Fandom ♛ Blackfyre : A Game Of Thrones RP

[TheFool]

300 AC
SUMMER




​

 

[TheFool]

Maekar Blackfyre
Heir




​

He tasted copper whilst the crisp wind hit against him. A hand pushing him forward from behind. “Further, my prince.” The hand’s owner said. It belonged to a sorry lad. A boy caught up in this war more than Maekar was. A boy who didn’t have a choice but to fight -
Though I guess the same could be said for me.
He struggled to take another step.
What choice did I have?
He fell. The knee guards of his armour sliding into wet muck. The boy behind him tried to help him up. Failed. And shouted. Shouted for him to stand. Stand and fight. Fight and die. The heir to The Seven Kingdoms did as told - using his sword to help him up. He dug it into the ground and pushed. His body lifting.
Though his spirit remained somber.

He was standing.
If you could call it that. Maekar looked at the boy who was helping him. A boy with a plump face and the sigil of a lion on his chest. His straw coloured hair was knotted in dirt. “Who are you?” He asked as he slumped back. Smacking into an old oak tree.
The boy’s eyes had both a look of shock and terror -
“It’s me, my prince. Erryk Lannister. Your… squire.”
Maekar blinked at the boy,
“Yes. Of course…”
“We need to get you out. You’re not fit.” The Lannister boy tried to lay his hand, once again, upon him. The Prince swatted it away and shook his head.
“I must turn back. I… I am not a coward.”
“Your gr-”
“I will not abandon men who… who…”
His chest was pumping. In. Out. In. His breath half caught in his throat. He used his free hand - the hand that less than an hour ago held his shield - to caress his head. To wipe it of sweat.
“My prince.” Erryk tried to warn.
He ignored the boy however and continued to rid his forehead of perspiration. When he was finished he looked at his hand and found it wet and red. Am I bleeding? He did not know.
Erryk tried to take him again -
“Get off me, f-fucker.” Maekar spat. Pushing past the lad and stumbling back towards the direction they were coming from. Back towards the battle.

Erryk shouted after him. Pleading with him, almost. Begging for him to come back. To not leave him alone. Maekar ignored him. Shambling through a thick wood. The noise of war slowly but surely getting louder. He drug his sword along the ground - not holding it upright.
The blade carved a slit in the mud beneath him.
I must fight.
Though his body ached. Determination raged.
I have to.
He stopped by a large shrub covered in red and black berries. He took a breath. That of which spiraled into a cough. His fist beat against his chest plate - hoping for it to stop.
It did.
Just as his eyes set themselves upon the battlefield before him. The fighting was still fierce. Soldier clashed against soldier. Steel panged against steel. There were cries and roars and screams. None of them phased him. His whole life had led up to this moment. Earlier on in the battle he had spotted him. The red dragon.
I have to put my sword through him.
Maekar thought,
I have to.
He used his free hand to grab out the string and trinket wrapped around his neck. He clutched it tight. The necklace was handcrafted. Made of intertwining strands of coloured wool and yarn. He let out a soft laugh. The Prince was surprised he had not lost it yet.
Maybe its power was real. Maybe it was saving him from death.

“Wear this and those before you shall tremble.
Your mind and body will be strong.
Your will will be legendary.
With this pendant -
You will slay him.
You will end the dragon.”

​

That was what she told him.
Am I not too old to be believing in fairytales? He thought to himself. Still clutching the trinket. He shook his head. Maekar knew it was not simple fable. Maekar knew that it would help him kill Aegon Targaryen.

He had to.

As he steadied himself and took another breath, this time without interruption, he walked out of the shrub.

He walked across the field.
His sword at the ready. His first foe was a young man in the salmon-coloured armour of House Bolton. The flayed man painted neatly upon his shoulder plate. The fought. Maekar poorly parrying his moves. The Prince upped the quickness of his movement and soon killed him.
The second foe wore armour that was likely once white. Now it was stained in dried black blood. His chest plate held a reddened eagle and two tridents.
Their blades scraped against one anothers.
Clink.
Clank.
Clink.
Until someone else’s sword pumped through the eagle’s neck. Blood spraying onto Maekar. The sword pulled out and the eagle’s corpse dropped to the dirt. The man who had intervened wore the nude woman of Pinkmaiden. “Are you alright, your grace?” He shouted.
Maekar nodded.
His eyes studying the sigil. He thought of the women he had had. He thought of the last one. As he pushed into her. Would he get to feel her touch again?
“Come - we need to find that Targaryen bastard.” The soldier of House Piper spoke. They slipped down a small hill. The two of them fighting back against anyone who dared attack them. Maekar smirked thinking about the soldier’s words -
That Targaryen bastard...
He found it funny how things had changed.

The smell was the worst part of it, Maekar thought. It stank like puke and rot and yet the air was oddly fresh. His nostrils were invaded by more smells than they’d ever before. He looked around and swung quickly. Killing a man who had ran up to him. The man wore the sigil of House Targaryen.
Or is it House Blackfyre?
Maekar knelt down and spat on his fingers. He then rubbed at the corpse’s armour. Trying to wipe off the black. Was it fabric? Was it dirt? Did I slay a man who fights for me? Fights for my father? Panic set. His heart thumped. He stood back up and looked around.
Men all over.
Men wearing black covered in blood. Men wearing red covered in muck. In the moment, he realised that it was simply dragons fighting dragons. Regardless of colour.
“Prince Maekar!”
He looked.
Pinkmaiden waved him over. Maekar took a step forward. His free hand going to grab his necklace again. For guidance. For strength. For the chance that this was all a dream. A nightmare. Surely he was at home in King’s Landing. In his bed - surrounded by his family.
By his father.
Aerion.
Vaegor.
Arlan.
And Vaella. Vaella. Dragon fighting dragon. He looked around while Pinkmaiden roared at him. His fingers tightened their hold on his necklace. His pendant. He thought of how it made him feel. He thought of how she complimented him on it when he came to her room.
His stomach churned.
He felt the vomit rise in his throat.
“Maekar!”
Pinkmaiden screamed once more. The Prince looked in his direction again. Pinkmaiden was now being swarmed. By black dragons and by red ones. By Northmen and South.

“Who gave it to you?”

​

She said softly.
And he told her it was made for him. Made to help him end the war.

“Try it on.”
“No, I can’t. Really.”
“Come on, take off your dress. I’ll place it around your neck.”
“Maekar…”
“Try it - I said.”

​

He blinked. Once. Twice. Before the little breakfast he had in his stomach left through his lips. He couldn’t bare it. The thought.
A man ran at him and he slayed him.
Then another.
He had killed so many already. He was never a good fighter but this wasn’t fair. These boys were green. Shy of sixteen. He let go of the pendant -
Just as a soldier wearing the colours of House Stark came up from behind. Swinging an axe wildly. Maekar tried to fend it off but the axe connected with the fingers on his free hand. He yelped as he watched three of them slice off. Falling to the ground.
Blood frantically dripping after them. As if it was a chase.
Maekar cried and kicked the axe-wielder away. Stumbling towards where he thought Pinkmaiden was. Only he wasn’t sure if that was the right direction.
Was he to my right?
My left?
He did not know. A young boy fell in front of him. His neck cut right open. Gargling on his own making. Maekar tried to step over him - the soldier with the axe on his tail but his foot got caught. The Prince fell to the ground. His jaw bashing into guts and muck and shit.
“Die, bastard.” The soldier with the axe said as he swung down.
Maekar closed his eyes.
Accepting death.

“Please, Maekar, I-”
“Shut it.”
“Makar, please…”
“Get down.”

​

He saw his siblings. He saw his girl. He saw the one who birthed him and the one who made him the necklace. He lay on the ground cradling his bloody hand. Thinking that it was all a lie. Everything she told him. It was he who was to die.
Only death did not come. Instead, Maekar heard a gurgle. His eyes opened and he saw the axe wielding soldier dead.
Erryk Lannister standing over his body.
“Please, my prince. We must… go.” He said softly. An arrow sticking out of the top of his right arm.
He extended his left.
Maekar was lifted up. Once again.

When he regained his footing and reaffirmed his grip on his sword, he hid his injured hand under his armpit. Erryk gestured for him to follow -
Follow through the carnage. To some safe place. But Maekar knew he couldn’t. Erryk had granted him a second chance at life. The necklace had as well. He had to find the red dragon. He had to find Aegon and strike him down. Like the pretender boy he was.
But first -
Two men came at him. Erryk helped him fend them off. Once they were dealt with, Maekar struck down someone wearing unrecognisable colours.
“My prince that was-”
Erryk tried to tell.
Maekar ignored him and lunged at another soldier. Not paying attention to what was on his armour. Erryk was white with fright.
He saw red and he swung his sword.
He saw black and he did the same.
What if the red is blood?
What if the black is muck?
His vision blurred. His body slumped. His grip on his sword tightened. He stepped over a puddle of gore and a rock painted red. A limb or two blocked his path. A body without a head flailed around on the grass. He didn't care. He was focused on moving further and further into the carnage.
Into the heart of the battle.
“My prince!”
A cry wailed.
Maekar looked behind him to see Erryk getting a spear shoved through his heart. The Prince’s own heart winced but he couldn’t do anything about it. The boy was dead. The one who mattered was still alive.


And that’s when he saw him.


His silver hair was wet and dirtied. His eyes were a piercing purple. Like mine. It was time. Time to finally end this. “Aegon!”
Maekar screeched at the top of his lungs. His throat stinging as he did. He still tasted both blood and vomit. He approached the usurper.
Shambling across the plain. His eyes darting every direction.
He saw men killing men.
Faces he knew.
Faces he didn’t.
Faces he might have had they not have been made so grotesque.
“Aegon!”
He repeated.
This time catching the Targaryen’s attention.

“Don’t you think… it’s time w-we end this?” He asked. Trying to stand tall. Proper. Aegon looked as if he’d been put through the seventh hell as well. Though he did not issue a response. He simply readied his sword. Maekar attempted to do the same. They locked eyes. Soldiers were around them - fighting. Though Maekar saw that some of the men simply stood.
Stood and watched. Knowing not to cut in.
This had been coming for twenty years.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Maekar asked. A trickle of blood sliding down his chin. He still held his injured hand under his armpit. He looked at it for a second and saw that the arm was covered in red. He shook his head and brought his stare back to Aegon.
“Come on… bastard.” Maekar spat.
He thought of his father. He thought of grandmother. His siblings. The pendant maker. The court. The company. His girl. His men. Pinkmaiden. Erryk. He wanted to say sorry to them.
In case he failed.
“Hit me - bastard.” He shot.
Aegon only stared him down. With what looked like tears in his eyes. They circled one another. Slowly shuffling around each other.
He had to make a choice.
Do I strike first?
He stared at the false King.
His fingers squeezing against his sword’s hilt. He felt the necklace weigh heavy on his chest. It was giving him the strength. It was giving him the will.
But he had to make a choice...

He let out a roar. Like a dying beast that was trying to get in one last hit. A wail so loud that several soldiers stopped to stare.
Dragon fighting dragon.
He lunged.
Choice made.
His vision blurred. His body ached. His sword hit against Aegon’s. Aegon pushed him back. He stumbled. Aegon came up from behind but Maekar parried to the left. Sliding into a pile of corpses. Their swords struck. And scraped. The metal singing. A deadly serenade. Aegon pushed. Maekar tried pushing back. Until Maekar’s sword slipped from his hand.
There was a moment of calm. Maekar grabbed his pendant and ripped it from its knot. He threw it onto the ground and let out another unintelligible roar.
He ran at Aegon.
Only for Aegon to plunge his sword into his stomach. Maekar felt the cold metal touch against his insides. His face close up against Aegon’s. The boy was smaller than he was. They looked at each other. Maekar unable to move. He opened his mouth and a bloody laugh came out.
“You-”
His body slid further into Aegon’s blade.
He looked down and saw the blood. All the red blood. Before everything went black.

​

 

[Optimus Princeps]

Spoiler

Naemidon Blackfyre

King

2 Months Later...​

Darkness enveloped the night, the last stray embers of the day a bitter orange on the distant horizon, being smothered by the encroaching shades of purple cast by the Moon’s glare. The air was chilling, despite the Summer’s zenith not far behind them, a silence prevailing all over the land, from Dorne to the Neck. Most present here, however, in the city that both made and killed kings. Gathered below in anxious silence, lowborn and lordlings alike waited, the soft grasses of the tourney grounds now thoroughly tread upon and ruined for weeks to come. Among the crowd, mourners were ever present, notably those closer to the front of the assembly. Tears leaked from the eyes of soft maiden’s and wrinkled old men with no distinction, cold stares that embodied an emptiness more common among men of standings than their fairer counterparts. As the last lights fled from the king’s vision, the glowering torches in the Red Keep an ugly grimace on the horizon, he could think of only one phrase.

‘This isn’t right.’

Repeated so often in the dark crevices of his mind, more so in the past weeks than any other period of his life, Naemidon’s empty stare fell down upon the mourners. His perch atop the scaffolding, garbed in the colors of House Blackfyre and principle allies such as Martell and Hightower, hiding just how skeleton of a structure they stood upon. How rushed this ceremony was. How unprepared Naemidon and his chief advisers were for such an outcome.

‘This isn’t right.’ He mind reeled, struggling to tether itself to reality. It was wrong, it had to be. ‘I shouldn’t be here - not as I am.’

Despite pleading with the Seven, offering his own life in exchange for an end to this nightmare, blissful morning did not come. Only the bitter remembrance of tragedy unparalleled in his life long accustom to misery.

Maekar Blackfyre was dead.

His son.

His first son.

Even now, the ebbing river of emotions fought desperately to overwhelm his stoic demeanor. To unleash his wrath, his pure anger at the world for robbing his child from him, to tear himself apart for being such a fool to demand Maekar to go on a trivial quest. And for what? To prove himself? To who, did Naemidon, believe that his son needed to prove himself to? A flood of grief and self-hatred washed over King Blackfyre, barely contained by Naemidon’s presence of mind. He would not descend into tears, not until he was given the privacy of his quarters and away from the leeches who hid between loyal subjects, spying the Blackfyre King for the first sign of weakness.

No. That wasn’t him. He’d be strong, for himself and Maekar. Especially Maekar.

Before Naemidon recognized it, the ceremony began. Kinvara rose from her seat not far from her king, the sorceress speaking on behalf of King Blackfyre I, for he did not trust his voice in these tumultuous moments. The eulogy began and his mind wandered, eyes on the back of the sorceress, then to the pedestal positioned just at her rear. And at his son, Maekar.

The hollow eyes of his child brought a frightful shiver through his spine. When his own father passed, Naemidon found it difficult to meet the empty sockets of the would-be King. Attempting to do so with Maekar was daunting, almost impossible, yet like a sailor seduced by the siren’s false promises, he could not tear away from his boy.

Memories of happy eyes, a laughing child exploring the Red Keep for the first time, and then learning that he’d be an older brother all flashed through his mind. Maekar’s first romance, brief though it were, and the wine father and son shared as Naemidon worked Maekar through the finer details of love and life. In the span of seconds - or was it minutes?- Naemidon saw his boy grow from an infant in Essos to a young man, proud and strong. Intelligent beyond his years and courageous.

And now, all that remained of Maekar Blackfyre, was this skull.

Naemidon forced his gaze away as his heart thrumped painfully. Numbly, he noticed that Kinvara was no longer standing at the front of the stands. Lord Viserys Butterwell replaced her, giving his own short account of the boy. This would go on for some time, with Prince Martell and Durran Baratheon each waiting behind Lord Viserys. The sorceress took a seat between Naemidon and Queen Daenys, giving Blackfyre a reassuring smile. One that he fought against himself to reciprocate, keeping himself emotionally muted, lest his internal dam shatter.

Time distorted itself in Blackfyre’s mind. He did not hear the words any of his advisors spoke, lost in deep concentration, with gentle proddings from the sorceress or the nearby Mervyn keeping him sharp to any abrupt changes in the ceremony.

‘This isn’t right.’ He reminded himself, seeing Mervyn Costayne stride forward, each step causing the lumber underneath him to groan in audible protest. The Captain-General of the Golden Company was accompanied by two senior officers, names Naemidon would be hard pressed to forget, though his mind could not focus on them. But what they carried between themselves. A cauldron of boiling gold, the noxious odor it exuded forever burned into the memory of the Blackfyre King.

His trusted right hand man for the better part of his life stood behind the skull of Naemidon’s son, taking the cauldron in hand. A dour expression on the mercenaries’ face, Mervyn tipped the molten gold onto his sons’ face, bathing the remains in a display most would consider gaudy. A breath Naemidon hadn’t realized he was holding relinquished itself from his lungs as the liquid settled and Mervyn released the cauldron to the grounds below him. A simple gesture, and Naemidon understood that it was now his turn.

Rising from his place amongst the Small Council and Royal Family, Naemidon’s imposing form became the object of attention, past even the shining skull in the darkness of the evening. Wind struck the king, fluttering the cape he wore and allowing the dark leather to trail behind him like wings on long extinct beasts. Black, he wore, from the tunic that adorned his chest to the trousers around his ankles. The only color visible was the ruby red outline, distinguishing the single headed black dragon of his core from the otherwise identical darkness of his dress.

A spear was in the king’s hands before he knew it, one of the senior officers handing it off. Fingers wrapped tightly around the shaft as he examined the task ahead of him. The skull lay still, the simmering heat wafting off in mutual indifference to the significance of the ceremony. “Thank you.” Blackfyre said mutely as he passed by Mervyn Costayne. Careful to avoid the cooling gold, Naemidon gripped the back of the skull and adjusted it, thrusting the spear through the base until he heard an audible crack. Stuck upon the spear, Naemidon brought it higher into the sky, at proper length, and gazed down upon the silent crowd in indifference.

‘This shouldn’t of been your fate.’ Naemidon felt cracks forming inside of him as the ceremony was complete. Now, like Captain-Generals and Blackfyre’s past, Maekar would be immortalized in their family. Years before his time.

1 ½ Hours Later
The Red Keep​

It hadn’t taken long for the assembly of mourners and well wishers to disperse. Many, of lesser standings, simply slinked back into the city, where a brothel of higher standings could be a place to congregate. Others might of had manse’ to return to, undoubtedly everyone was hoping to end up in the King’s retinue and arrive at the Red Keep. Although the crowd outside was massive, barely two hundred slinked past the studious guards. Nobles, knights, and foreigners who meant well, all sat in the great hall of the Red Keep. As was custom, those of lower standings were further from the king’s own table, whereas the great lords and his closest advisers sat at a table just below his and the Blackfyre family.

Braziers of a deep azure shade burned behind the king’s table, the blue flames practically a staple of the man himself, fed by the sorceress’ bizzare tricks and tended to with great care by the alchemist guild. Beyond that, candles and the occasional torch - not nearly as common - dotted the walls and tables to illuminate the dark sky. Well past regular supper for most, Blackfyre and his servants were quick to keep the hall accommodating for the many guests. Food and drink was passed down each table, a brave soul taking a swig of from a horn or tasting the lamb provided at the king’s personal expense, but the majority seemed comfortable to wait. Wait until they finally heard their host give permission for the feast to begin.

For his part, Naemidon appeared indifferent after a brief lapse in his mask of resolute neutrality. Seen by few, and most who knew to keep themselves quiet, Naemidon had placed the punctured skull of his son, crowned now, at the base of the Iron Throne. He demanded tears not fall, but his orders were ignored for precious few seconds. Controlled now, the Blackfyre King sat at the head of the hall, to his left was his eldest child and Daenys Targaryen, with Arlan Blackfyre to his right. Vaegor Blackfyre and Queen Lannister similarly sat further down on Daenys’ side of the table with Aerion Blackfyre and Malora Hightower just two seats from the King himself, only Stormboy between them. Daemon Pyke finally was at the furthest edge of the table, next to Malora.

A goblet filled with wine in his right hand, his face returned to an unnatural passiveness, Naemidon slowly lifted himself to his feet, wooden chair screeching in protest as it scraped against red brick flooring. The hall grew quiet, two hundred pairs of eyes - more, if he included the serving staff - trained on the conquering king. Words choked in his mouth, protracting the silence. ’

Clearing his throat, Naemidon persevered. “Lords, Ladies, Ser’s.” He started, a voice barely tinged with an accent, emasculating enunciating every noise to crawl from his throat, filled the vast space. “Friends and fellow soldiers, I am forever thankful for your attendance. You have shared my grief already this night as we bid Prince Maekar farewell..” The words themselves were easy to speak, but difficult to hear, especially in his own voice. He cringed and continued. “Now, it is only right we celebrate the life he lived. Share with me the happiness he brought to my family and the realm.” His lips inched upward in what could be considered a smile and drank from his goblet, staining his lips in butterwine. A noise - one that Naemidon interpreted as “hear hear” sounded from his many guests as they raised their glasses and followed him in this toast. The feast had begun, and with it, spirits lifted. He saw a few men already in an animated discussion at the far edges of the room, a blushing maiden from House. . . Bracken, was it?

Yet despite their merriment, Naemidon fell back into his seat, clutching the goblet as he swirled the liquids around the lower rim. ‘This isn’t right. My son. . My wife, they should be here with me.’

 

[Hypnos]

Walton Stark​

The weight of the coffin felt heavy upon his shoulders, the stark wooden box pulling down upon the beleaguered Lord of Winterfell as a drizzle of calm summer snow fell from above, coating the casket’s inhabitant with a delicate sheet of sleet and ice, and giving the illusion of the white hair and long beard of a man not taken before his time. It was said that dignity was the first virtue that was lost upon a man’s passing, for the Gods were not kind to what remained of their children’s mortal vessels, but such could not be said regarding the late Lord of Riverrun. In life he had been but a husk, the shadow of a man who had passed twenty years prior, short and balding with a rabbit’s courage, and a nervous demeanor that only grew more pronounced as the years passed him by. But now? Lying face up in the colours of his house, an unswung sword resting gently between his fingers? He looked almost strong. Regal. Perhaps had this been the Lord Tully that Walt knew, his body would currently be drifting down the headwaters of the Trident back in his native Riverlands instead of waiting to be cast into the pale imitation that was the Northern White Knife.

‘He will not survive his first winter in the North,’ Lord Stark recalled his father musing, when Lord Tully had first arrived at the gates of Winterfell. He had been younger then, they all had, and filled with the faux-courage of a man dreaming of glory and revenge upon his enemies. That energy had quickly been drained. At it turned out, Lord Stark’s prophecy had proved to be a false one, for it had been two long decades and the summer’s gentle breeze than had carried Lord Tully from this mortal plane. That, and a healthy dose of cowardice. It took a profound amount of selfishness to take all of the gifts that House Stark had offered; food, shelter, a chance, and cast them down into the snow. In Lord Tully’s case, that had been a literal action, as the man had thrown himself from the Walls of Winterfell when the last of his hope had finally waned. It was a miracle that he had lasted this long.

Walt would not spare him any grief. Not that Tully would have wanted him to. Death was not uncommon in Winterfell these days, and the men who had marched North as young soldiers were now old and decrepit. Certainly in spirit if not in body. Otto Tully had been one of the last of the old-guard in the Riverlands to survive, after Lord Mallister had been cut down in the Battle of Seagard merely two months prior. Friends they had not been, but Tully’s presence had been a reliability upon which Walt could depend, and his passing marked the end of an era. Perhaps new blood would reinvigorate the tired North, Lord Stark contemplated. He was an optimist, despite the dour faces of many of his subjects, and he truly believed that it was his destiny to march south and restore what was taken, either that or die in the attempt, though at least it would be a more dignified end than having your corpse shoveled out of three feet of snow from below one of Winterfell’s balconies.

As Walt made steady progress along the river bank, unable to stop for fear of being left behind by his fellow casket bearers, his eye turned to those around him, watching with impatient eyes. To his wife glaring silently from beneath a canopy of dull pink, to his vassals covered from head to toe in warm fur many of whom were fresh from a bloody campaign in the South, to his King who watched on with muted interest, to Tully’s daughter, the legacy of a broken man. It was queer that such a humble little man as Lord Tully would deserve such an honourable funeral, whose coffin had been ultimately more valuable than his person, but times of hardship made strange bedfellows.

Six men were tasked with lowering Lord Tully into his final resting place. Riverlords most of them, and Tully’s oldest companions, with Lord Stark standing in paramount position to the front and right of the man, whilst a Karstark of the Karhold brought up the rear, standing in for the Lord of Raventree Hall, whose diminutive stature prevented him from bearing the honour himself, lest they risk the little man being crushed below the weight of his former liege.

Progress towards the river was slow, yet steady, allowing time for mourning before they brought the man before the river’s edge, taking a few minutes to silently bicker amongst themselves regarding to best way to hoist the dead man into the makeshift log raft which had been prepared only in the early hours of the morning when it became apparent that Lord Tully was no longer with them.

‘He was a good man, and I wish him swift travels into the father’s embrace.’ Walt snorted at the words of a Whent, though he didn’t say a word as they lowered Tully’s corpse, a Septon murmuring some sort of blessing as the raft was finally cast out into the White Knife, Tully’s body bobbing contentedly along the mild current. The Riverlords had odd traditions Lord Stark pondered, not a sentiment that he was expressing for the first time. In the North they respected their dead by burying them in a place of prestige where they would be remembered forever more. In the Riverlands it seemed that the deceased were best left forgotten down a stream. If the Gods were good, what remained of Tully would be dragged into the same place as all his ancestors, for all rivers led to the sea. If they were not, some fisherman would be lucky enough to catch his trout pre-charred. The morbid thought made Walt smile.

‘I hope you find yourself more useful to your Gods than you have been to me, Tully.’ the Stark muttered under his breath. ‘Though your presence will be missed.’ He took the bow that was offered to him, squinting in the general direction of Tully’s floating body, now a few meters away from the shore. ‘Goodbye old man.’ He drew a single arrow, drenching it for a moment in hot oil before notching it to the bow and pulling back, allowing the arrow to dangle above a brazier until the flames started to catch.

Lord Stark was not the greatest of marksman, not since a wildling raven had claimed half his sight many years ago, and it would take two attempts to ablaze the Lord of Riverrun’s little boat, but catch the fire did, and soon the old trout was alight, bobbing slowly out of sight as the flames cleansed the problems of a sad little man.

Walt did not spend much time thinking about it. Instead, he turned his back upon the scene, turning to the crowd without saying a word and moving towards the figure of his wife, placing an arm around her as the two watched the landscape together. The last swim of an old fish.

 

[Mion]

Aerion Blackfyre
The Red Keep
​

A gentle smile. One that tried to say that everything was going to be ok. A kind expression that betrayed the heart of it's bearer. A bitter pang of guilt lingered in the chest of the young prince. Maekar...

He had loved his brother with all of his heart. Maekar was not only his brother but a close and beloved friend after all, a guiding figure that the others could follow. And now he was gone. Of course his death had been known for some time, however that did not lessen the impact that it had. Not at all.

Aerion though back to when he first saw his brother's body. I could barely bring myself to look at him... Forgive me Maekar.

It had hardly been any easier earlier. Even when it was just the skull, it was still his brother... Once more he had to hold back his tears. At least until he was alone. Then he would not need to force himself to look on such things. To dwell on such things. His memories of Maekar were nothing but wonderful. He did not wish for them to be tainted. The Maekar he would keep alive in his heart would be as he was in life. Not as the corpse, nor the golden skull.

Despite being at a feast, Aerion felt isolate in a world of his own. To his left he looked and saw his elder brother Arlan, and his father the King. To his right he looked to see his mother Queen Malora and Pyke. He looked down to see his untouched food, and his cup full of water.

"I know it's hard on you Aerion. But you must start eating, once you have taken a few bites I am sure you will have found your appetite again." His mother whispered words on encouragement to him.

A tired sigh. He raised a small carving of lamb that had been picked up by his fork and sampled it hesitantly. No mother, I don't think I will.

"H-how has father been?" He whispered back to his mother in a concerned voice. King Naemidon had not been the same since Maekar's death. Nothing had...

Queen Malora simply shook her head in response. She had told him before that only time could fix something like this but... It pained him to see his family hurting so. He knew there was nothing he could do but provide his support to them. As they were to him.

He turned to his elder brother. Arlan Blackfyre, the man who now should be heir as Maekar was if it had not been for that...

"Arlan... How are you doing? Have you tasted the lamb yet? I think it is rather nice myself." A well intentioned yet awkward open to a conversation. But if he dwelled on what to say then there would be nothing he could say in the end. Tonight was probably going to be home to many of more awkward lines such as this.

High Moon

 

[Hypnos]

Daenys Targaryen​

Funerals were meant to be a sombre affair, but such feelings were not replicated in the person of Daenys Targaryen, whose uncharacteristically beaming smile stood out amongst the many mourners like a wolf within a flock of sheep. Prince Maekar had been kind to her in life, polite, honest and always willing to cooperate in ways his father had not, upon one occasion, not long after the death of Daena Blackfyre, the young man had even dared to call her mother, though a few harsh words, and a stare of a thousand daggers soon turned him from that rocky path. It was with a heavy heart therefore that Daenys revelled in the poor boy’s death. Celebrating upon what should have been the blackest day of the realm.

Bright colours adorned her dress, golds, greens and yellows, a noticeable change considering that a grieving shade of black comprised much of her regular wardrobe, as much a tribute to her house as it was to those many people who had been lost to her over the years. Odd stares were not uncommon, and she could almost feel the gaze of a hundred angry courtiers. A nest of vultures, come to pick at the corpse of the Prince as they had once done to her father. A lesser woman might have buckled under such unwelcome attention, but Daenys Targaryen had long ago learned to bury any feeling of shame she might have felt, for it would be all worth it just to watch him squirm. To inflict even a fraction of the pain and grief that he had inflicted upon her.

Her eyes fell upon Naemidon Blackfyre with more hunger than they had ever expressed for any meal, the swings of her knife against the tender lamb that occupied her plate becoming increasingly more erratic. ‘Look at him writhe’ she thought to herself in quiet satisfaction. ‘Look at him mourn. Look at him cry.’ The man had taken everything from her, her home, her family, even her name when she had been forced into his marriage bed, and not once had he shown any sign of remorse. He had uttered not so much as a single word of regret, of repentance for the years of torture and torment that he had put her through, for the long waking nights she had spent sleepless because of his face. But now he was broken. Now he was weak. Maekar Blackfyre had not been a bad man, but to Daenys Targaryen his death felt like a great blessing from the Seven above.

‘That’s your grandfather’s chair.’ Daenys whispered, dropping her cutlery to run her hand through the pale silver hair of her daughter Vaella who sat just to her right, the only good thing to ever squirt out of Naemidon Blackfyre’s diminutive ballsack. ‘When I was little he used to rest me upon his lap, and we would eat together for all the high lords to see. He said I was too young to wield my own knife, so he would cut my meat for me, and let me eat it off his own plate.’ It was a story which she had told a thousand times, though the details were ever shifting, as memories grew more distant, and the past began to slowly fade from her mind. It was a sad fate to admit to, but Daenys could no longer remember her father’s voice. How long had it been? Twenty years? Two decades of playing wife to the black serpent that called itself a dragon, and she could no longer recall what a real King sounded like, What a real man sounded like.

‘He was a real King, your grandfather, and a parent too. Because that was a family.’ Was her daughter even listening, or was she simply talking to herself? Years of solitude had worn away at her etiquette. ‘Not like this. Not like this sham where that man presides over his children like a magister’s court.’ After twenty years she would still not call him husband. He was close, sitting just to Vaella’s right, and looking over the room like a sad, little toad. Perhaps he could hear her. Perhaps that’s what Daenys wanted. She had always told herself that she was beyond caring what he thought about her, but she knew that it wasn’t true. She craved his attention almost like an addict craved Milk of the Poppy, for he had occupied such a large part of her life for so long, it felt almost maddening to know that he barely thought of her at all. To know that even now, upon his lowest moment, she had barely even made an impact.

‘But you’re better than him. When you have children you’ll be better than him.’ She ran a hand across her daughter’s cheek, was she worrying her? Her daughter needed to be strong in the coming months. Strong to take up the mantle she desperately needed to take.

Naemidon Blackfyre had done nothing but take from Daenys her entire life. Twenty years ago he had given her a daughter and stolen her entire life. But now he was going to give something back. A contest of heirs. A chance. A chance for her daughter. A chance for her.

ailurophile

 

[Elucid]

.

[class=fyuri11wrapper] max-width:600px; height:600px; margin:auto; [/class] [class=fyuri11imagebox] width:100%; height:500px; background:url('https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/a00fe5c4-4e90-4987-8f63-6ff768f28850/dh6slm-6adc3f06-f257-4471-ba4b-ff22ab64d300.png?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcL2EwMGZlNWM0LTRlOTAtNDk4Ny04ZjYzLTZmZjc2OGYyODg1MFwvZGg2c2xtLTZhZGMzZjA2LWYyNTctNDQ3MS1iYTRiLWZmMjJhYjY0ZDMwMC5wbmcifV1dLCJhdWQiOlsidXJuOnNlcnZpY2U6ZmlsZS5kb3dubG9hZCJdfQ.1kcJMkWrg8IFbzLghM3fZtmKL2iji3QcAygHTLSlxVk') no-repeat; [/class] [class=fyuri11overlayparent] display: flex; align-items: center; justify-content: center; max-width:600px; height:500px; [/class] [class=fyuri11overlay] display: flex; width:500px; height:200px; margin:auto; background-color:rgba(0,0,0, 0.8); color:rgb(68, 4, 4); [/class] [class=fyuri11header] display: flex; align-items: center; justify-content: center; flex-flow: column nowrap; text-align:center; width:100%; font-family: 'Sigmar One', Impact; font-size:30px; color:#fff; [/class] [class=fyuri11parent] opacity:0.0; position:relative; margin-top:-500px; width:100%; height:500px; background:#000; transition: all 0.5s ease; [/class] [class name=fyuri11parent state=hover] opacity:1.0; width:calc(100% - 20px); height:480px; background:rgb(71, 0, 0); padding:10px; [/class] [class=fyuri11content] width:calc (100% - 20px); height:460px; background-color:#fff; overflow:auto; padding:10px; text-align:justify; color:#313131; [/class] [class=fyuri11credit] max-width:400px; margin:auto; opacity:0.3; font-size:10px; [/class]
[div class=fyuri11wrapper][div class=fyuri11imagebox][div class=fyuri11overlayparent][div class=fyuri11overlay][div class=fyuri11header]Ser Tristan Tyrell

Act I: Come out ye black and tans!

[/div]

[/div][/div][/div][div class=fyuri11parent][div class=fyuri11content]

Mouth of the mander​

"We've got ourselves a great catch today eh boy!?" barked the drunken reachman, his clothes a tattered mess of mud and soil. The results of a night of fighting and revelry.
The boy, barely twelve years of age, did not reply until the raggedy fishing boat had been safely stowed on land and the catch accounted for. The man, who looked much older than he really was, had by then slouched onto the sand bed to enjoy the remaining half of some nondescript beverage he'd carried with him. "Aye uncle, it was a good catch, but what does it matter? you'll give half of it away to those Dornish bastards." he said finally, his voice revealing no anger almost as if it were a simple matter of fact. "Just yesterday, 'he continued, "one of em stabbed Laroy the grocer's boy for standing up to the brigands and demanding that they return the goods they'd stolen".

"And, what do ya wan't me to do kid? go out into the square and challenge them to a duel?" the man replied, taking another big swig from his bottle, laughing to himself.
"I want you, to do something! anything! just not this, just not what you did as they humiliated you in your own home!" There were tears flowing from the boy's eyes, he'd promised himself that he'd be strong when confronting his uncle, that he wouldn't cry but promises can be a fickle thing, especially for a child.

"You littl-" the man screamed as he lunged towards the boy, the rest of his sentence a drunken stupor of words. The child was too quick however, and his uncle could barely even walk, let alone find the strength to chase him all the way back into town. So, the boy ran, as fast and far as his feet could take him, while his uncle bellowed insults from behind.

"I should've left you rot like my whore sister did! I should've never taken you in, you hear me boy!"

It didn't take long to return to the village, most of the folks around there were fishermen by profession, so the boats were kept at a nearby distance. There was something a bit different about the place however, the people were all missing. Usually around this time there'd be wives exchanging stories and vendors hawking their wares about town, but there was none of that today, just an eerie science. As he made his way through a number of the thatched houses towards the village center he'd finally see people, a bunch of em, perhaps the entire town, gathered around in a huddle looking at something. For a moment, he'd forget everything that had just happened and let curiosity take over, being rather tiny for his age the boy was able to just about wiggle through the crowed to get up in front. What he saw there made him freeze, a fear taking hold of his entire body.

There, scattered across the ground were the bodies of three Dornishmen, the very ones that had murdered little Laroy a fortnight prior, the very men who along with the rest of their patrol became dreaded in the village. Here they lay now, powerless in a pool of their own blood, with white roses placed in the chinks of their armor. One of the Dornishmen, who was stark naked and thus with no armor to bear was cut crossway on the torso and filled with a bouquet of the same white roses, gleaming with the taint of blood.

Old Town​

The denizens of the aptly named, ancient city of Old Town were subject to a rude awakening that morning, as the frantic beating of bells by the town watch rose even those on battle isle tending to the Hightower household. The reasons for such commotion? The arrival of a procession, not just any procession, one that marked death and destruction. Headed by what seemed to be the body of a knight on an ornate bed of white roses surrounded by seven silent sisters praying to each form of the maker and offering sacrifice, behind them rode carts overflowing with roses which on closer inspection concealed the rotting bodies of at least a dozen Dornishmen who had been horribly maimed, hopefully after the fact of their deaths.

The walls of the city were closed to the procession until some devout few, afraid of what might befall them if they aimed to stall the work of the stranger, forced the issue, opening the gates without the ascent of their commander. Children clung to their mothers as the procession made its way to the Starry Sept, some of the hastily packed bodies falling out of the carts they came in, as the wheels ran over the cobbled roads. Grown men averted their eyes when the sisters passed their way, but none of them were doubtful about whom that body belonged, for each of the Dornishmen blazoned the colors of house Uller's fiery sigil. The body, was undoubtedly that of Ser Ulwyck Uller, one of the many nobles of Dorne who liked to sojourn in the Reach to the dread and dismay of the smallfolk. There were even cheers in certain pockets of the crowd, but those who knew better feared what was to come. This was a message, to whom and from who no one knew but a message nonetheless, a message that celebrated the murder of a member of a Dornish house, a message that spoke only one word - War.

The White Knights​

Up and down the Mander men tell tales of an army, an army of the faithful, an army of Reachmen who fight to free it from the clutches of the mongrel dogs from beyond Westeros, they say it numbers ten thousand men and that it is lead by a man like no other. Tall, handsome and clad in all white, the physical embodiment of a true knight of the seven. Some say he must be one of the sons of Hugor of the Hill reborn, the faithful have gone so far as to call him the warrior himself. Whatever the truth of these claims, the deaths of numerous Dornish patrols and the flowery circumstances of these deaths is certain to make the Dornish rest uneasy for a while, in wonder of the identity of this kinght that blazons his shield with a white rose on a blue field.


[/div]

​

[/div]

​

[/div]

[div class=fyuri11credit]code/design by @Fyuri[/div]​

 

[ailurophile]

Princess Vaella Blackfyre
​

The funeral had been a painful but necessary experience, a time to grieve and to reflect. For Vaella, it was the reflection that had been the most difficult. The regret and guilt which twisted the young woman's stomach into knots had been festering for years, and had flared up painfully since Maekar's death. In life, he had been kind to her, and she had loved him, and yet always felt she was in his shadow, especially in regards to their father. In death, a small, shameful part of her had wondered if just maybe, with Maekar gone, that affection would pass to Vaella herself.

But no. Now, he's immortalised forever.
Father's martyr.

Sometimes she sickened herself.

As was customary, Vaella had donned black for the funeral, in stark contrast to her mother. In her mother's image, however, she had slipped a bright red shawl around her narrow shoulders, and woven flowers into the slim braids that littered her otherwise loose hair. A fitting tribute, she felt-- she remembered once, as young children, how Maekar had directed her to these particular flowers over the ones she'd originally intended to pluck for a bouquet for her mother, because her first choices' stems were barbed with thorns. The red shawl was for her family.

Red and black.

~

She didn't feel like eating.

With a sigh, Vaella raised her cup to her lips and took a tentative sip, resisting the involuntary wrinkle of her nose. Not even on her twenty-first nameday had she finally grown to like the taste of wine. Usually, she wouldn't touch it, but she'd hoped it'd take the edge off of the tension of the day. It appeared, unfortunately, that one had to actually drink the wine for that to be effective. Not for the first time that evening, she cast a glance to her father. Though seated right beside her, the two had barely spoken all evening, or all day, for that matter.

And she didn't know what to say to him.
Didn't know what she could say that would make anything better.

Her beloved mother suddenly provided the distraction Vaella desperately needed and she set her cup down gingerly on the table, twisting in her seat to give her mother her full attention. Her back to her father. It didn't matter that she'd heard these stories before, didn't matter that she could probably recite her mother's family memories if she chose to try, because they were important. She stole a glance over her shoulder to the chair her father now sat in and tried to picture her grandfather.

It was difficult to see the image of a man she'd never know.

Carefully, she edged around the subject of her own father, who was sitting perilously close. At such an extravagant affair as this, she could not afford to speak ill of anyone present, let alone her father, her King. Yet there was an earnest look painted across her face, one that seemed to understand her mother's words, rather than just cling onto them. A woman was listening now, not a child with visions of the day everything would magically turn out right if she persevered and remained resilient. She reached to touch her mother's hand, the one which had stroked her hair, and gripped it gently.

"I plan to be a good mother. I have learned from the best." A smile. "My children will be proud of who they are. They'll know their glorious ancestors, and their sacrifices. " A pause, a correction. "Maekar, for example. We must honor those we have lost."

As she released her mother's hand, she leant back a little and her exposed back brushed against the soft material of her red shawl, now draped across the back of the chair.

Red, for blood.
Red, for her family.

Hypnos

 

[Hypnos]

Daenys Targaryen​

The Queen felt a warmth pass through her as her daughter took her hand into her own, a smile forming upon her lips, genuine as opposed to the faux-grin that celebrated the death of the King’s eldest son. Vaella was everything to her. All she had left after the harsh tides of the passing years had weathered away at and eroded the things she had once held dear. She had lived in the Red Keep her entire life, since she had been a little Princess, and her and her brother Rhaegar would would tread mud through the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast, or dare each other to climb upon the delicate bones of the dragon skulls in the throne room, yet Daenys could not place any of the characters of her youth. Of course, she recognised many of the faces at the court, men who now served the Black Dragon as leally as they had once served the Red, whose lives had been left unchanged by the shift that had so catastrophically altered her life. But they were not the same. They looked the same. They sounded the same. But they were not the same. In Daenys’ memories everyone had been good, and true, loyal and kind. Was it just the passage of time that had chiseled these men so differently? Were her memories, the only momento of a bygone era beginning to leave her too? How could men become such monsters?

Daenys saw dark shadows around every corner. Little wooden puppets all hung in suspension and mastered by the vile wyrm who stained her father’s legacy. Vaella was a shining beacon in this pit of darkness, and Daenys loved her for it. She was too good for this realm. Too good for this family. Too good for this King.

‘I know you will, sweet.’ She pulled her daughter closer, into a gentle embrace, her eyes falling upon the blonde devil that sat behind her. ‘The Gods have blessed you with your grandfather’s sensibilities, your uncle Viserys’ level head, Rhaegar’s courage and precious few of your father’s vices. A rose within this thorn bush.’ Daenys did little to regulate the volume of her speech, almost daring the Blackfyre ‘King’ to rise in his own defence. To strike her. To shout her down.

Some said that it was unwise to poke of slumbering dragon, but Daenys didn’t see a dragon, but a sad little man who would have fallen to shreds if he had seen half the tragedy she had. ‘Perhaps he should be wearing the skirts,’ she contemplated, though she knew that Vaella would not be appreciative of such words at her brother’s funeral.

‘You’re the oldest now.’ She said simply, ‘With Maekar gone. You are the oldest.’

ailurophile

 

[Yarrow]

Erich Greyjoy

Erich sat at his throne. The Seastone Chair was glimmering beautiful in the sunlight that came through the window. At the table below him sat three men. Hrothgar Harlaw, his right hand, Loren Greyjoy, his eldest son and Urragon Greyjoy, his other son with his current wife. Erich disliked both of his sons. Loren looked too much like his first wife, Gysella Goodbrother, who had died a few years after the birth of Loren. He disliked Urragon because he also didn’t looked like Erich. Both his sons were failures in his eyes, but one of them had to because Lord of the Iron Islands someday. So Erich tried to make good men of his sons. He had always left in the middle who would be his heir, so the boys always tried to prove their worth to Erich.

He had called Lord Harlaw and his sons to his room to tell them something. The Ironborn had stayed for too long at the Iron Islands. It was time to remember Westeros of who the Ironborn are. Erich took the last sip of his wine from the goblet and began his message

“Lord Harlaw, Loren and Urragon. I have called you all three here today because I have a message. For the last few years we haven’t done much raiding, but we haven’t sit still. We have repared our fleet, trained our men and now it is time to set course again to the coast of Westeros”

Erich wanted to take another sip of his cup but it was empty. He looked to a Thrall standing in the corner of the room

“You stupid useless Thrall, get me my wine and then go to the priest. You useless fuck should be sacrificed”

The Thrall looked pretty scared, slowly he approached the lord with a flask of wine. When the thrall was done filling the cup with new wine Erich stood up. The Lord walked to the window and looked to the sea.

"Come here, Thrall"

The Thrall had his head down when he walked to window. When the thrall stood in front of the window Erich took his knive, slit the throat of the man and pushed him through the window into the sea

"A sacrifice for the Drowned God"

Erich had kept his eyes on his sons the whole time, so see if they would flinch when he slit the man's throat. When he walked back to his throne he continued his speech,

“First we will sail all the way down to the Arbor. We destroy their fleet, take their wine and burn their vines before returning to the Shield Islands. We will take control of one of the Shield Islands and regroup there.. Any questions? No? Great!”

Erich’s laugh roared through the hall

“I expect you, Lord Harlaw, to send a message to all the Lords of the Iron Islands that they should be ready in six days. In six days we will set course to the Arbor, because this wine tastes like Thralls”

Erich emptied the cup in one gulp and then threw it out the window into the sea.

Akio Hypnos

 

[Braddington]

King Aegon V Targaryen
King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm


He felt nothing. Staring at the cold, unmoving body of what was once the Lord of the Riverlands elicited the form of a sad smile to Aegon’s face but nothing more. How many funerals had there been? He had lost count. The towers and walls of the mighty fortress he had lived his life in seemed to many more a prison than a home, and none represented that more than Lord Otto Tully. Yet this castle is where his legacy will be remembered. Where he lived and where he died. Where he loved and where he fathered. Winterfell was Lord Otto, old, tired and ready to collapse into the winter snows. He refused to be that body. Winterfell couldn’t be his legacy, Winterfell couldn’t be where he died. The stark reality of the situation was right in front of him, twenty years of isolation and worthless deaths that will never be recorded. They would not be among them, he would take back the south from the Usupers before he would let that happen.

He had to.

Gathered around the body were many familiar faces, many had taken part in the recent battle in the South, having feasted for days on end at the death of the Blackfyre Prince. This didn’t feel like the after effects of victory. Lord and Lady Stark, Lord Blackwood and old men from far and wide just watched. Just like it was for Baelor. The cycle continued. None weeped that day either, except for Aegon himself. Now he was one of them. Stone faced, weary and with his mind already somewhere else. Already back to the South as it always drifted. It felt wrong and yet he could feel nothing else. This man had knelt for Aegon, proclaimed him King, swore fealty, taught him about his Kingdom and kept faith where many would have deserted, yet in this moment he was stripped bare into just another faceless man who had past into nothingness for a stagnating cause.

The crowd stared at Lord Stark as he fired his arrows, the first missing with no reaction from the assembled mass. When the second hit, it was like a sigh of….what was it, relief? Determination? He couldn’t put his finger on it but it swept through them all regardless. Almost as if that in making sure the deed was done, they could be done with the matter and leave this accursed ceremony to go drink away their thoughts or lose themselves on a war map. Something that no doubt would be explored later by many of the surrounding men and women, some already leaving like the Glovers who had barely just arrived. A sad funeral, an unworthy funeral, but more than many brave and deserving men could ever dream of. A poetic sadness that applied to this man of half stature, stuck in limbo between overlord and stumbling old man.

Once the body had floated out of sight, the crowd split into groups, talk erupting almost immediately and all mourning put to the side. Aegon ignored them, making his way to the man whom he considered a father, the man who had fired the burning arrow onto the cold corpse of the old fish. Men bowed as he did so, perhaps even more enthusiastically than they mourned the trout. He simply nodded in return, acknowledging his Hand with a deeper tilt of the head as he climbed to Lord Stark. He stared out into the sea, his hands resting.

“This needs to end, my Lord. Even when we win, we lose. Even when we strike, we fall back. Even when we take from them, something is taken from us. Look at them all.”

He gestured to the muttering lordlings, his eye catching a beautiful woman for whom he could only glimpse at for a moment.

“Used. Broken.”

A sigh escaped his pale, chilly lips, his hair blowing in the wind.

“The Riverlands is a wasted effort. If this isn’t a sign then I don’t know what it. Two castles won't win us back the Seven Kingdoms, the next campaign they will just take them back anyway. We need something bolder. Their heir is dead.” Did he deserve it? “At least for us, that is the truth. It also means they are more divided than they have been since this war started. We need to capitalize, or…”

Another gesture with his hand

“We lose all of them over time. We lose ourselves.”

Aegon arose fully from his slouched position, facing his father.

“The ships?” His eyebrow arose, the question obvious but not wishing to pursue the thought further in speech, cleary asking for a simple reassuring nod to abate his urgency before his gaze returned once more to the woman. Her auburn hair, clear amongst the surrounding darkness. Only time would tell how things turned out, but, as he muttered under his breath, there was always hope, even if it was slipping.

Hypnos​

 

[Yarrow]

Meryn Flowers

Meryn walked through the streets of Kings Landing. After the funeral of Maekar he took a detour to visit his whorehouse. Using the secret entrance he stepped right into the office of the house without people noticing his presence. Meryn checked if any Lords had visited the brothel recently and was surprised by some of the names. Without anyone knowing, Cella Waters, Meryn his right hand, kept a list of names of important people who visited the Brothels. It could always come to use, this information. Being Master of Whisperers for Naemidon I gave Meryn insight to many people their motivations. His vast spy network in King’s Landing and the rest of the Kingdom gave him certain benefits.

Without any problem Meryn entered the Red Keep. The guards at the gates knew him, why wouldn’t they? Meryn often gave them an extra coin in exchange for some information. Meryn knew perfectly well where to spend his coins. When he entered the Throne Room he saw it was already quite full. He hurried to his seat at the table with the other Small Council members. When the King gave his little speech Meryn looked at all the children of the King. There were now four of them, each child was supported by another faction of the Kingdom. Vaella was the eldest now, however she was a girl. Arlan was the next boy in line. Would Naemidon declare him as his heir? Meryn wasn’t sure, but he would surely get to the bottom of this. He needed to speak to every child of Naemidon, to see where they were standing and if they posed a threat to the King.

Meryn looked at his own table, the King had ended his speech and the feast had begun. At his table were the other Small Council members and Kinvara, the court sorceress. Meryn never understood what the King saw in her, she probably used some kind of spell on the King. She was also very difficult to read, you never knew what she was going to do. Viserys Butterwell, also known as the Kingslayer, was at their table. Meryn never understood why the man was still on the Small council. The Throne barely had ships and Viserys wasn’t from a House that was known about sailing. Viserys didn’t look well, Meryn knew he didn’t eat much. The guy was very paranoid that the Targaryens would eventually punish him for his betrayal.. Even after twenty years. Meryn didn’t saw Viserys at a great threat, his paranoia would get the best of the man. Mors Martell was another subject, being a friend of his father caused the two to have a mutual ally. Meryn saw his father as a dog of Mors and Naemidon. Gormon got most of his power from the two men who ruled the Kingdom. His father would probably support Aerion since the boy squired at Starpike.

In the Throne Room there were also two hundred other people. Most of them were nobility. Meryn thanked his septas for their lessons on the nobility of Westeros. Meryn easily deducted from which house everyone was. It were all southern houses. Not weird, since the north was still occupied by the Targaryens. The other people in the room were the servants of the King, who brought wine and food to the nobility. Some of these servants were the eyes and ears of Meryn in the castle. He got them from the street and fed them at one of his houses in the city and gave them a job in the castle. Every few days they would report if they noticed something worth telling..

There were a few persons missing at the feast. One of them was Cassandra, the new Master of Laws, just like her late father had been. It was a political move of the King. House Arryn is a very important house and having the young lady here at King’s Landing was of great importance. Now it was Meryn his task to win her over to his side, with his blue eyes he could easily influence the girl. He looked at Mors Martell, the Hand of the King.

“So Lord Martell, has there been any news on the Arryn girl?” Meryn asked.

Akio

 

[Hypnos]

Loron Greyjoy​

The damp and miserable walls of Castle Pyke had never been a true home to Loron Greyjoy, no more than Lord Erich had been a true father. The entire Iron Islands had adopted an aesthetic of being dark and miserable, so much so that Loron would often question whether the appeal of raiding was simply to be done with these downtrodden little islands, to go where the smell of the salt sea would outweigh the stench of blood, semen and sweat that perforated every keep within the isles, and enjoy a moment of peace free from the leering glares and yellowed teeth of Lords who had more in common with porpoises than aristocracy. Not that Lord Erich seemed willing to do anything but contribute to this downcast atmosphere, having perfected his own disappointed scowl the day that Loron crawled out of his mother’s cunny. A sad day for both his lordship and the boy, who had proved just as disappointed in his father as his father was in him.

‘Why could I have not been born a Reach Lord?’ Was a question that had characterised Loron’s childhood so much that in his adult life it was ingrained into his memory. ‘Why could I not have been born in the West?’ Like every ironborn, Loron had been raised to have a certain level of disdain for the greenlands. Their silly customs, their odd folk, their obnoxious lavishness. But unlike many ironborn, Loron had actually been there, talked to their people, traded with their merchants, sampled their food. Such experiences had won him little love for their queer people, save for three major exceptions, however what it had impressed into him most of all was how much he fucking hated the Iron Islands. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say. How much he hated his father.

In his youth, Loron had been quick to criticise Lord Erich Greyjoy, for he had a quick tongue and no restraint, a trait that he had curiously inherited from the man to which it was mostly targeted. Such reckless words had won him little but a good whack, and a few lashes to the behind, though still he persisted, for what was the worst punishment that Lord Erich could throw at him? Would he murder his own son? Yes. Yes was the answer to that question, though the Drowned God’s blessing had managed to keep him alive for this long. Much to his brother’s chagrin.

If there was one great accomplishment that Erich Greyjoy had managed to achieve in his family, it was ensuring that his sons truly despised each other. Urragon Greyjoy hated Loron because he thought that he wanted to be a rich, fancy country squire and spend all his time galavanting on the greenlands with his companions, and had no love for the ironborn way. Loron hated Urragon because they both knew he was right.

No amount of hatred for his father would ever remove Loron’s deep desire to get his approval. It was not Lord Greyjoy’s love and respect that Loron wanted, though after years of being deprived it, he certainly wouldn’t have complained had it come to him now, it was his castle, for Loron Greyjoy’s strong distaste for these wayward isles only stretched so far. Being heir to the Iron Islands was a matter of pride for him, and the title was as important to him as the land itself. He would be dead and buried before Urragon usurped him of his birthright, though knowing his father, that was likely his prefered outcome.

So it was that Loron Greyjoy found himself once again in his family home, his friends scattered to the winds, watching as his father made a grand speech regarding the future of the Iron Isles and the legacy of their storied family. Not for the first time. Not for the last.

‘Father, if I could…’ He was cut off by the murder of a member of the household, his father’s eyes telling him that it was not appropriate to speak at such a time.

He visibly winced as the knife was pushed through the back of the thrall, a deep frown forming up his lips. It would be wise for Erich Greyjoy to avoid wine in the coming days, because the chance that it would not be poisoned was growing slimmer by the second. A waste. A waste of a life and a waste of wine. Perhaps Loron would have spoken up had he not known that his words would fall upon deaf ears.

‘I have a question. One question, father, though I’m sure more will come to mind in the coming minutes. Are you fucking mad?’ From the corner of his eyes he could see Urragon’s face light up, knowing that with every word that came out of his brother’s mouth, the idiot came one step closer to a lordship. ‘I’d also ask of you’d lost your wits, though I’m doubtful that you had any.’

‘You drag me back to these godforsaken isles, and this is your master plan? This is the strategy that you’ve been working on all these years? This is what the great Erich Greyjoy has to show for a life’s worth of plotting and scheming the demise of the Greenlands? Just go for it? Just attack? Now? In six days? We’ll just tell everyone that they have to, and they’ll follow?’ He moved closer towards his father, ‘Sometimes I wonder why I even bother, perhaps I’d be better served down in the rocky shores with that thrall. Perhaps next time I should keep my mouth shut, and let the Blackfyre King chop of your head. Because I don’t reckon when I sit on your chair, I’ll be half as dimwitted as you, dear father.’ The words kept on pouring out of his mouth like a stream, unable to stop himself now.

A hundred days.’ He paused for a moment, catching his breath. ‘A hundred days I give your great conquest before the Iron Isles are once again washed out to sea. A hundred days until your head sits on a pike in King’s Landing. A hundred days until you doom us all.’

‘But after all this. I still have more questions. Why? Why here? Why now? Why not twenty years ago, when the realm was in chaos? Why not two moons past when Maekar Blackfyre fell to the Targaryen King?’

Yarrow

 

[High Moon]

Prince Arlan Blackfyre
​

Prince Arlan sat just to the right of his father, his eyes shifting between the goblet in his hand and the Golden Skull. His ever present yellow cape contrasted with the dark red and black clothes he wore. Just like his choice of clothing, he too looked out of place among the company of the iconic Valyrian family and for the first time in a long while, he felt out of place too.

He spared one last glance to the now golden skull of Maekar before averting his eyes with disgust, Their relationship had been complex. Once he had idolized him, just like he had idolized their father. trailing behind his elder brother, almost shadowing him, but the awe he had for his brother left it's place to bitter resentment fuelled by his jealousy and ambition, but now Maekar was gone and with him he took all those bitter feelings, all that he left in his wake was a feeling of hollowness, for all their differances. Maekar had been one of the few that Arlan could trust, his only elder brother who had been there for him no matter what. One of the pillars he stood on had been crushed, and his remains descerated by none other than his father... For some one who shunned his so called Sellsword Lords, the king had more than a few similarities with his companions of old, such as his eccentric behaviour and like of extravagance, which peaked with this 'Crowning'. This wasn't immortalizing nor honouring his late brother, if anything this was a perversion, a bastardization of his legacy, for all that remained of the man who matyred himself for their father, their 'family' and the entire Kingdom was A macabre image. Nothing like the man his brother was in life.

The beacon of light that kept the darkness away was enxtinguished The thin veil that covered the lies was gone now. Arlan understood Maekar better now. The weight he had carried with him, whatever he knew it or not, Maekar had been the one who kept the order, the delicate balance. When he was alive, they all could pretend that everything was alright, that they were a family. It was foolish of them all, especially the failure that sat to his left.

They were nothing but pawns in the game now, and even a man like Costayne, who thinked with his cock more than he ever though with his actual brain could see the upcoming clash of interests between those seated in this very table, 'an inevitable conflict'. The crazed man in a chandellier was wiser than the King his father claimed to be. He raised his goblet of wine towards where the man was seated. a subtle acknowladgement.

His thoughts centered around the so called pawns now, his fellow siblings. Vaegor. A slight pang of shame and regret accompined the feeling of disgust, after all, he had failed his brother. But Arlan wasn't in the mood to ponder about his failures. His eyes shifted towards his only sister and her mother. Daenys was nothing but an enemy, poisoning his sister's mind with sweet little lies. Aerion, poor kid, He didn't want to dwell on that one either. so he tried to divert his attention, lilac eyes searching the hall, looking for the one man he could trust in this den of vipers, yet he couldn't find who he was seeking, the neutral expression he had all day soured, finally settling on a grim expression of acceptance. Indipendance came at a cost. he had no strings attached to him, unlike Vaegor, Vaella or Aerion, they were all their mother's puppets. He hadn't been like them for years now, and the cost was loneliness That was something he had in common with Daemon. Both were now left alone in this death trap, well almost. Daemon had always been a bit of a soft spot for The King, which was odd and Arlan had his uncle, Durran Baratheon, even a side glance towards the man fillled him with conflicting emotions of security and dread... He could already see that by the end of the night, Himself and his dear cousin would be in some deserted corner of the Keep, barelly councious and vomiting all that they had drunk and ate in the previous hours, trying to forget the day... All in the name of their mutual brother of course.

Too lost in his thoughts, he barelly heard the question, turning his face to the right to face the person. None other than his kid brother of course. He didn't reply for a few seconds, trying to remember what he had just asked. fianally with a gentle ghost of a smirk. He could never pull off the well practiced smiles like Aerion, or hearty laughters like Maekar. ''Honestly, Aerion. I feel like that fat oaf, Lord Mudd ate me and shat me out. And it looks like you aren't faring much better now are you?'' the words were spoken with care, he wouldn't dare offend Lady Hightower with his vulgar languge in a day like this. Not that he thought the woman was grieving for Maekar. No, beneath the act of all that gloom, Arlan was sure that the woman was overjoyed. Aerion, the meek, sickly and naive kid brother of his finally had a chance in inheriting the heap of metal that everyone desired, the heap of metal that rightfully was Arlan's to take. ''I haven't tasted it yet, but if you say so.'' As he took the leg of the lamb to taste it, The traitorious hag continued to insult their family, knowing well she could be heard. He ought to get up and put an end to that Targaryen bitch's insolance. She had far outlived her usefulness anyway... Yet as much as it was a sham, they were gathered here to honour his dead brother. Maekar had always kept the peace between them, strived to make them a family. He wouldn't betray his memory, unlike all these mongrels gathered in this hall. If he couldn't be his father's heir. He'd be Maekar's and uphold all that he stood for, Including keeping these fools in check... However he didn't have his brother's manners. Arlan took a bite out of the Lamb's leg, It tasted good, certainly well prepared, as expected from the good sevants of the kitchen, but the devious plan of petty vegnance was already set. ''Also, raise your standards a bit, this 'thing' tastes like charcoal.''and with that, the leg went just above his father seat, past Vaella and right onto the Targaryen snake.

Intereactions:
Mion
Braddington

Mentioned:
Hypnos
Braddington
Optimus Princeps
ailurophile
Akio
JPTheWarrior

 

[ailurophile]

Princess Vaella Blackfyre
​

Embraced by her mother, Vaella allowed her eyes to flutter shut as the hum of the feast died down and Daenys' words were the only thing that entered her mind. The names of her family, she would sometimes recite before bed. Many namedays ago, the list had included so many names, the names of all who sat at the table. The night before, not even the late Maekar had been included.

When she reluctantly withdrew from her mother, Vaella opened her eyes and nodded solemnly. Her mother's point was one that had been echoing through her mind ever since news of Maekar's death had reached King's Landing. She was the oldest.

And out of all of Naemidon's potential heirs, she had the blood of a Queen.
Royalty.
Vaella Targaryen.

"I know, mother. When I--"

Before she could finish her declaration, Vaella was cut short by what appeared to be a hunk of meat making a graceful arc over her head, and coming to a not-so-graceful landing on her mother's lap. There was no time to stare in shocked silence, because for a moment, just a moment, the 'red mist' she'd heard people claim to have experienced descended. She leapt to her feet. Her cup upset all over the table and a half serving of blood red wine blossomed across the table, dripping down onto the stone floor. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered, except her mother.

It was uncharacteristic for Vaella to lose her temper, to even dream of contradicting anyone, least of all her family. But in that split second, the only member of her family present was sitting with a stain seeping into her dress.

She took a breath.
Became aware that her sudden rise had attracted a few concerned looks.

As she turned, she ran her tongue across her dry bottom lip. Steadied herself with a hand on the back of her father's chair. Another breath.

"Arlan." Vaella began, a strained smile appearing on her flushed face. "I always thought we were raised to have the same manners. You appear to have dropped your food. Perhaps you're still young enough to be spoon-fed? There's no shame in admitting incompetence." Her blush was increasing as she sank back into her seat, dropping her hand into her lap, before she lowered her voice to a scandalised whisper. "Father, are you going to let him behave like that?"

A pause.
"After Maekar's funeral?"

Beneath the table, she stretched her hand to brush comfortingly against her mother's arm. Her teeth clenched.

When I am Queen, nobody will mistreat you ever again.
I swear it.

Hypnos Optimus Princeps High Moon

 

[TheFool]

Vortimer Hightower
Beacon




​

If it weren’t for the abundance of white roses, the corpse would’ve stank. Of murder and of rot and of the thick stench that normally clung to Dornish cur - dead and alive.
May the Father judge him justly.
Lord Votimer Hightower watched as seven silent sisters tended to it. The body of Ser Ulwyck Uller. A septon circled around the carcass, dispensing incense. A thin warm mist following him. Hightower himself sat on a small bench situated in the heart of The Starry Sept. He was surrounded by black marbled walls that had hanging quilts depicting The Seven. He was under the one that painted the Father.
The same place he always sat when he came to visit.
He watched.
Chin in his hands. Elbows dug into his knees.
He judged.
Seven guide me.

To his right was a first cousin once removed. Ser Dorian Hightower. Leader of an unofficial cadet branch and a trusted advisor. Unlike Vortimer, Dorian paced. A grim look on his wrinkled face. “Outrageous”, he mumbled to himself.
“What are you going to do about this?”
Vortimer looked at his cousin, puzzled. “I do not know yet.”
“What do you mean you do know yet?”
“I mean I do not know yet, cousin.”
The two had been at odds as of recent. Since they first heard word of what happened at Wytherton. Where Lord Jafer murdered an unruly son of House Drinkwater. That, itself, was thought to be an isolated incident. Nothing more than something one could gossip about over dinner. But this -
This was something more.
This was a message.
He changed his seated stance, putting his hand in his pocket and taking out the slip of parchment that the sisters had given to him. The warning that was shoved down Uller’s cold throat. He unfolded the paper and reread it,

“Drinkwater was first.
Now Uller.
Prince Mors Martell is next.
The White Knights swear by it.”

​

Beside the writing, acting as some sort of signature, was an inked drawing of a rose. As white as the ones Ulwyck’s corpse was adorned with.
“These fools want to start a war.” Dorian commented as he continued to pace back and forth, his eyes studying the sisters’ preperal.
“So what if they do?” Vortimer replied.
His own sight lingering on the parchment. The declaration of war. The promise.
“Do you really want to fight a war, Vortimer?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then there. A bunch of up jump fools are forcing your hand. Your brother’s hand. Mine own.”
“For good cause.”
“For no cause, Vortimer. Nothing good can come of murder.”
There was a voice at the back of Vortimer’s head agreeing with his cousin. Telling him that this problem must be put down before it is able to stand on hind legs. That voice was but a whisper to the one that beamed with an excitement.

It’s finally happening.

Footsteps interrupted both mens trains of thought. Emerick Hightower raced down the great seven steps that led into the belly of the hall. The young man stopped as he got to the final step and gaped at the Dornishman’s body. “Seven bloody hells.”
He croaked.
Vortimer let out a stiff chuckle and stood up, “Seven hells indeed, brother.”
“I came as soon as I caught wind.”
“Who told you?”
“The whole bleedin’ city is talking about, Vort.”
Emerick was half panting between sentences. He looked from the carcass, to Vortimer, to Dorian - in which then the two men exchanged a mutual nod of greeting.
“Who is it exactly?” Emerick asked. Approaching the body. Vortimer followed his younger - and only - brother in said approach.
“It’s Ser Ulwyck Uller, if you could not tell.” Dorian informed.
Vortimer looked at him. The dead Dornishman. His tanned skin now hued with blue. Still. Lifeless. He then looked at the septon with the incense and gave him a thankful nod.

Telling him and the sisters to leave them alone in the hall momentarily.

“Seven hells.” Emerick repeated, examining the corpse. “Who did i-”
Before the young man could even finish, Vortimer handed him the parchment. Emerick read it and grew wide eyed. He handed it back.
“You know what this means, Vort.”
“Aye.”
“The people have had enough, rightly so.”
Emerick stopped and swallowed, before continuing -
“These are our lands. Not the Dornish’s.”
“You’re as foolish as the rest of them, Emerick.” Dorian put in. The three men now stood gathered around the body. Like mourners at a wake.
Or like the murderers themselves.
“How am I foolish, cousin?” Emerick asked. His arms folding in.
“Talking the way you’re talking is foolish. If the wrong person heard you -”
“The wrong person? You mean some Dornish scum? A spy?”
Dorian went silent as Emerick continued to prattle.
“It’s been twenty years of this. Twenty years. This is all I know. Us cowering here in Oldtown while House Martell pisses in our back garden. Don’t you miss it? The time when you didn’t have to worry about it? Brother? Ser Dorian?”
Vortimer was quiet.
I barely remember it, let alone miss it. It was true. Vortimer was roughly but twelve when the war was won. When The Dornish began invading their lands. He had some memories of the time before. All of them good. All of them slowly fading with each day that passed.
“Nostalgia is all well and good, Emerick, but not when people's lives are at stake.” Dorian said, his teeth grit. He turned around and made his way towards the stairs.
“I’ll see you all at dinner.”
Their cousin told them as he climbed up the first step.

“Well, don’t you?”
Emerick asked.
Vortimer let out a sigh and put his hand on his little brother’s shoulder. “Get back home. You have a wedding to be planning, no?”
A smooth change of conversation.
“Aubrey’s upset that we had to postpone it by a few days.” Emerick said, a weak smile appearing on his lips. Vortimer chuckled again. His hand squeezing his brother’s shoulder gently, before letting go.
“Tell her having a wedding while most the realm are attending a funeral isn’t the best of ideas.”
“I’ll tell her.” Emerick grinned.
“Go on now.”
Emerick turned and left.
Leaving Vortimer alone with a dead enemy.
He turned back to look. To watch. To judge. He did not know the man, but he had heard of what Ulwyck had done. Countless atrocities.
I pray you burn, bastard.
Still holding the parchment in his fist, Vortimer used his free hand to reach across the body. His thumb and index finger touched against one of the roses.

He plucked it from its bouquet and held it tight. Taking a whiff of the scent of rebellion.

 

[Mion]

Aerion Blackfyre
​

Arlan was always a very perceptive person. Although it didn't really need much awareness to tell that Aerion was still rather stricken by the loss of his elder brother.

"Ahaha, be careful Lord Mudd doesn't hear you talking like that about him or he really might Arlan." A boyish chuckle as the young prince scratched his head. Mayhaps he could improve his brothers mood a little bit? If there was anything he could do to lift the family spirits... Even if it were by just a little. There is no doubt that he would.

A tug on his shoulder. Did I say something wrong?

Malora Hightower was looking at her son with a rather concerned look. She had kept telling him ever since the funeral that it might be best to keep chat with his brothers and sisters at a low.

Aerion gave a genuinely apologetic look to his mother, he did not, perhaps could not, understand her reasoning behind a thing. His family meant the world to him. No, even if they were not bound by blood. To Aerion that would be just the same.

I can at least try to do half the things she says... He thought as he took another bite of his lamb, this time coupled with some assorted vegetables. In all honesty it was a rather nice meal. But at the moment all it did was upset his stomach.

Aerion continued to look down at his plate. He could see both his mother and Arlan get agitated as he made little glances to either side. I hear her too but...

She has been through so much... I know today was about Maekar and what she is doing is surely wrong but. The boy couldn't help but emphasise with the Targaryen queen, even if was just a little. Even if she was in the wrong.

His mother wished for him to grow into a strong prince. A symbol for which the realm to look towards. Strength... Here I think that would mean to set aside anger. I don't truly know all of what Daenys is going through but she is looking to provoke. She is sneering at everyone. Begging a conflict. He closed his eyes for a moment. He felt calm.

"Huh? Wait Arlan-"

He could hear the disdain coming from his brothers voice, he knew his brother. He had snapped.

Aerion looked as his brother threw the piece of lamb down the table with a look of pure concern. What did you just do?!

He could feel his mothers hand resting on his shoulder. She was grinning this time. Not a pleasant grin by any means. That face basically yelled out 'that's what you get skank.'

A brief wave of dejection washed over his face. Until he bit down on his lip. No, there will be enough people upset over this, enough anger. Aerion understood that there was very little he could do now. The best course of action was to remain calm. To continue as he was before.

Vaella rose, she had obviously lost her temper as well. Aerion did not blame her for that. But he did not blame Arlan either. Everyone at this table... He could not blame any of them.

He wanted to speak up, he really did. Perhaps he could smooth things over. Perhaps things could still be salvaged.

"Don't my love. Let's just watch this." It was almost like Malora wasn't even trying to hide her joy as she barely covered her mouth to giggle at the scene.

Well... What could I say to fix this actually? Mother is right. Father... Please fix this... Somehow!

The wish of a naive boy. But still, Aerion believed in his father. He could find a way to at least settle things for now.

Right?

High Moon ailurophile Hypnos Optimus Princeps

 

[Yarrow]

Erich Greyjoy

Erich leaned on his throne when his son started to complain about the tactics and reason. ‘Why had the boy needed to be so damn difficult all the time?’ Erich thought. The boy had also winced when Erich slit the throat of the useless Thrall. A weak boy. But then Erich started to shift in his chair. His son was now showing what a real man looked like. Urragon did nothing, he just enjoyed the show, it was not smart of him because Loren was scoring points. Erich would never admit that he liked Loren acting like this. But the boy still acted like a greenlander sometimes. Loren was throwing some serious insults and it wouldn’t look good to Lord Harlaw to not punish the boy right here. So Erich stood up and drew his knife which was still covered in blood. He walked over to his eldest and leaned over the table to place the tip of the knife at his sons adam’s apple.

“You better watch your words son,” Erich spat in his sons face

“Don’t you think that I, Lord Erich Greyjoy, the Reaper of Pyke, has done nothing the past few years? You have barely seen it, since you have been ‘busy’ most of the time.”

Erich removed the knife from his sons throat and sat back down at his throne.

“The last couple of years we have been rebuilding our fleet, to strengthen our numbers. We don’t just go for it, you stupid, I have a plan. You just weren’t important enough to share it with right now. But you clearly insist. So keep your mouth shut and listen”

Erich walked to a shelf and took a map of the west coast and spread it out on the table.

“So right now we are here, in case you forgot.” He placed his knife at the Iron Islands

“We will sail, in six days, all the way down to here” He pointed at the coast of the Reach, just south of the border with the Westerlands.

“There we will pillage one or two towns, to draw their attention. Everyone who was late will have to join us there. So when we are united we sail all the way down to the Arbor” He pointed at the Arbor on the Map

“In case you dumbshit forgot, here is the Arbor. We have to destroy their fleet because it is after us the strongest fleet in the region. If we don’t destroy the Redwyne fleet we won’t be able to keep the Shield Islands, our next stop” He pointed at the map again.

“Then we will take Greyshield, like we once did before. From Greyshield we will conquer the other Shield Islands and then we have free game on the Mander” Erich sat down again on his throne

“Questions like, why, why here, Why now and not twenty years ago or two moons ago are easily answered” Erich sounded a little irritated

“Some Iron Lords have grown soft because we only repaired our ships and didn’t ravage the coasts like we used to. Why not twenty years ago? Because you could still not walk on a ship without falling. Because we raided the North, Riverlands and the Westerlands during that time. Why not two moons ago? Because we weren’t fully ready and I wasn’t done wiping your ass” Erich smiled, he had come up with a nasty plan for his two sons

“You two will have to fight over the right to be my second hand and who will lead the battle on the Arbor and Shield Islands”

Hypnos

 

[Braddington]

Daemon Pyke
Bastard son of Queen Daena Blackfyre

Well, this was unanticipated. Daemon had expected what ought to have been a sombre affair for the death of the crown prince, instead it seemed that lamb wasn’t just on the menu it was also on the guests as well. Not the best look with so many vassals in attendance at such an important time. At least it would be mentioned in a book, he imagined. “The Funeral of Prince Maekar Blackfyre - And the Foodfight That Accompanied It” A thrilling read, to be sure, but perhaps it wasn’t best for the temperament of the King. He had been scanning his face the entire time, trying to discern what he was going to do, punish Arlan or perhaps punish Vaella? Both were possible, though both were unsavoury. Ah well, guess it’s up to him again, time to put on his mothers eyes and speak up.

He stood, side-eyeing the Queen from Oldtown, the one with the smackable face, and simply laughed.

“Arlan, come now, try the wine! I expect we will be bottles deep in it by the end of the night, and Princess? Perhaps it’s best to drop the issue, after all, the issue was certainly dropped on you, dismiss it and let’s return to...being unhappy. Shall we? There is plenty of time for this kind of thing, but not here, not now, not with this.”

He pointed at the golden skull, recently given it’s makeover in the tradition of the Company from which their house came. His gaze turned towards the Lords of the realm next, who were watching with intense interest, Ser Mervyn swallowing grapes with a smile and Lord Lothston...whom he could of sworn he saw somewhere.

“My Lords and Ladies, please continue eating, it’s good food, and wasting it would hurt the cooks feelings as much as it would your own stomachs.”

He had no idea where all of this was coming from, was he overstepping his bounds? Perhaps, but it was worth it so as to not spoil this event even more than it has been given circumstances. Finally, he looked to his “Uncle”, his King. Talking almost at a whisper, focusing purely on him.

“Your grace, I am sure neither meant to cause offense. Tensions are high with the death of Prince Maekar. Remember when my mother died? None of us were in a happy mood. It...broke me. Maybe we should just move on? I don’t think we want to repeat that events memories over in our minds once more. No one does.”

He took his seat once more. He had no idea if his words had any effect, but perhaps they did. Either way he had said his peace, if the shambles was to continue, he could at least enjoy the show from a relatively safe distance on the end of the table. Unless he was now also to be punished...fuck, he hadn’t thought of that. At least it felt good in the moment, he would always have that when rotting in a dungeon.

Optimus Princeps Hypnos ailurophile High Moon Mion​

 

[Hypnos]

Walton Stark​

‘You need not be so hard upon yourself, Egg, nor upon us. If the last splash of a fish out of water was enough to break the iron will of the North, then it would be Naemidon Blackfyre pushing Tully’s casket down our frozen streams, and our own corpses would not be far behind.’ Walt gave his King a toothy grin, his subtle laugh manifesting itself in the misty summer snows. Aegon Targaryen had been his responsibility for the better part of two decades, yet his silver hair and violet gaze still looked out of place amongst the hard and rugged Northmen. A dragon was not made for such harsh climates, nor such trying times. Lord Errold had said of the boy that he was too small, skinny and pale. ‘If any Northern Lord had a son like that, he would be better served leaving him out in the Godswood for the crows.’ Of course, like much of his father’s wisdom, Walt was glad it was ignored. Egg had grown into a fine young man, the warrior who had slain a Black Dragon in single combat, and when the Lord of Winterfell looked at the child before him, Walt couldn’t help but be filled with some wistful pride. After all, it could not have been the boy’s own father that instilled him with such strength.

‘Such pessimism is unbecoming of you, your grace, you are beginning to sound like your father.’ Walt put a single gloved hand upon Aegon’s shoulder, his other arm resting carefully over the form of his wife, whose steely gaze was rested plainly away from the two men and upon the river, where only moments before, the Lord of Riverrun had been bobbing. ‘We achieved great victory at Seagard, and for that you should be proud. Appreciate it instead of dragging yourself down with thoughts of the future.’

The young King was right of course, though Walt would be loathe to admit it. Such campaigns in the Riverlands had been the only course of action for the North for so long, slowly chipping away at the southern forces until finally they made a large enough crack to climb through and win this war. Twenty years of chipping. Still no crack.

Weak men like Tully might lose hope. Strong men like Mallister might perish, but Walt intended to follow neither into their early graves, at least not until he was finished, not until their mission was complete.

‘The Royal Fleet stands ready your grace. It only awaits your word.’

Daenys Targaryen​

When it came to disagreement, a royal family exchanged curt words, argued themselves into a stupor, and stormed out of the room. When it came to disagreement, an animal threw around its food. If a little lamb had been the worst thing that this family had tossed at her, Daenys Targaryen would consider herself the most fortunate woman in the Seven Kingdoms. She was not surprised therefore when Prince Arlan began to snap. Stormboy as many called him, was chiseled from the same ugly stone as his uncle, Durran Baratheon, harsh, brutish and dull, with a little bit of his father’s insecurities thrown in for good measure. He was the eldest of that man’s children, and the natural successor to Maekar’s broken legacy, though it seemed that Naemidon Blackfyre excelled at making people miserable, even his own brood.

Daenys beamed with silent pride as Vaella stood up for her mother, proving once again why the Queen had such faith in her. Stronger than all her brothers, and without the jagged edges. A young Queen in the making.

‘It’s quite alright, sweet, I am sure Arlan meant no offence by his actions, he is in grief after all. There is no need to make the poor boy admit to his inadequacies, especially since his father has so recently shown them off to the whole realm.’ It was true was it not? Not good enough for Naemidon. Not good enough for the realm. Some small part of her might have felt sorry for the boy, if every essence of her being wasn’t too busy feeling sorry for herself. Robbed of his brother, robbed of his birthright, now reprimanded by his own sister, perhaps Arlan Blackfyre might have preferred it be his own skull lathered in gold than endure such abuse. In comparison, a little thrown lamb felt poultry.

Removing the food from her dress with two gentle fingers, Daenys flicked the spoiled food onto the floor, allowing a procession of servants to leap after it. Her eyes were not fixed on Arlan. Nor now did they look to her daughter, but rather Naemidon Blackfyre.

‘This is your family.’ She wanted to call out, ‘This is what it has come to. Your own son’s funeral and you can’t pull them from each other.’ Though she spoke not a word, allowing her gaze convey that very same message.

 

[TheFool]

Domeric Stark
Traitor




​

He woke by hitting his head off of the ceiling. Ricocheting back into his pillow now with a sorer skull than per usual. “Gods.”
He mumbled to himself as his hand rubbed the spot that hurt. His eyes opened and he let out a long sigh. His worst enemy, the ceiling of the Silk Robes’ brothel, was what he stared at. Filled with cracks and crevices - one of which Domeric was certain housed a small black spider.
A spider he named Gilly.
“Morning.” He said to it. Knowing, of course, that it could not reply.
He threw off his blanket and crawled out of the bed. It was half his size, so he had to sleep in an almost side crouched position. This had been causing a strain on his legs. Once out of the bed, he stretched. Followed by a yawn. That then followed by a look out the small cell-like window of his room. Smiling. He saw The Red Keep in the distance. His smile dropped slowly as he remembered that he wasn’t home.
He wasn’t at Winterfell.

He dressed appropriately for the day’s service. A funeral. He was used to those. We had one every week up in The North. He grabbed his sword, made of a fine steel, and placed it in the sheathe he had attached to his waist. He jangled out of the room - ducking his head before leaving through the doorway.
“Where ‘ya going, my lovely.” Emma asked.
She was one of the ladies that worked at the establishment. Domeric knew that she sold herself to men, but he did not judge her for it.
“I’m heading to The Red Keep for Prince Maekar’s funeral celebration.” He told her, truthfully.
His hand on the pommel of his sword.
“Why don’t you stay ‘ere with me? I’ll show you my crown jewels?” She said to him, laughing, her body lounging on a flowery settee.
Domeric raised an eyebrow suspiciously, “And where did you get these jewels?”
Emma’s laugh did drop,
“I mean my lady parts, you idiot.”
It took him a second before realising. Oh. “Um, thank you, Emma, but I can’t.” He declined with a small smile. She swatted him away with her hand and rolled her eyes.

He left the brothel without breakfast.
He knew Calla would have something for him later on but even then he would likely be fed at the funeral feast. It’s been so long since I’ve had a good meal.
He licked his lips as thoughts of lamb and pigeon pie crossed his mind. The sun was surprisingly high in the sky for early on in the day. Domeric found it odd but didn’t think much of it. Instead he continued to remain focused on delicious daydreams.
Will I start with dessert?
No, I can’t. I need to be healthy.
His stomach rumbled. He let his eyes close. Imagining it all.
Though I do love a good -
“Watch it, you dumb bastard.” A Goldcloak spat at him as the two almost walked into one another. Domeric was taken aback,
“So sorry-”
The city guard shoved past him. Domeric was a tall fellow with broad shoulders. He always carried himself lightly however and the guard’s shove caused him to stumble back a bit. He stepped into a puddle of brown sludge. Damn it. The mud splashed over a leg of his trouser.
That’ll definitely stain.
He grumbled.
Several half naked kids laughing at him as they sat from a rooftop.
He looked at them and tried to laugh alongside them - but he didn’t find it very funny. He continued to walk on down the street of silk. Furiously trying to clean his trouser. He had to look well in-front of his new King. In-front of Vaella.

Arriving at the gates of The Red Keep, he was halted.
“State your business?” A guard ordered.
Domeric blinked,
“I, uh, I’m here for the funeral. I’m, uh… Lord Stark’s son.”
“Oh, the traitor.”
Domeric’s brow softened.
I hate that word.
“I’m not a traitor.”
“Of course not, you just defied your King for the right one.”
Domeric didn’t want to talk to the guard much longer. He had already spoken so much about what he had done. He was sick of it. He decided to put his brawn to use and push past the guard. However as he began to do that, the guard blocked him with a spear -
“Funeral ceremony is over. Feast is almost over too.”
Domeric’s jaw gently dropped. “What?”
“You heard me, m’lord.”
“I missed it?”
“Ya’ did.”
“That’s… I couldn’t have. I… what?”
The guard smirked, “I tell ya’ what. I’ll let you in for the remainder of the feast if you tell me something very important. Something that’s been troublin’ me dearly.”
“What is it?” Domeric asked, innocently.
The guard’s smirk grew -
“Since your mother is a mute, does that mean she don’t squeal when your father fucks her?”
Domeric’s expression hardened as the guard burst into a fit of laughter. His hands turned into fists. He was so ready to swing. To teach this bastard a lesson.
The guard lifted his spear and gestured for him to go on in as he wiped tears away from the corner of his eyes.

Domeric sauntered on towards the castle.
Trying to remain as composed as he could be. Though the composure barely showed. It was days like this where he missed The North the most.

Spoiler: MENTIONS

ailurophile

 

[TheFool]

Gilliane Manderly
Pearl




​

She woke, sitting up in a panic.
“No.”
Clutching her stomach over her satin white nightgown. The light of the dawn dancing through her windows. Like unruly flames spreading across a battlefield. She gripped, panting heavily. It was a dream.
She told herself to be calm.
It was all just a dream, Gilliane.
She fell back into her sheets. Into the safety of them.
Today was the day.


Another funeral.


She felt a tinge of sadness watching the Old Trout sail away. His body burning. It was an odd send off, the first she’d seen of its kind. Gilliane didn’t weep though. No one really did. She kept looking at her father - hoping to see how he felt. He hadn’t said much on the matter to her.
Did they even know each other well?
She asked herself.
Lord Otto and mine father?
He didn’t react too emotionally. Simply stood tall and watched. Like as the rest of the lords and ladies did. Their heads bowed in a sombre silence. Still -
Gilliane prayed.
Prayed to both the old Gods and the new.
Prayed that Lord Otto found only peace in his afterlife.

After the funeral ceremony, people talked quietly amongst themselves. Gilliane found herself in conversation with the two twin daughters of Lord Wells. They chatted the ear off her, saying how “positively radiant” she looked. She thanked them about a thousand times before they did the merciful thing and went elsewhere.
She was then approached by Lady Ironsmith -
Who tried so hard to coerce her into accepting her son’s marriage proposal. Gilliane politely declining at least thrice before the woman too went off.
Throughout all this talk,
She couldn’t help but notice him. The Red Dragon. Aegon Targaryen. She noticed him and she was sure he noticed her. Their eyes catching one anothers’ at least several times. A part of her wanted to approach him. Tell him of things.
Things that troubled her.
He seemed like the type of man who would always ease his woman’s woes.
I’d like someone to ease mine.
Of course, she stayed away for now. Her father had told her to let him handle it. He said he would talk to Aegon. He was a King and if a King were to have any legitimacy -
He would need a wife.
A Queen to bear children for him.
She took a breath.
As she walked around and chatted to the lords and ladies of The North. Those who fought for House Targaryen. She noticed that there was one important person she’d yet speak to -
“Lady Tully.”
Gilliane said, courteously, as she approached her. She then curtsied, hanging her head.

“I know you must have heard this so much already but I’m I truly mean it when I say I am sorry for your loss. Your father’s death will leave such a pit in the campaign - but I can’t imagine the one it is leaving in your heart.” Gilliane meant what she said.
Her face was soft but touched with a slight sadness. A look that told Lady Alyssa Tully, daughter to Otto, that she was a friend. She was here for her.

Spoiler: MENTIONS

ailurophile
Braddington
Optimus Princeps

 

[Rusty of Shackleford]

Jon Forrester
Lord of Ironrath, Protector of the Ironwood Groves

Jon was not here out of any pity towards the late Lord Tully. In fact, he hadn't felt so much apathy towards the death of another since his father's death, and even he at least ilicited feelings of bitterness and anger. But this...pathetic trout of a man? He's not even worth the piss he soiled his bloody trousers with. Jon had to force a look of grim respect on his face, his right hand on his son's shoulder, the other around his wife's shoulder. The twins were getting restless, and Jon couldn't blame them. He didn't understand why they didn't just dump the man in the damn river like the Ironborn did with their dead, but he supposed these Southroners loved their ceremony. They always did...

Jon almost burst into laughter at the mention of the late Lord Otto being a "good man." Walton Stark, for all his faults, was a good man. Jon's own liege Lord, of House Glover, at least wasn't cruel enough to be of any mention. But Otto? No. Jon almost felt pity for the man. Almost. Only due to the methods of his end. He felt pity for anyone who took their own life, ever since his brother was taken too soon. But that was in the past. Now was Jon's time to deal with the fellow Lord's of the true King of the Seven Kingdoms...

His first target was Lord Stark. After all, he was Warden of the North, and through him Jon could meet other potential clients. He let to of his family, saying, "Excuse me, I must go and 'pay my respects' to the late Lord Tully." The twins giggled at his blatant sarcasm, Jon slowly approaching the half-blind Stark with all the dignity a Lord of the North was known for. He didn't expect to be treated like the other Lord's. House Forrester wasn't even a House, technically. He would not demand to see Walton by the right of his name, or his rule over the ironwoods. He would speak to Lord Stark, or he wouldn't. There were others to speak to. He smirked as he approached his Lord, saying, "Pardon me, Lord Stark? If I may, I would like to talk with you." He stood there, unfazed, staring at the Wolf, as staunch as the tree on his banner. His voice was deep like the Narrow Sea, and warm as a fire, almost conflicting with one another. His stature was straight and strong, just as he had told his children to stand, who were currently...running around, trying to wrestle in the mud while their mother watched. Whether or not she stopped them, Jon couldn't see. Not that it mattered. They were going to do it anyway, and seeing as Jon had absolutely no respect for the guest of honor, getting dirty was just the appetizer of inappropriate things the Forrester wished to do.

Hypnos
mintee​

 

[ailurophile]

Alyssa Tully
​

Goodbye, old man.

Unbeknownst to the two of them, Alyssa Tully thought the same farewell uttered by Walton Stark as the man took up his bow. She stood tall and solemn, a tragically beautiful figure, so bereaved and tormented had she been so far in her life. As she gazed out at the river, towards her father's departing corpse, a single tear rolled down her pale cheek.

A few flutters of her eyelids, and another was squeezed out.
In case the first had gone unnoticed.

Hands clasped together, stroking her thumb across her skin, Alyssa watched in fascination as Stark's arrows made their flight. Watched as the boat, and her father, caught alight. How beautiful the fire was. How awful that such a tragedy had brought her to this moment, to see the juxtaposition of fire and water under such painful circumstances. How unfortunate it was that tradition meant her father's body had to sail away before it could be set alight.

She'd never seen a person burn before.
She liked to think the process was a sight to behold.

Before her father's body was completely out of sight, she turned sharply on her heel and wiped one hand across her cheeks. As though she couldn't bear to watch any longer. A young man she barely recognised reached out a hand as though to comfort her, but she swiftly batted him away, as if she was too choked up to talk but trying desperately to maintain her composure. A daughter without her beloved father.

Lady Alyssa Tully.

How could she go on? Could she have stopped her father's death, if only she had known the strain the man was under?

Alyssa Tully, Lady of Riverrun.

A stupider girl might busy herself with such thoughts. A weaker person. Much like her late father. Gods, it sickened her. A simpering fool in life, and a coward in death-- what must people think of her?

Alyssa Tully, Lady of Riverrun and Lady Paramount of the Trident.

She drew her cloak around herself as she moved away from the river, avoiding the sympathetic gazes of those around her. For a time, she managed to keep to herself, playing the silently grieving daughter enough to discourage anyone from offering her condolences. Unfortunately, it did not seem that everyone around was clever enough to let her be.

It took everything Alyssa had to keep herself from snorting at Gilliane Manderly's honey-soaked words. Her look of earnest was even more amusing. Poor, lovely, little thing. How could this girl not see the justice behind the suicide? That a coward should die a coward's death?

A pit in the campaign, my ass.

"Oh, my lady. How sweet of you to offer your support. It's so very much appreciated in this difficult time," Alyssa reached out to clasp one of the girl's hands between both of her own. As an added touch, she managed to conjure an extra tear. "But my father would not want this to derail us. There's a King amongst us." She wondered if, perhaps, this girl would distract that easily. "And..." A sly smile. "An eligible one, at that."

She withdrew from Gilliane, still smiling gently, the tear remaining on her cheek.
Discreetly, she wiped her hands on her cloak.

TheFool

 

[TheAncientCelt]

Naemidon Blackfyre
Irate King

The Red Keep​

It was fitting, in a way.

Everyone present seemed to be having an adequate time. Past rivals sat, drank and japed together in the halls of their king. Already, stories were being told that put blushes on the faces of young squires and maidens alike, and earned lecherous grins from another sort of company. A cautious look at his family, and Naemidon concluded the same. They were all in minor agreement about the special occasion today, keeping it sacred. Even Queen Daenys, whose words were often a constant scrutiny that a younger Naemidon would find a modicum of respect in, kept her tongue down to a modest whisper and protested in colorful garments. The Blackfyre King was more than comfortable to allow her these shallow victories.

Yes, it was very fitting. In life, Prince Maekar had brought many people together. Most of all, the royal family.

It seemed in death, his good will extended down to them for one final blessing.

Despite himself, Naemidon didn’t struggle as a crawling smile curved his lips. It was short lived, as was much of his happiness these days. Flooded by powerful memories of Maekar and his lost queen, the king couldn’t help but find solace in the bitter sweet past. So far gone from him now, divorced from reality, where he had not but memories and petty heirlooms to hold onto them now. But the smiling eyes of his dead wife or that contagious, duck-esque laugh that earned Maekar many a japes as a growing boy outweighed the bitter aspect of these recollections.

Lifting a hand to his goblet, Naemidon gently tasted the rim and fought hard to recoil. ‘Tis more bitter than sweet, in this glass.’ Perhaps Lord Butterwell could do with a talking to. The few rare days out of the long years that Blackfyre drank, he found most vintages to be pleasant. With the proper course, even the most acidic of wines melted away in his mouth without so much of a tart sensation in his gums. Yet, Lord Viserys Butterwell’s pride and joy never matched up to the experienced hands of the Arbor or Dornish varieties. Still, Naemidon drank Butterwine - and did so publicly. He’d support his Master of Ships in this queer hobby of his, even if the wine tasted worse than Manticore poison.

Naemidon did not look to his children and family, exchanging glances with a few choice members of the Small Council and his inner circle of advisers, before cutting into his lamb. Charred, nearly black, Naemidon felt himself cheated of the choicest pieces of meat. No doubt the juices were likewise drained. With an irritable sigh, he grasped knife and fork in both hands and began to cut. Soon enough, once the meal was finished, Naemidon would have to entertain the lords and ladies for close to an hour. It’d be best to not be far behind their seemingly never-ending appetites than left chewing and discussing the finer aspects of Tyroshi marble-work with Prince Martell again. Crunching down on the black bits that was once recognized as lamb, Naemidon felt his earliest judgement superficial and wanting, for a flood of flavor entered his oral cavity nigh instantly. His constrained face did not reflect the specific nature of this meal, apart from the quickness that he cut his second piece with. And then the third. The greens sat at the edge of the plate, ignored for wine, to wash away the meaty-tastes that clouded his taste buds. A generous gulp, Naemidon sat his goblet closer to his plate as he readied to return to the meal. As he descended down to pick at a choice piece, his vision noticed a figure darting around the back of the great hall.

‘Lord Stark.’ He ‘humpfed’ in slight irritation. ‘I was beginning to think he escaped back North.’ His presence was noticeably absent at the funeral, and now he arrived late to the celebrations. ‘I’ll arrange for a maester to explain to him exactly what punctuality in the South means.’

As the King of Six Kingdoms returned to his meal, quick movement from his daughter alerted Naemidon to something amiss. Craning his head, he saw Princess Vaella shooting from her seat like a nocked arrow, spilling her Butterwine all over the table - and his plate of lamb - in the process. Catching eyes, not only from family but subjects, his daughter fell back down. He noticed the fury barely contained within her Valyrian visage as demeaning words were sent the way of Arlan Blackfyre.

‘Just what in the Seven Hells happened?’ Daintily, Naemidon shoved his now wine flooded plate far from his person and peered at his daughter with a confused and distant stare, ready to question her, when he noticed the lamb situated on Daenys’ lap. A bite taken from it released the pent up juices inside, letting them spill onto the dress as she slowly grasped the leg and moved it from herself.

‘Did that boy throw his food at her?’ Naemidon’s question was self contained and answered. Caught between bewildered, amused, and growing annoyance, the king remained quiet as his daughter demanded action for the humiliation - on today of all days. ‘He should know better.’ Naemidon silently agreed, shifting to now glance at the satisfied expression situated on his son’s face. It was apparent why Stormboy had used such vulgar means, falling for the witches attempt to instigate a fight. Yet, Naemidon felt more fury at his child. Beyond them, Daemon Pyke moved past the hungry eyes of Malora Hightower - desiring flesh of another variety tonight - and the anxious Aerion.

Either age was slowing the king, events were moving beyond normal human speed, or grief was causing Naemidon greater issues, but Pyke rose to speak to the now growing eyes beneath them. Informing them that all was fine, and attempting to build a bridge between bickering siblings.

‘He inherited the best parts of you, Daena.’ Naemidon didn’t react to the quick responses of his son, in all but name, but found them admirable beyond his trueborn children. ‘And living up to that hole you left us, Maekar.’ With an appeal to handle the situation in a quieter manner, the Blackfyre King finally spoke up.

“You’ve had your fun,” The commanding tone Naemidon adopted brokered no argument as he spoke, hinted at the lack of any enjoyment with his wife’s humiliation. “Now you’ve dirtied your mothers’ dress and caused your sister to spill her wine.” He carefully repeated the events that happened, purposefully leaving out Daenys’ instigation. Already, Naemidon spotted two women with cloth, arriving to clean the mess made at the royal table. “All these years I thought you to be a prince, Arlan. But, if you’re determined to act a fool, you’ll clean up the mess you’ve made yourself.” A wave of Naemidon’s hands made the servants pause, not two feet from the king’s rear.

“Dry the stain on Queen Daenys’ dress and fetch your sister more wine, I fear that the linen may not be recovered.” He grimaced at the mess both Princess Vaella and Stormboy made over the table - his own plate a casualty of that battle between siblings. Were Daemon Pyke not so quick to calm the nerves of the nobility gathered, or if the assembly was a hundred smaller, Naemidon knew he’d react differently. It wouldn’t be smoldering fumes that leaked from his forked tongue now, but fire and disdain at these actions. As it were, any proper punishment and lecture would wait till after the guests had departed. Naemidon sat straighter, feeling the questioning eyes of more than a handful lords on him. Searching him.

‘They want to see weakness.’ He understood. Not everyone gathered was loyal. Some had families on the God’s Eye still, others were truly only dedicated to their lands and purses. Others despised him but lacked the courage to do so openly. ‘Let them seek it out. They shall not find it here.’