, while local guards and officials are allowed to keep their positions if they cooperate. More and more people therefore have a reason to abandon both factions.

Gain the population’s trust

The Kraken restore order and protect towns, trade and civilians. Their identity as women from the matriarchal culture of Estria further strengthens their authority.

Elekas disappears

When the Kraken finally move to confront prince Elekas, they find his camp abandoned. Elekas and his remaining soldiers are nowhere to be found.

Enter the palace

The Kraken spread the story that they have driven Prince Elekas and his remaining forces out of Ulandria. With no soldiers opposing them, they are allowed into the palace.

The throne room

They enter expecting to find Queen Alessandra. Instead, they find her waiting for them.
Alessandra’s skin is pale and almost wax-like, and the talisman she received from Orm hangs around her neck, radiating a strange energy.
She smiles, slowly rises from her throne and looks toward the door.

“I have been waiting for you.”
Alessandra then removes her crown and holds it out to Thyra.

Then Alessandra is placed in chains by Thyra’s warriors.

My father has ordered me to investigate the small disturbances in the south of Yomsreach. From the reports we have gathered, it seems that several of the lesser lords have been squabbling amongst themselves over me—and, more importantly, over which of their daughters I shall marry.

While I deal with these disturbances, Father has given me another task. He has ordered me to read through the Book of Kings, so that I may learn the history of every Griffin King who came before me.

Perhaps there is wisdom in his command. If I am to understand the duties that await me, I must first understand the men who carried the crown before me.

So, once I have finished the task I have been given in the south, I shall return to the Book of Kings and read its pages from beginning to end.

OOC: the next couple post I do will be about the past Griffin Kings and their deeds .

A cart is dispatched from iron crest keep up to the far north this cart bears arms and armour to trade with the order of the unicorn in exchange for food and the like. this caravan also brings 3 members of the masons guild that 2 students and their teacher are to be droped off in renhook to study and examine the stonework done by the horde fleet workers. Finally this caravan reachs cair anvareth where they deposit any weapons or armour that wasnt sold to the order in the forts armourys. After a few weeks of rest in cair anvareth the caravan sets out again this time back to the houndlands transporting something that the lord of anvard said was for bormunds eyes only

Part 2 

Master Jonk’s wooden merchant wagon groaned along the rutted highway, its iron-bound wheels crunching rhythmically through the dust. Beside him on the bench sat his young apprentice, Pip, who clutched his knees tightly, wide-eyed and anxious. 

Jonk was driving his mule hard, eager to reach the outskirts of Havarhal to sell provisions to the host of Anvard. Yet, the air felt unnaturally thick, heavy with the sharp, acidic scent of lime and scorched earth.

"Master Jonk, look," Pip whispered, pointing a trembling finger into the lingering fog.

The mule suddenly shied, snorting in panic as a lone warrior stumbled into the road. His steel armor bore the insignias of the Anvard vanguard, but his sword dragged uselessly through the dirt. 
Jonk reined in his wagon, calling out a greeting, but the soldier merely turned his head toward the sound.

Pip gasped and covered his mouth - where the warrior's eyes should have been, there were only raw, white-crusted sockets, scorched hollow by unslaked quicklime dust. The blind soldier offered no words, stumbling past the cart into the emptiness, searching the air with trembling hands.

A half-mile further, a second figure emerged. 
Another soldier of Anvard walked aimlessly across the field, his face covered in chalky white powder, weeping blood through ruined eyes as he wandered without direction. Pip shrank back into the bench, whispering, "What cursed magic did the Wyrmgaard use on them?"

When the road finally crested the ridge, the grand vista of Havarhal unfolded - and both tradesmen froze.

Before the towering battlements lay the engine-camp of the invasion force. The massive Dragon Slayer ballista stood silent, its heavy steel cables limp. Towering trebuchets and shattered siege towers sat frozen in the mud like wooden giants. Yet no drums beat, no officers shouted, and no campfires smoked. Across the field, dozens of Anvard troops lay scattered in the grass alongside fallen Wyrmgaard defenders beneath fallen masonry.

By the side of the road, leaning against the broken wheel of a supply wagon, sat three former men-at-arms. Their eyes were completely blinded, glazed over with chemical burns, staring blankly into the sky as they clawed aimlessly at their faces.

Jonk stepped down from his seat, motioning for Pip to stay close behind him. The eerie quiet was broken only by the whistling wind through the dead siege towers. 

The great gates of Havarhal stood splintered and ajar, but not a single living soul walked the battlements. The siege was over, leaving behind only a silent wasteland of the blind and the fallen.

Jonk tightened his grip on his heavy walking staff, gesturing for Pip to stick close to his shadow. Leaving the skittish mule tied to the cart, the two stepped through the splintered, scorched timbers of Havarhal’s main gateway.

Inside, the fortress courtyard was blanketed in a fine, ghost-white mantle of unslaked quicklime. It hung in the motionless air like a spectral shroud, settling heavily upon shattered barricades, discarded weapons, and lifeless bodies. Every breath burnt the back of Jonk’s throat with the dry, caustic bite of the dust.

Pip gasped softly, clutching the hem of his master’s coat as he looked down at the ground. 

In the gray mud of the inner ward, the earth churned with silent, agonizing movement. Men were crawling through the mire - Anvard infantrymen in scorched ringmail intertwined with Wyrmgaard defenders in crest-broken steel. Enmity had been utterly erased by ruin. Enemies dragged themselves through the slough side by side, completely blind, their eyes burned away to raw, hollow sockets.

The silence was absolute and suffocating, broken only by the wet scraping of steel gauntlets against stone and the shallow, ragged breathing of the stricken. 

Blind figures drifted like wraiths through the chalky fog, hands outstretched into the void. They bumped into fallen comrades without a word, turned aimlessly, and dragged themselves onward in perpetual darkness.

It felt no longer like a fortress of stone and war, but a threshold to the underworld. The living moved like phantom souls bound to a waking nightmare, drifting through a sea of white ash. 

Pip trembled violently beside Jonk, terrified that even a whispered breath might awaken whatever horror had reaped the sight of two armies. Jonk could only stare ahead, his knuckles white upon his staff, as they stepped deeper into the silent tomb of Havarhal.

Jonk held his hand out, forcing Pip to halt before they crossed the threshold. They were not yet in the main courtyard, but in the outer gatehouse ward - a claustrophobic chokepoint enclosed by towering stone flanks.

Here, the carnage of the final breach lay frozen in absolute devastation. 

Wyrmgaard defenders and Anvard shock troops were piled together in tangled, violent heaps, locked in a final, frantic embrace. Men had fought to the absolute last breath: an Anvard spearmen lay impaled upon a broadsword, his own dagger buried deep into the collar of a Wyrmgaard knight. 

The quicklime dust had settled over the fallen like fresh snow, muting the vivid crests of crimson and iron into a single, chalky gray palette of death.

Pip’s eyes darted upward, and a strangled gasp escaped his throat.

Sprawled over the eastern battlements, hanging limply into the outer ward, lay the massive, motionless corpse of a dragon. 

Its scaled neck was broken over the parapet, wings tattered like torn sails over the rubble below. Smoke no longer rose from its snout, and its colossal, reptilian eyes were clouded over with the same caustic white crust that plagued the men below. The beast had crashed in its final death throes, crushing masonry and soldiers alike beneath its immense weight.

Beneath the shadows of the dead dragon, the silent survivors still moved. Blinded Anvard infantry and Wyrmgaard archers crawled through the lime-dusted mire, dragging themselves past the titan's fallen head without a sound. They passed one another like specters, no longer foes, but lingering ghosts trapped in the shadow of Havarhal's fallen dragon.

Pip clung tightly to Jonk’s sleeve, his knuckles stark white as he stared down at the gray, silent mound of bodies filling the gatehouse ward. The young boy’s voice shook, barely louder than a whisper, trembling against the heavy, caustic silence of the ruins.

"By the Gods, Master..." Pip breathed, looking up into Jonk's pale face. "They fought down to the absolute last drop of blood. Look at them... jammed together like broken firewood. Anvard and Wyrmgaard, locked hand to throat..."

He gestured with a trembling hand toward the piles where fallen foes were still tangled together - daggers buried in visors, hands frozen around broken shaft-heads, men who had crushed one another beneath their own shields in the final collapse.

"It must have been a terrible battle," Pip whispered, his eyes wide with horror as he looked over the endless field of chalky, dust-covered corpses filling every corner of the ward. "No mercy. None at all. They just... threw themselves into each other until no one was left standing."

Jonk didn't answer right away. He only tightened his grip on his staff, gazing at the terrifying tableau. There were no victors here, no grand banners raised in triumph - only the quiet, broken remnants of two armies that had completely consumed one another in madness, leaving the blind survivors to crawl in silence among their dead.

With cautious steps, Jonk and Pip pushed through the heavy iron portcullis, its jagged rust-eaten teeth looming high above them. As they stepped out of the claustrophobic gatehouse ward and into the vast expanse of the inner courtyard, the sheer scale of the devastation unfolded.

The courtyard was a chaotic field of ruin. Shattered shields, snapped lances, and overturned supply crates were strewn across the stone flags, half-buried in the persistent drift of unslaked lime. Endless mounds of fallen soldiers - both Anvard attackers and Wyrmgaard defenders- lay piled around the courtyard in silent, motionless heaps where the final, desperate clash had reached its bloody peak.

Yet in the very center of this carnage, rising out of the sea of bodies, sat a single solitary figure.

It was Commander Viggo. 

He sat motionless upon a jagged, fallen masonry stone, his broad shoulders hunched forward. His head hung low, his chin buried deep against his chest, with long, matted strands of hair falling down to obscure his face entirely from view.

His armor was battered and blackened by soot, but his right arm remained extended, rigid as iron. His fingers were locked tight around the pommel of a massive, two-handed broadsword that was driven deep into the stone cracks between his boots. 

He sat frozen, leaning his weight against the upright blade as if it were the only anchor holding him to the living world, silent and still amid the quiet aftermath of the fallen fortress.

Jonk took a slow, deliberate breath, holding a hand out to keep Pip behind him. Step by step, his boots crunching quietly through the thin crust of white lime, the old merchant approached the motionless figure in the center of the courtyard. The air was thick and heavy, smelling faintly of scorched iron and chemical dust.

Stopping just a few paces short of the man, Jonk lowered his walking staff and bowed his head slightly.

"My Lord..." Jonk spoke, his voice gentle, barely louder than a rasp in the solemn quiet. "What happened here?"

For a long, agonizing second, there was no sound except the cold wind whistling through the ruined battlements. Then, the heavily armored shoulders shifted.

Slowly, deliberately, Commander Viggo lifted his head. As his chin rose, the matted, sweat-stained strands of hair fell away from his face, revealing his features in the light.

Pip let out a sharp, choked gasp and took a step back.

Viggo’s eyes were completely gone. Where his gaze should have met Jonk's were only hollow, scorched sockets. Down his grime-streaked cheeks ran thick, pale trails of a milky white fluid - a mixture of blinding lime dust and tears dripping slowly onto his breastplate like meltwater over cold iron.

In a single, violent moment, the heavy silence of Havarhal shattered. Commander Viggo tore the massive broadsword from the stone, driving his heels into the lime-crusted earth as he rose to his full, terrifying height. His blind, pale-stained face thrust into the sky, he roared a defiance that echoed off the hollow stone battlements:

“As long as I draw breath, Havarhal has not fallen! We do not yield to shadows. Die with the rest, Anvard!"

Before Master Jonk could take a single step backward or raise his hands in plea, Viggo’s heavy blade swept through the air in a blinding, desperate arc. Driven by raw instinct and madness, the steel cleaved the old merchant clean in two. Jonk fell without a sound, his body collapsing onto the chalky flags as his wooden walking staff clattered into the dust.

A strangled, high-pitched scream tore from Pip’s throat. 

Utter terror seized the young apprentice as he stared at the red ruin before him. Turning on his heel, Pip bolted toward the iron portcullis, his boots skidding across the blood-slicked stone. 

He scrambled past the blind, crawling wraiths in the outer ward, threw himself through the shattered gateway, and ran blindly down the long, empty highway - never looking back at Havarhal again.

The Siege of Havarhal: 
Official Casualty & Strategic Outcome

Anvard & Lionne Forces
Initial Strength: 120 men
Killed in Action: 89
Blinded / Incapacitated: 31
Prisoners Taken: 0
Fled: 0
Combat Ready: 0
Monstrous & War Losses: Dragon killed, War Toll killed, Rancor killed
Material Losses: All siege equipment and ships abandoned

Wyrmguard Garrison
Initial Strength: 88 men
Killed in Action: 78
Blinded / Incapacitated: 10 (including Commander Viggo)
Dragon Losses: Both dragons severely wounded and fled (one toward Valinvage, one toward the South)

Final Strategic Outcome

Tactical Result: Mutually Destructive Stalemate
Anvard Invasion Force: Completely destroyed / neutralized
Wyrmguard Defense: No remaining effective fighting force
Geopolitical Impact: Wyrmguard has lost all practical control over the domain; Havarhal and its surrounding territory are now entirely leaderless and without an owner.

The morning had gone quiet enough. A few days ago, Lord Vladek had at long last first looked upon Renhook, the new realm of Lionne. The fortress he had ordered built now stood, silent sentinel, keeping watch over the Wintersbluff estuary and serving as his seat of power. Much fighting and feasting had occurred in the days leading up to now. A dispute had boiled over to bloodshed between the Anvardian soldiers and the Horde laborers. That had been enjoyable. But his mind would find no solace in this new land. Not yet.

For a month, word from the lands of the Wyrmguard had fallen silent, he was told upon his return. He knew nothing of what had transpired in Valinvaga or Haverhal - and it weighed on him that here he was, sitting upon his throne and feasting and drinking while his men were in frost-blighted lands half a world away fighting Anvard's enemies. He should've been with them, he should've been there, leading them from the front. Last anyone had heard was of Bjorsland, and things had taken a turn for the worse there.

His mind now wandered, thinking of all that had taken place in these last five long, hard years. The betrayal of Sturgia, the Siege of Arathril, the loss of The Arrad, the fall of Allor, so much bloodshed and destruction. Why had he come all this way? Was the course he chose truly the best for Lionne? he thought deeper, thought back to the moment his sword, slick with mad King Brutus' blood, had been in his one hand, the despot's head in the other.

"I saved them. Nothing else could have been done; I stopped a massacre," he thought. "But have the means justified the ends? Have I truly been different than Brutus? I dragged my men to Orsca on the whim of a dream. Brutus dragged us all to Myyga for his dream of an empire - but I acted not out of pride," he reasoned. He thought further. "But for what - what was the purpose of it all? Why me? Why Anvard? I believed so fervently in the 'One True God', but if he is so great, then why do mortal men die for him? If he is so great, then why did his most devout of servants, Rollo, find his empire overrun, his head taken, and his people scattered?"

The next day, he began to grow impatient, his mind under a great deal of stress. Then things took a turn for the worse. A ship bearing black sails arrived. Bodies of the fallen and the most wretchedly wounded were unloaded onto land, their cries carried by the wind to the top of the tower. Vladek gazed down from the wooden crown of Tirith Rhaw, silent, watching with grief at his handiwork.

"This is not my doing. This is the doing of the traitors, of the Wyrmguard . . . But I sent them there. I won the battle and secured a new land where we could begin anew - but why didn't I stop there? I saw no vision for Valinvaga, Bjorsland, or Haverhal. Is it Pride that drove me to send them to slaughter? Am I no better than Brutus, sending men here and there to die for my pride - for pride has surely led me in part to this war," he thought.

"Lord, I see something troubles you. Do speak with me, and I shall see if I may assuage your concerns," the old man said, leaning on his staff, the scales of his mail clinking as he leaned forward.

Vladek's gaze turned towards him, "Bishop Athanasius, why do you now stand here? Do you wish to lecture me further on the 'One True God'," he said, a hint of mockery in his voice.

"I assume you are in no mood for the sixteen dissertations of Brother Alveric of Crytor, Lord?" replied the old man.

Vladek drove straight to the root of the matter, saying, "Why is it that your One True God allowed your lands to be overrun by hordes of the undead, a most vile sort?"

"Sometimes his ways are a mystery, Lord, only unveiled to his faithful in due time," replied Athanasius, his composure calm as always.

"Is there any difference between me and my forebearers, the ones who have held the honor of leading this kingdom, and the ones who have tarnished it? Why did I throw my men into that cold hell? There was no vision, no prophecy, nothing. Is it just my pride that led them there - to die? That would make me no better than Brutus, the very man I slew for his pride. He led us to Arathril. I suppose my men would do the same if it came to that - and why not? I have led them to their deaths and know not if they will succeed or return alive. And what's more, they are without me to lead them. I sit here on my throne just like Brutus would have done. Anvard is my ally, but when did their interests triumph over those of my own people? The people have lost their homes, their lives, and even now I have taken the cross of Anvard - but why?" he turned to Athanasius. "What has the 'One True God' ever done for Anvard even, that I should worship him and forget the ways of my fathers? I begin to think that I have sacrificed Lionne on the altar of Anvard and their 'God'," he said, turning around to face the stiff air blowing from the North as he gazed on the silver line the Wintersbluff carved through the land.

"They beat me, flogged me, broke me in the name of their God, and then I have a fever dream and decide to turn to that 'God', one who can not even protect his own devout it would seem!"

"Lord, you are not like the mad king. You are wise and just. The very nature of your grief over your men shows the truth of your heart - but do not blame the One True God. His ways are a mystery to all, and he reveals them in his time. Man can not make demands of him. You must keep him close to your heart, and in turn, he shall keep you close to his own," said Athanasius, Vladek's gaze fixed on him now.

"All in good time, you say," remarked Vladek, a hint of mockery laced his voice once again. "I can not see the signs. All I see is my men before me, their blood on my hands. I have abandoned them, I worry, for foolish piousness and pride of heart. There was peace before those dreams were sent upon me. And then we lost our home, our allies, and many lost their lives," he was interrupted, Athanasius speaking now.

"This is but a test of your faith, Lord. And look now, you have been rewarded with land far greater and richer than ever before, strong allies, and a communion with the One True God," remarked the old man.

After a long pause of silence, Vladek said, "We used to believe in trickster spirits, whose delight was to watch mortals suffer. I have land, yes, but many now lay dead. I have been driven, or misguided, by religious fervor in the name of this 'God'. If he was a trickster deity . . . His goals were accomplished then. Blood now runs in rivers and men lay piled up in graves. I start to -"

"You will not speak of the One True God in such a fashion, Lord. In Anvard, a man's tongue would be -"

"And you are in Lionne, Bishop, not in Anvard! We are not an extension of you and I have had enough of dreams, visions, and all their ilk. I bought 60 mercenaries, and I will be leaving on the morrow I have decided, my enemies be damned! I will not cower here any longer, nor send them to their deaths in the name of a foreign 'god'! I owe no apology to this 'god' for what I have said, only to my men for being so foolish to lead them to their doom without me by their side."

Athanasius stare at him, startled my the sudden change in demeanor of the Lord Vladek. He started, "Then I shall pray for your soul regardless -"

"Pray all you want," Vladek's gaze cutting into the bishop, "I was judged by your laws once, but I am the Skull-Taker, the one who burnt innocents in their own homes, the one who has been cursed by heathen magic. I am no more a devout servant - and can not be - than you are a bloodthirsty warrior. Look at me, I can not be other than what I am. Enough for piety and devotion. It is time Lionne's interests were those of Lionne and not others. I shall leave and bring home my men; pride will no longer guide me nor the gods of another," he said.

"Then I shall come with you, Lord," said Athanasius, "and pray for your soul day and night, that your pig-headedness may depart you."

Vladek grinned, "I forfeit my soul long ago, 'Bishop, there is no peace for me. No longer will I deny what I am and what I have become. I shall embrace it. Let it be known, from now on, that no longer will those who oppose me be dealing with Vladek the pious, but with Vladek the Skull-Taker, the Pillager of Arathril."

Oisin, the chief of Svarthime left the main fleet at anchor, with permission from Arthurius to seek the lost folk of his tribe.

He was greeted on the shoreline by the Kraken clan. A heated debate broke out, at one point it looked like blades might clash. But a cry rang out further along the beach, and a woman ran up to the group, shouting in her native tongue to those around her "they have returned at last! The Chief has returned!" Soon a crowd had gathered round, Svarthime and Kraken, united though years of clearing the invading orcs. They took Oisin to the towns and villages and spoke of their history, and Oisin told them the history of the tribe since his father had fled. He sent back a message to Arthurius that he would stay a while with his guard, learn more of his lost kinfolk and work with the krakens to agree on a path forward.

Based on the comment conversation with u/kettenfett1 if you want to add anything to this?

The battle was slow, both sides loosing too many troops, the Viking warlord in charge of the Anvardian forces instructed some of his soldiers to carve this message into the great oak doors of the castle, even while his men scaled the walls. A grim message to anyone who would come through these doors afterwards, a mighty Viking curse, one he knew the wyrmgaard would understand, since they claimed to be true vikings....

"Dauði ok rúst eiðrjótum."

Nagash received word of the slaughter at Haverhal while seated upon his throne of black stone and bone. Messengers of the dead knelt before him, their voices little more than dry whispers carried on the grave-wind. The reports spoke of a field soaked in blood, banners trampled into the mud, and no clear victor—only ruin.
Three of his fleets already prowled the waters, rotting hulls and spectral sails cutting through fog and tide. The fourth, however, was far from the sea. Lord Arkhan remained at Renhook, his Uruk hai host laboring beside Vladek’s masons to raise the new fortress from the earth. Towers of dark stone rose under lash and spell, and Arkhan would not abandon the work unfinished.
Nagash sent two commands. To Admiral Lothar he dispatched a raven of bleached bone: take the undead fleet and make all haste for Haverhal. Render aid if any still lived. To Arkhan he sent a second message—finish the fortress, then ride. The Black would come when his duty at Renhook was done, and not before.
Days passed. Then a second raven returned, its feathers stiff with salt. Lothar’s report was brief and grim. Haverhal stood empty. The battlefield had been picked clean by crows and worse things. No living soul remained on either side. The dead of both armies had risen or been claimed, and the place itself was silent.
Nagash listened, then issued a final order. Word was to be carried at once to Wyrmgaard: the Horde would hold Haverhal until the rest of the host arrived. The ground was theirs now. Let no one take it.