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The Winds of Winter - an ASOIAF Game

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A quick look of surprise flashed on Littlefinger's face as the Blackfish appeared. This was followed by a brief look of annoyance as Sansa revealed herself to the Vale, far ahead of schedule. But soon a look of calculation appeared, as Littlefinger saw the path forward.

He rose to address the crowd and put his hands on Sansa's shoulders after she spoke.

Knights of the Vale, everything my lady says is true. I deeply regret the ruse and deceit I have subjected you all to, but it was necessary to protect Lady Stark.

For quite some time I had been working with Lady Lysa to destroy the Lannister regime. Lady Lysa was afraid to move openly against Cersei and Lord Tywin, as she believed that Cersei had killed Jon Arryn and later King Robert, while any open action against the crown would be crushed by Lord Tywin after the death of the king. And so I worked quietly behind the scenes to ensure the downfall of House Lannister, all while appearing to be a trustworthy councilor for them. At the same time I also ensured that Lady Sansa would be saved from the depredations of the late King Joffrey. I could not prevent her from marrying the dwarf, but I did create the conditions for her escape from captivity. If I could have done so sooner I would have saved our lady much grief, but there was only so much I could do at the time.

I would not be able to reveal all the details of these efforts right at this moment, but suffice to say that the Lady Sansa's stay in the Vale is proof of where my heart truly lies. During the wedding of Tommen and Margaery, I had managed to secrete Lady Sansa from the clutches of the Lannisters with the help of various agents and sympathizers within the capital. None would suspect my part as I was known to be in the Vale, but the truth was that I was waiting for Sansa in a lone ship in Blackwater Bay. Afterwards, we sailed to the Vale and met Lady Lysa.

Lady Lysa's plans cannot be borne to fruition due to treachery. But there is still an opportunity to avenge the injustices done against the Starks and their kin, and to restore Lady Sansa to her proper seat. I had originally planned to reveal Lady Sansa before her potential wedding to Harold Hardyng. Once again, I apologize for the deception we engaged in, particularly to Lady Waynwood and Ser Harry, but I feared for Sansa's safety and sought an opportune moment where her identity could be revealed before the knights of the Vale, who I hoped would rally to support her and her claim.

I suppose now is as good a time as any, however, and I can only hope I was correct in this assumption. I echo Ser Brynden and Lady Sansa's call for the Knights of the Vale to avenge the Red Wedding and rally behind Sansa Stark. We shall not rest until justice is served and Lady Sansa returns to Winterfell. Knights of the Vale, will you join us?
 
To all the lords of the reach which have risen for the king claiming to be Aegon VI:
SECRET:
An army of demons is marching on Oldtown. The king who puts down the army of demons will be hailed by gods and mortals as king.
If it is your actions that cause the Starry Sept to fall into the hand of heathens and demons and the spawns of dark rites, be assured that we, the Sept on earth, will excommunicate you and bestow pardons of holy law to all who act against you, and that you will burn in the deepest of pyres below. A legate will be sent to you, to watch your army, to bless the men of it in their endeavours, and to help ensure that your army respects the sanctity of septs and of septries.
To: Willas Tyrell:

We are immensely concerned by the news of rebellion in your territories, and will work to do all we can, being in King's Landing, to ensure that Oldtown is not sacked.
To all the lords and people of the realm:
These are the days of our judgement. Great crimes have befouled our souls, and the souls of our leaders. Hosts of demons sail the seas, and the the dead walk, while the men and women who rule are the slayers of children and the burners of septs. . One thing alone remains to us-the saving of our souls, by great deeds and by prayer. A legate of the Sept of Baelor will be sent to the Reach and to the Westerlands to raise an army of the Faith Millitant to defend the septs and septries of the reach, and principally the Starry Sept. Any army or knight that raises a rainbow banner and fights against the host of demons from the sea may join the faith militant in the defense of Oldtown. Those who fight under the banner, if they fight bravely against the host of demons, will be forgiven their mortal sins, but they may not attack an army which is not allied directly to that of the ironborn under the banner or within three days of lowering it under pain of excommunication, and of absolution of acts against them. Any army, or the men in it, which attacks them will be excommunicated, and any acts against them will be absolved by the Sept. The army which takes the banner may defend itself if attacked by any.
 
The_Red_Baron said:
The Mad Mouse​


For once in his life, Ser Shadrach was happy he was short. When orders came down from Littlefinger, he was to lose his first joust. Finally, a defeat that wouldn't be his fault. He complied perfectly, being thrown from his saddle in the first pass.

Now he could get down to his real business - stealing 50,000 Gold Dragons right from beneath the nose of the Lord Protector.

Oh, he had dyed her hair and trussed her up with a different name, but Ser Shadrach was no fool. He recognized Sansa Stark as soon as he saw her. The only question was how to get to her?

The tourney was extremely inopportune, Ser Shadrach decided. "Alayne Stone", as the Lord Protector called her, was seated front and center, under the gaze of the whole crowd. For the first day of the tourney he was busy losing, but by the second day he had basically determined she was secure. This tourney was not his best moment.

That left watching the tourney, which Shadrach was not keen to do. He loathed tourneys, this one was no exception. But it was either that or stick his thumb up his ass, so he watched. He saw Mychael Redfort dominate his bracket, as he expected. But about halfway through the second day of the tourney, something very interesting happened. Harry the Heir, darling of the Vale (whom Ser Shadrach had seen once and immediately disliked), was unhorsed in his final bout by, of all people, Symion Sunderland, youngest of the Sunderland brothers. The look of pain upon Littlefinger's face was, oddly enough, mirrored by Sansa. But nevertheless. Shadrach noted the first member of the Winged Knights, who was Knighted by Ser Donnel Waynwood, the Knight of the Bloody Gate, himself.

As the tourney entered it's final round of tilts on the third day, the victors, and thus hostages, began to emerge. Mychael Redfort and Symion Sunderland of course had won their brackets, but so too had Roland Waynwood, Andrew Tollet, Lymond Lynderly, and Albar Royce. Not that Shadrach particularly cared about them. He knew their houses were minor, and nothing more. That left one more bracket to finish, and in Shadrach's point of view, the most interesting by far.

A mystery knight bearing the sigil of a wolf's head had entered the tourney, as mystery knights tend to do. This created somewhat of an uproar, Ser Shadrach noticed, almost certainly due to the connotations of such a sigil. There were many in the crowd who has wanted to fight for the Young Wolf, and had only stayed in their halls with deepest regret. His subsequent gruesome death was a source of deep shame, Shadrach had noted. It was not a surprise that almost everyone rooted for the wolf knight. And there was a lot to root for. He dominated his bracket, defeating worthy knights and higborn lords. When he finally claimed victory, the clamor for him to reveal himself was great.

Ser Shadrach himself did not recognized the old bedraggled knight whose head appeared from under the helm, but many around him did. They whispered his name all at once, with excitement and worry to each other. Littlefinger himself had a look of shock and concern when he heard the name himself. Brynden Tully - the Blackfish.

When he began his speech, Ser Shadrach didn't listen. He knew what the Blackfish was going to say before he said it. Restoring the honor of the Vale. Naming the lords present and his connection to them. His service as Knight of the Bloody Gate. His duties and oaths to Robb Stark. His call to arms. Ser Shadrach was much more concerned with the opportunity that laid before him - it would be much easier to kidnap Sansa Stark if the strength of the Vale left her side, or would it be if she joined them in an army camp? He was almost oblivious to the rapturous reception the Blackfish received when he denounced the Freys as godless murderers, and did not pay attention as the first knights came forward to swear themselves to revenge. He did note with wry amusement however when Walton Frey joined the lot, denouncing his kin in an effort to save himself. He wondered what the butch Brienne would do here. Probably join their fool's crusade. Now he turned his eyes to the Lord Protector, the most important man here. How would he react? How would old Bronze Yohn? That would truly decide the fate of this old man, the Mouse decided. He would wait and see.​

- By @Pax Americana
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It would be the honor of House Royce to aid the Blackfish and Lady Sansa. Our swords are at your command.
 
From: King Stannis Baratheon
To: Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone @ATerribleWriter

It is our prerogative that Lord Yohn Royce receive onto his house our envoy, Ser Marlon Manderly to be treated as honored envoy to Runestone. Acceptable term?
 
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The North - 300 AC - First Three Moons
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    • The Oathbreaker

    Special thanks to @Mortis Nuntius for writing this POV section.

    "Oathbreaker! Turncloak! Warg! Wight!" The insults and curses rang out across the courtyard mingling with sobs and pleas for mercy, they may as well have been directed to the Wall itself for all the impact they had on the black cloaked figure before them. He stood unmoved, literally, there was an unnatural stillness to him as he stood before the men on the scaffold, watching with unblinking dark eyes as the stools beneath them were kicked free, he watched them thrash and writh and finally still, swaying in the cold Northern wind that made every other man and beast present shiver.

    The other mutineers were brought forwards, some stared at him, others the corpses it was not clear which brought more terror, regardless all were quick enough to reaffirm their oaths and promise to serve faithfully from now on. Their words were met with silence and that terrible stare. Eventually he turned his back on them and strode back into Castle Black, accompanied only by his wolf and his witch, a day later the Queen would join them, and all would emerge on the third day. There were others too, Queen's Men and Freefolk all of them stood together as he informed those who had been his brothers of his decision.

    "I pledged my life and my honour to the Watch and it took its due. I do not begrudge it or you, I pledged that my watch would not end until my death. and I meant them, I lived by them gladly…and I died by them. My Watch is ended, my brother Robb named me his heir, I mean to claim that inheritance and take vengeance upon those who murdered him."

    His words caused a stir both in front and behind him but no one raised a voice or a hand to stop him, perhaps fearful they would succeed in keeping him. So Jon Stark left Castle Black for the final time and did not once look back, it would have been days before there was anything of note to see anyway, that being the look on Dolarous Ed's face upon learning of his appointment as acting Lord's Commander.

    "When you stab me in the back there won't be any red witches to bring poor Ed back will there? Or maybe there will be? That would be just right, no rest for poor dead Ed, get up and get back to work, always a watch to take or a tree to fell."

    He was not alone in having cause for complaint, the party struggling towards Winterfel through endless snowdrifts had to force each and every halt, food and drink and rest seemed not to concern Jon Stark, he would sit stiffly in his saddle until his horse died beneath him if not stopped and when they did halt he would either pace endlessly or sit on the edge of the camp neither speaking, sleeping or eating. Sometimes Melisandre would take him into her tent, but Daven swore he had not seen either lay in her camp bed alone or together.

    Melisandre herself was a changed woman. Her magnificent red hair was streaked with grey, her perfect skin was marred with wrinkles and her breasts sagged even as the babe took suck from them. How a suckling babe survived a march through freezing winds and snow drifts taller than mounted knights would in other times and places be a blessing and a miracle, but there was nothing holy about this company, the babe would whimper weakly from within bundles of fur bound to the Red Woman's body and whenever he could no longer manage even that she would feed him and he would stir again, and each day she grew gaunter and more aged, by the time they were halfway to Winterfel she looked more a corpse than Jon.    ​


    The North - 300 AC - First Three Moons
    Special thanks to @Hyvelic and @Mortis Nuntius for their assistance in putting this together.    ​

    The Winds of Winter are harsh, and can this not be seen any more apparent than in the North. Once unified and proud, the land has been torn asunder by the actions of invaders, traitors, and southern occupiers. Yet, despite the strength being sapped from the North, things are not entirely dire. The death of the Starks has proven a deadly blow to the momentum of a free North, and the one to fully bury these ambitions would be their new overlord. Stannis Baratheon has brought with him, a spark of hope even as his host is damaged and weakened in the fires of war. He has won great victories and struck a blow against the ones standing against him, and yet, many wonder if he had made a mistake coming North. The North, which is growing colder and colder with every day, with every week, every month, with no signs of weakening, and in fact, they are growing only stronger. As the Starks once said, Winter is Coming, and with its arrival comes necessity… and the hearth of Hope only the Azor Ahai can wield. Yet the North Remembers, it remembers that it knows no King, but the King in the North.

    ​

    At the Wall, one such candidate for kingship was rumoured dead, but to the surprise of all, and to the dread of those who had stabbed him, named him traitor and turncloak, emerged out of the King's tower, standing, but not quite alive. Castle Black just the night before witnessed a bloodbath, half the Blackbrothers were dead, along with half of the Queen's Men, while thousands of Wildlings or Freefolk littered the grounds. The morning would see to the executions, and to the burnings. Bowen Marsh would confess to a conspiracy of Stewards and Builders before his head was taken, Clydas would whimper of Stannis and Lightbringer being fraudulent when his time came, a patchwork of letters destined for King's Landing found in his quarters, Wick Whittlestick shouted that they would all starve before winter was at end if they allowed more Wildlings across the Wall, Alf of Runnymud would howl as he did when Garth Greyfeather's head was returned to them, that if they went to Hardhome they would all die before his own head was taken.

    Jon stood without emotion as head after head was taken by Longclaw. By the end, he would announce words which filled all the survivors with both fear and dispassion, as he stood flanked by Queen Selyse Florent and Tormund Giantsbane. Stannis Baratheon had survived, the Boltons were dead, and Winterfell was liberated. Then the words which had made all those accusations of being a turncloak, of being a traitor, true, he announced that with the end of his life, his Watch was over, as he had announced at the Shieldhall he would march south. It was a cold comfort to those Builders and Stewards, now leaderless and defeated that the former Lord Commander would not be marching south with the Wildlings. The final announcement that Eddison Tollet would serve as Acting Lord Commander barely received any notice, as the Watch much diminished, was given a last order to do their duty.

    In the coming days as Jon wrote a letter to Oldtown, sent word of events at Castle Black to the other castles, organised the recall of the Queen's Men stationed at Greyguard and Icemark, and specifically sent for Ed at Long Barrow. During this time word would come of Stannis' legitimisation of Jon, alongside his appointment as Warden of the North, and the unveiling of Robb Stark's will. All received muted responses at Castle Black. Ed's arrival alongside the Queen's Men would coincide with the day the newly made Jon Stark would leave Castle Black, marching to Winterfell with nearly a hundred southerners, as Eddison Tollet reluctantly took up the position of Lord Commander, promising a new election once Cotter Pyke had returned from Hardhome.

    ​

    Tormund Giantsbane would too part ways with Jon Stark on this day, naming Soren Shieldbreaker as the commander of the Freefolk at Castle Black, as he sent his son, Toregg to take command of his post at Oakenshield, accompanying him would be some Builders, loaned by the new Lord Commander to repair the once looming castle. Tormund himself would gather to himself a party of freefolk, larger than a watchparty, but no looming host, and rode for Eastwatch, it was his intention to provide temporary relief to Hardhome himself.

    For this venture he was loaned ten rangers when he arrived, by one, Ser Glendon Hewett, the temporary commander of Eastwatch. Given a dozen ravens, it was obvious to many that it was far from likely that this mission would succeed. Eleven Freefolk and Ten Rangers, to provide relief to some unknown quantity of men both Wildling and Crow at Hardhome. Yet, Tormund was far from a man who shied away from adversity, and thus he set off. Justin Massey trading ravens with his King would depart as well from Eastwatch, his destination to Braavos and the rest of the Free Cities, his prize to be the hand of Lady Asha Greyjoy.

    ​

    As one wilding was leaving the Wall at Eastwatch, another was preparing an attack upon it at Westwatch. The Wildling was notorious even before the rising of Mance Rayder Beyond the Wall, known to both the Watch and as far south as the Moutain Clans, a rapist and murderer to most, a leader and hope to some. It was most uncommon for a crying man, a Weeper as it were, to gain the respect, admiration and subordination of so many. Though that in itself may have come from the desire of all to never face his steel scythe. Ser Denys Mallister for the last few days had been utterly blinded, rumours of different events came from Castle Black, while rangers were ceasing to report once they crossed the Bridge of Skulls. The old commander knew, had reported as so to the young Lord Commander that an attack would come, but he had only received silence in turn, along with merely twelve men.

    It would be up to him, as it had been the last time the Bridge of Skulls had been attacked. That victory had been costly, he had more men then the Weeper and it had still been costly. It would be as news came from Castle Black, that Jon Snow, now Jon Stark was abandoning the Watch, leaving an unelected Eddison Tollet as Lord Commander, that Denys Mallister would take the bulk of the Shadow Tower's garrison, to Westwatch-by-the-Bridge, as riders came delivering news of figures emerging out of the snow.

    ​

    The Weeper was prepared this time, gathering a force over three times the one he had attacked with the last time. He was not some distraction that would let Mance take Castle Black, this time… this time he would breach the Wall, and have the victory that was meant to be his.

    The Wildlings were prepared, they may have not been all the seasoned raiders which the Weeper had taken across the Bridge the last time, but they were desperate. A desperation born from the cold, a desperation that bred such savagery in a man that he was more beast than man. The charitably named garrison of Westwatch would feel that desperation first hand, knowing that they would not be able to hold the castle themselves against such a host, so few they were, their only chance was to hold the bridge. They sent word to the Shadow Tower, and they prepared themselves.

    None would survive.

    By the time Ser Denys Mallister arrived, force marching a quarter length of the Wall, he would find little, none of his black brothers, an unsetting quiet, piked heads with their eyes missing, and of course, a Wildling army that was across the Bridge of Skulls. It was a hopeless battle from the beginning, a fight to hold the Bridge, but now? A fight with the Wildlings already across, and more trinkling over every hour? Well, it was somehow worse than hopeless.

    Yet Denys would not fold, it was his charge to hold the Wall, to defend the realms of men, for this night, and his last night.

    Mountain Clan scouts would be the first to report the sight of an eyeless bald whitebeard. The survivors of the battle, as they carried themselves back to the Shadow Tower would be the second to report the death of their commander.

    The Wall had been breached, and as news spread, wildlings began scurrying to the Gorge, their salvation had come. The Weeper.

    ​

    On Skagos, one of the many Hands of the many Kings of the Seven Kingdoms carried on his new ship one of the most important people of all, Rickon Stark, the last living son of Eddard Stark, and by all rights the new Lord of Winterfell, and to some whispered, the new King in the North. Yet this was a land where the rights of children were trounced by those with armies, and it would not the first time a child Stark had lost their inheritance to an elder. Yet that was from the thoughts of this smuggler Hand, Ser Davos of House Seaworth, the so-called Onion Knight had succeeded for his King, and as he landed at Karhold, finding a greeting of a newly pregnant Lady Alys Karstark, with her Wildling husband, Signorn of Thenn. Overjoyed at the sight of her newly found if distant cousin, it was not long until Signorn was marching a hundred Thenns to escort the Hand and the little lord, alongside the little lord's wildling protector, back to Winterfell.

    ​

    At Winterfell, strange sights abounded. Stark banners stood where Bolton banners used to, but above the direwolf of Stark, was the fiery heart and stag of King Stannis Baratheon. The Lords and Ladies of the North were assembled, most had only a few days ago publicly served the Leech Lord and his child king, and only a few moons before that, they had loyally and ably served the Young Wolf. Now they bowed their heads in submission and fealty to their new King, not a King in the North, but a king in the North. Not a Stark, not a wolf, but a Baratheon, a stag, the brother of the King they sworn their swords to eighteen years ago, to overthrow the dragons. In some sense, it was just a return to the natural order.

    A small minority of these Houses had marched with Stannis to Winterfell, half of the Houses had plotted the downfall of House Bolton while publicly feigning loyalty, the rest did nothing as the Boltons fell. One might have thought the overthrow of the Boltons would have been the most difficult enterprise for Stannis to overcome, and while indeed it would be the most physically taxing, it would be ruling over these vast lands, a third of the size of Westeros, but with a fraction of its population, that would prove the most mentally taxing. Famine loomed over the Kingdom of the North as harvests went unattended and winter had truly come, with most of its fighting men had gone south with the Young Wolf, and only a thimble had come back with Roose Bolton. While in Winterfell itself, the ever legalistic Stannis Baratheon was confounded on how to rule without a Warden of the North, a Lord of Winterfell, all the while the Northernlords played their own games of thrones, for their own personal advantage and selfish reasonings.

    ​

    Stannis almost immediately, on surveying the situation at Winterfell, and realising that his combined army of Southernors and Northernors of over ten thousand would sooner starve than be able to march south to take his throne, was quick in the ordering of half of the Northerners to return back home to participate in the last harvest before winter would strike in force. This half would primarily be made up of young boys, lads who were told to take up the spear and sword when their fathers never returned home, they would be led back by either the family of the respective house, or some other subordinate, while the ruling lords and ladies of the North remained at Winterfell.

    It allowed the pease porrige to be served with a square of boiled meat, at least for the short term. That much was already a small if noticeable improvement from Bolton rule.

    As for the greybeards and the southerners they were put to work as the young boys left. Winterfell had been repaired to a degree by the Boltons, the gates repaired while a shoddy roof raised over the Great Hall, yet that was far from the only damage that the Ironborn and Boltons had inflicted upon the ancient castle. A side of the First Keep had collapsed, a cold lake was formed below the ruins of the Library Tower, the Glass Gardens a notable boon to the supply of food in Winterfell was cracked and destroyed, alongside the Maester's Turret, the small Sept, and the bridge connecting the Bell Tower to the Rookery, while Wintertown sits an abandoned husk, buried under snow. That did not even account for the damage to the castle before even the War of Five Kings, the First Keep was an abandoned ruin before its damage, while the Broken Tower was an apt name for what it was. The destruction of the Library Tower was said to be a particular annoyance to the King, who with correspondence with his Fire Mistress, seemingly was rather keen to delve into the horde of secrets held in the ancient library of the Starks.

    Minor repairs were quickly made to the Great Keep, while the roof over the Great Hall was quickly replaced, the beginnings of reconstruction to the First Keep moved slowly, and would only become slower as the snow fell, while draining the lake below the Library Tower proved a thankless and unsatisfying job. Calls to rebuild the Sept mostly by the King's Men were shouted down unsurprisingly by the minority of Queen's Men who had accompanied their King to Winterfell, but much more vocally by the Northernors. This surprising cooperation between the Northernors and Queen's Men did not last long, for when voices called for the burning of the Godswood, they were quickly at each other's throats.

    ​

    Violence was avoided for the most part, at least deadly violence, helped in fact by the sheer authority that Stannis exuded amongst his army, the Northerners may not love him, may never love him, but respect carried the wind for now, in the weeks after the Battle of Ice. Another factor that was unsung but genuinely felt was everyone's mutual distrust of the men of House Frey and former Bolton. Walder Frey, son of Jammos Frey, nicknamed Big Walder Frey to distinguish him from the other Walder Freys of his family, was a boy of nine years old, and counter to his nickname was rather small and skinny fox-faced, and as a fox was rather astute and cautious for his age. With the disappearance of his cousins and half-uncles, Rhaegar, Jared, and Symond, the death of his cousin, the perplexingly named Small Walder Frey, and the death of his half-uncle, Ser Aenys, as soon as the Frey forces had charged out of Winterfell, Big Walder has suddenly become the second most senior Frey at Winterfell, and command of a rather large Frey host was only the death of a single person away from him, Ser Stupid, Ser Hosteen Frey. Thus it was that he marched on Stannis Baratheon wearing his armour of plate and mail with details of lapis lazuli, that Big Walder considered how to best survive the upcoming battle. Suspecting that it was Ramsay and Roose who had orchestrated the killing of his cousin, with belief that he would soon be next, it was becoming more and more advantageous to defect to Stannis Baratheon, indeed it would take a King to make him Lord of the Twins, he only needed an opportunity to safely do so.

    Thus it was when the first ranks of the Frey forces were decimated in the charge across the ice, along with his half-uncle, that Big Walder Frey leading the remainder of the Frey host, withdrew, and soon after offered his fealty to the one true king. The news of Ramsay's upcoming arrival with a third host sealed the matter, and Frey banners were quick to turn on the Bolton ones, and returned triumphant with their new King to Winterfell.

    Yet betraying every side they had fought for, hardly brought about trust, especially when the request was to trust a Frey. Thus it was that the Frey contingent mostly kept to themselves around the Broken Tower, a visible sight which was enough for the rest of Winterfell to at least cooperate with each other against an all but certain future foe. This was only aided by the fact that the Frey contingent was joined by the remainder of the Bolton banners, those men now leaderless with both the Leechlord and Bastard of Bolton dead, who looked towards Walda's pregnant belly for a leader to follow, as she went into labour and soon brought into the world a pale eyed and dark haired babe, named Stannis Bolton. It was soon revealed what the namesake thought of that as their new king announced that the Dreadfort would now be ruled by Lady Jeyne Poole, a nobody from a nobody house, who they all once thought was Lady Arya Stark.

    ​

    The question of the Dreadfort would not be the only political question that plagued Stannis Baratheon as Winterfell slowly rebuilt around him, though it was at least arguably the cleanest. No one of power apart from half-hearted pleas of Big Walder Frey, pushed for the Dreadfort to be given to the soon to be born heir of Roose Bolton, instead it would fall to the Northernlords to bicker amongst themselves, to curry favour and jockey for the fearsome castle, with still one of the largest hosts left in the North. Roose Bolton had neither sons or daughters, nor brothers or sisters to pass on his seat, it was for the most part a free race on who would take the castle. The southern nobles, always antsy of if they would ever return home, also championed themselves, and indeed rumours abounded that the King's plan in granting the castle to the widow of Ramsay Bolton, had been to appease them, granting her hand to perhaps one of his loyal followers such as Ser Richard Horpe. Yet, with the Southernors outnumbered as they were, and with the fierce competition over the seat, it became evident only a Northernor would be accepted. The Ryswells made a conceited effort, and supported by the Dustins, it was a strong proposal, at least by strength if not legality, for Roose's first wife had been a Ryswell, his only trueborn son, half-Ryswell, were the Ryswells not to be compensated somehow for their loyalty? Their sacrifice?

    Stannis evidently believed differently, silently gritting his teeth in an inadvertent acceptance of Ramsay Bolton's legitimisation, granted it to his widow, while also snubbing Lady Dustin's desires to rule as Regent for the newly found Rickon Stark.

    ​

    While the insulting of two of the greatest Northern houses may have been ill-advised, and immediately it became evident that House Dustin and Ryswell were beginning their own plots and schemes. It at the moment could not be helped, as other matters came to the fore. Another question remained the Hornwood, claimed by three different houses by some account. The late Lord Halys Hornwood's trueborn son had been killed at the Whispering Wood, while he himself had been killed at the Green Fork, leaving a bastard son, Larence Snow, fostered by the Glovers, a sister, Berena Hornwood married to the Tallharts with two sons, Brandon and Beren Tallhart, and a widow, Donella who was a Manderly. All had recognised the illegal usurpation of the castle through the marriage of Donella to Ramsay Bolton, and thus out of either self-interest or some belief in honour, none pressed for a Bolton claim upon the seat. Yet that still left the Manderlys, the Tallharts, and the Glovers through Larence Snow, with able claims. The Tallhart claim was discarded quickly, for the entire Tallhart family was still held at Torrhen's Square by Dagmer Cleftjaw's Ironborn, thus a compeitition between the Glovers and the Manderlys was set to erupt, one close to immediate supporters of Stannis, the other ardent enemies of Bolton and remaining a true power in the North even with prominent losses in the south. It would be Lord Wyman's decision to bow out of the contest, and support the legitimisation of Larence Hornwood that would settle matters amicably, the new Lord of the Hornwood being the very picture of Halys, though little more than a greenboy himself at age the of four-and-ten.

    Winterfell would turn out to be the most complex question for the triumphant king, though it was not meant to have been. Most in Stannis' army had once thought that Arnolf Karstark would be made Lord, though with his betrayal and loyalty to the Boltons found out, that was evidently not to be the case, as he was still held as private prisoner to the King. Many still remembered the boy turned man at Castle Black with dark hair and grey eyes, who had once been considered for Warden of the North, and Lord of Winterfell. To many he was the obvious candidate, the last son of Eddard Stark, a man fully grown, with a lordly education, and battlefield experience. Who better? Still, his refusal of the post was rather definitive, compounded with rumours of his death at Castle Black. Yet as ravens travelled between Winterfell and Castle Black it became evident that though a mutiny had taken place at Castle Black, one which had apparently wounded Jon Snow, he was still alive, and with news breaking of his legitimisation by Stannis, alongside the granting of the title of Warden of the North, he was all but a shoe in for the Northernors, even if whispers of oathbreaking became rife in the castle. It would be news from Skagos that would turn the matter on its head, Davos Seaworth wrote that he had found Rickon Stark, and that he would sail to Karhold and then travel overland to Winterfell. Rickon Stark was but a babe true, but he was the trueborn son of Eddard Stark, and as the Manderlys immediately came out in support for Rickon, those among them with perhaps desire of free reign during a minority, came out in support too, with most following their lead soon after.

    ​

    It would be another series of dramatic events that turned even this on its head as well. A Hooded Man, accompanied by a She-Bear and her cubs, would announce in the Great Hall their identities, Master Galbart Glover, and Lady Maege Mormont, arriving with the claimed support of Lord Howland Reed, the reclusive lord of the marshes who was among the last of the Northernors to not yet bend the knee to Stannis. They would speak to the assembled Northern and Southern lords, with King Stannis Baratheon sitting atop the dais of the Great Hall, where they would reveal the contents of a document most shocking. With the utterance of a few words, conflict erupted once again in Winterfell, as the contents of Robb Stark's will was revealed to all, Jon Snow was to be legitimised as Jon Stark, freed from his vows to the Night's Watch, and declared to be heir to Robb Stark. It would only be Stannis' tempering of the situation, negotiating down Master Glover, and sending word for Jon Stark to quicken his arrival from Castle Black which forestalled immediate conflict, instead it simmered under the hot springs of Winterfell, as the once ardent supporters of Stannis in Houses Glover and Mormont suddenly became as scheming as the Dustins and Ryswells.

    ​

    As the soldiers worked in construction, and the lords worked in schemes, some of the nobles were at work in doing some good as well. Lord Wyman Manderly having selflessly surrendered his claim over the Hornwood, was always seen at his desk dispatching letters to White Harbour, and in the weeks coming, skilled artisans and builders would arrive in trickling flows at Winterfell, aiding not only in the speed of the reconstruction, but too in reconstruction of areas beyond the abilities of these former farmers and craftsmen, these men-at-arms and knights, soon a makeshift bridge to the bell tower was made, alongside scaffolding for the Maester's Tower and First Keep. So too would he order in line with Stannis' efforts to consolidate Northern debt to the Iron Bank, offer to the Northern lords his ports to organise the shipping of grain from the Vale and Essos, administrating from hundreds of miles away the collection, and storage of grain for individual houses to transport and distribute as needed.

    ​

    Asha Greyjoy too would play her part, after the controversial appointment of her as Mistress of Ships, the first ever in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, though surprisingly the controversy stemmed more from her descent as a Greyjoy rather than her status as a woman, she rode out from Winterfell with her motley band of Ironborn with orders from her newly considered king. She travelled to Torrhen's Square, wherein meeting with Dagmer Cleftjaw, the man who in the past was all too eager to throw her around the yard, she was able to convince him to surrender the castle, alongside the Tallharts to her, and her king, increasing the Ironborn presence in this multicultural army by almost threefold. Many would wonder at how Asha Greyjoy was able to convince Cleftjaw, especially after the news of Theon Greyjoy's burning at the Crofter's Village, though it was noted by many a keen eyed observer that among the former princess' party, that an old whitebeard accompanied her in chains.

    The arrival of his Queen and her bizarre entourage of the Red Priestess, the legitimised former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, the infant son of the King Beyond the Wall, a Wildling Princess, Stannis' own heiress, the Hand's son, the newly made Lady of the Dreadfort, and a smattering of frozen and starving knights and ladies raised more eyebrows than hopes, their condition being truly wretched and concerning. Queen Selyse had always been a thin woman but never such as now and her hated mustache was now almost a beard dusted with ice crystals, her royal husband addressed her stiffly and briefly, observing the courtesies due and little else before a figure darted out from behind her.

    Shireen was a waif, bundled in almost as many furs as the baby though she managed a weak smile and a gasp of pleasure at the sight of her father running towards him before halting and offering a hesitant courtesy. Stannis offered a short nod in turn before turning to Melisandre who looked almost skeletal, if she a woman grown was in such a state it was miracle that babe strapped to her chest still lived but he seemed if anything to have more life to him than was left in her.

    Jon Stark seemed somewhere between the two, he was unnaturally still and pale and he seemed unconcerned by the cold, perhaps because his words with the King are colder than any wind. The King was naturally, to those who knew his nature that is, annoyed that Jon had refused his offer but then taken that of a dead usurper. Their reunion was awkward to say the least, it would be several days of strain before the two seemed to reach some accord.

    Others were more welcoming, the Glovers and Mormonts had spent days advocating for Jon's claim as a final act of loyalty to their cruelly murdered King, by the end convincing the Mountain Clans, far more concerned with needing strength in command, the Hornwoods, with Larence considering Galbart a second father, and the Flints, standing behind their Mountain Clan cousins. Against this was the natural aversion many of the Northerners had to this bastard oathbreaker with ill disguised suspicion and learning he was back from the dead hardly improved matters, such was the view of many such as the Cerwyns and Umbers. Then there was the fact that many had stood to gain from a long Regency, such as the Dustins and Ryswells. Of course there too was Lord Wyman Manderly, the man who had found out that Rickon was alive in the first place, and had sent the Hand to find him; he still remained the primary backer behind the young lordling. However, for all of them there was something they could not deny, here stood a man with an arguable claim, a Valyrian steel sword and no longer in possession of his milk teeth.

    It would come to a head as the Thenn procession escorted Davos Seaworth's party into Winterfell, at the courtyard, all the lords and ladies would witness the sight of the Hand being tackled into the snow by his eldest remaining son, yet that would remain the lesser of the events to take place that day. The greater would be heralded by the approach of two large direwolves one was as white as the snow that its paws parsed with utmost confidence, it's eyes growing a bright red like sapphires in the dark, the other was a mix of grey and brown and where the other was exuded a confident silence, this one exuded an aura of ferality, of wildness. They reflected their masters well. Prowling in a circle around one another, all would have expected them to come to blows. Instead it would be the recognition of brothers, that rather than violence erupting, they approached each other, cautiously approached, but approached nonetheless, and soon they nuzzled each other, and memory awakened within them. Ghost and Shaggy Dog, brothers, had found each other. It was an auspicious and good sign, for it was not only the direwolf brothers who were to be reunited this day. Cold, and alive in only the barest of meanings, even with all the controversies of his arrival, Jon Stark was able to bring all to silence with just his presence, the very visage of a younger Eddard Stark. Standing opposite him, a distracted boy, no, barely much more than a babe, with a red mane and Tully blue eyes. Stood between them a distance not long, and certainly the closest they had been in years, yet between stood an unasked question up which held the North itself as it's answer. Between a brother who did not want it, and a brother who could not understand it, what was left to them? It was a question which went unanswered as the wild boy, left the grip of his wildling protector, and collided against the knees of the unliving Warden of the North. There were few mercies in the world, there were even less for House Stark, but it was a small mercy all those gathered at the courtyard gave to them both, to allow the question to stay unanswered…

    … At least for a night.

    The next day would find the question back at the forefront of the mind of all. Both Stannis and Jon were not fools, though Stannis would most certainly have preferred Jon as Lord of Winterfell, with his denial, his political fortune in the North relied on Rickon Stark. They had hoped Rickon's arrival would be enough to convince the Northernlords, and for many, it certainly had been. But for others, the Young Wolf's memory lingered on deep. Delaying Jon's formal submission to Stannis until Rickon's arrival in was hoped to forestall any spontaneous actions or declarations by the Northernors, however, that was a fierce underestimation.

    As Jon kneeled, drawing Longclaw and swearing his fealty to Stannis Baratheon, first of his name, King of Westeros, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.

    The drawing of other swords should not have been a surprise. Neither the owners of those swords kneeling themselves. Calls for "Jon" the "Whitewolf" and "Lord of Winterfell" were only tempered by other swords being drawn, but the owners of these swords did not kneel. They only chanted "Rickon" in a haunting rhythm, as both sides as if time slowed began advancing upon each other.

    It would only be the screech of Longclaw on its sheathe, and the blowing of southern warhorns, that for a moment calmer nerves won out. It would not matter that Jon once again refused the title, it would not matter that Jon would throw his support to his little brother. The line had been drawn in the snow, and as he spoke of the real war to the north, the question again remained unanswered, though at the very least, the swords were sheathed for another day.

    ​

    The incident at the ceremony is but a brief interruption to the important work of reconstructing Winterfell which was quick turning into a matter pride, wiping away the moons of Bolton rule, but also of survival, winter had truly arrived and neither man nor beast could survive without substantial protection from the elements. King Stannis had begun the work and but it was in its renewed effort that Lord Jon shone and won over the Northmen, his tireless energy, sharp perception and practical experience impressing them that this was the leader they needed in such times. A leader who was more than willing to get down into the dirt with them.

    It would be in further efforts that Jon proved himself the Lord of Winterfell that was needed in these times, even if that was far from his intention, and certainly far from his desires. Many are again reminded of a younger Eddard Stark who had effortlessly balanced such bannermen as colourful and different as the Greatjon Umber, Wyman Manderly, and Roose Bolton. As Jon successfully engaged with diplomacy and negotiations with the Northernlords to create a far more harmonious and united North moving forward, becoming the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North that Stannis had long desired to control these lands. He was able to convince Master Galbart Glover to surrender his ward, the newly appointed Lord of Hornwood, Larence, to Winterfell for the his remaining two years until adulthood. Moreover he was able to convince both alongside Lord Wyman Manderly for a betrothal between young Larence, and Wyman's younger granddaughter, Wylla, a form of compensation for Manderly bowing out the race for Hornwood. Next he was able to convince Lord Rodrik Ryswell and Lord Manderly to agree to the match of his third son, Roose Ryswell to the future heiress of White Harbour, Lady Wynafryd Manderly. An effort to bring the Ryswells and hopefully the Dustins back into the fold, such a match was contentious and negotiations went back and forth for a long while, with Rodrik by the end specifying that he would be willing for his Roose's children to take upon the Manderly name, only if Lady Wynafryd became Lady of White Harbour. Robett Glover would be convinced to take on the Castellanship of the Dreadfort, while the King's chosen Regent of Winterfell, Alysanne Mormont, alongside Jon's chosen Castellan of Winterfell, Hother Umber both recognising the inevitable conflict would decline, Whoresbane citing a need for himself to be Castellan of the Last Hearth, while Aylysanne Mormont would only offer a smile, stating "There was no need for a Regent, with their Lord present."

    For all those who saw Jon to be the obvious Lord of Winterfell, it seemed Jon grew to deny it even more strongly. While he himself stood by himself, defended only by his wits, Longclaw and Ghost, he organised a guard around his brother, naming Chief Hugo Wull to lead it, and gathering to his side many mountain clansmen, most notably, the brothers, Artos and Donnel Flint, sons of Chief Torghen Flint. The Mountain Clansmen prove the perfect bodyguard for the boy, sharing in the same wildness and disrespect for courtly etiquette that was to be expected from a boy raised out in the wilderness by a wildling the last year.

    When the Tallharts arrived escorted by the Ironborn of all people, Jon was quick in sensing opportunity. Taking both Brandon and Beren as his wards, while naming them temporary heirs to their cousin Larence, all the while organising a betrothal between his brother and Lady Eddara Tallhart, the young Lady of Torrhen's Square. It was noted that the Wolf pup was rather shy, and nervous around his new betrothed.

    Rickon would not be the only Stark to have a match made for him, though where Rickon was to be married to a lady of one of the great Northern houses, Jon at the suggestion of his king would marry a lady of much lower rank by birth, but who had unwillingly or not, been raised to one of the potentially most powerful woman in the North, Jeyne Poole, Lady of the Dreadfort. Having known each other since childhood, many might have thought them childhood sweethearts, but the reality was they had barely spoken during their youth, what bonded them now was instead simply put, trauma. Between barely a man who had died, and barely a woman who had wanted nothing more than death, they were perfect for each other, in a twisted sort of way.

    Their wedding would be a small one, or as small as one could be when considering lords and ladies. The Northernlords were already assembled, while along with them stood many a Southerner, and even the stray Ironborn and Freefolk. A small feast was a fast relief for all, as for just one day, better food, and more food, flowed freely for a night. Where before they had to persist with pease porridge and pisswater, now meat and wine was made available. Abel the Bard entertained all with his lute and fondness of Freefolk songs, men drank while ladies danced. A night of merry and hope that the North had not seen in years.

    Drunken shouts for a bedding put that to bed quickly.

    Between a shaking bride, and a groom bearing his fangs, as his sword was unsheathed, there was not much room for merry.

    Jon would carry his new wife to their room, whispers abounded from all when they left, many looking upon an emotionless Stannis, as if he had an answer. Jon's reappearance minutes later gave them all the answer.

    Still though the former Lord Commander had not bedded his new wife at their wedding night, rumours did abound the castle that the once bastard was bedding someone. The spearwives whispered that it was Val, they believed that regardless of the elaborate peacock dance of the kneelers, Jon had stolen Val, and thus Val was his. The Queen's Men spoke between themselves that it was their fiery mistress, Melisandre, whom Lord Stark had taken to his bed, both having been in rapt conversation during the march to Winterfell. While the Northernors believed it was simply Lady Jeyne Poole, that regardless of the events of their wedding, that the dutiful Jon Stark would know the importance of having an heir, and would undergo the necessary rituals.

    Jon would never comment on such rumours, far above him such gossip was, instead he would be found most often at the Bell Tower, with a "Snow" screaming raven.

    It would quickly become apparent that other Northernors were also considering matches for themselves, the two most eligible bachelorettes in the North in fact. The elder, Lady Barbrey Dustin and the aging Lady Jonelle Cerwyn, both ruling ladies in their own right over their respective seats of Barrowton, and Castle Cerwyn. Whoever would marry these women would undoubtedly find themselves in high and prominent positions. Unfortunately, both ladies knew that too well, and knew to gain the best match for their house, their seats, for themselves, for better or worse.

    If Stannis felt resentful of the lack of appreciation for his own efforts, and the focus of the Northernlords shifting towards Jon Stark then it was more than justified, and hidden rather well. For it was he who made negotiations with Myr, Ibben, and Braavos possible, consenting to the Warden of the North's proposal of turning over the Dreadfort's treasury to buy up the food to enable his subjects survive the Winter, to purchase the glass necessary to restore the Glass Gardens. It was Stannis who had overseen the actual removal of the Boltons and their Frey allies from power. And now it was he who lent his approval to Jon's latest effort to save the Freefolk at Hardhome.

    ​

    A host of over two thousand men would march from Winterfell, along the freezing White Knife on the road to White Harbour. An army of Northernors, of Southernors, of Ironborn, and of Freefolk, lead by of course Jon Stark, yet accompanied by the Mistress of Ships, Asha Greyjoy, the red priestess, Melisandre, and Abel, and his spearwives. Wyman Manderly had sent ravens to White Harbour already, commanding them to put to sea the warfleet the Manderlys had built to serve the King in the North. Yet all knew, though the warfleet could go toe to toe with any fleet in Westeros, to brave the elements, the winter storms, would only invite folly.

    Fortunately, King Stannis knew how to nullify such pesky weather.

    Ser Clayton Suggs would ride out in front of the host, his mission was rather simple.

    He only had to find evidence that a Lannister was aiding the Lannister cause.

    Maester Theomore, the Maester of White Harbour, was far from the first maester to have broken his vows, and Stannis had more experience than most in their kind. Essentially raised by a Maester, he knew their vows, held much respect for their Order, and had seen his Maester poison himself in an attempt to go beyond his vows, he had seen another maester claim allegiance to him, and instead be serving the Dreadfort. With Lannister agents at the Wall, at the Dreadfort, it was not impossible, and indeed it was likely, that a Lannister of Lannisport, Maester of one of the strongest houses in the North, would still hold his loyalty to the lion rather than his chain. Both his Hand and Lord Manderly seemed to believe so after all.

    And should he be found guilty, his blood held the line of the ancient Kings of the Rock.

    Clayton Suggs was able to gain a confession within an hour alone with the arrested maester.

    Ser Suggs was reportedly rather disappointed at that.

    The rookery was investigated, and letters to King's Landing were found as well, sealing the fate of this recalcitrant maester.

    The winter storms blew over White Harbour, smallfolk claimed that it stretched across the eastern seaboard, as rain, snow, and hail fell upon all those who attempted to cross the water. If they survived the choppy waters, which threatened to take ships whole.

    As Jon stood as cold as the winds around him, he did nothing to stop the horror that would soon take place in front of him. As the Queen's Men placed the last of the kindling below the screaming blonde man.

    Perhaps it was memories of the Wall, of those Janos Slynt and Clydas, men who had served under him, but had truly served the Lannisters.

    Perhaps it was the filth coming out of the Lannister's mouth, accusations of bastardy, of oathbreaking, of betrayal.

    Whatever it was, Jon stood still, as the fire was lit below the maester, as the screams of desperation became that of pain, of anguish.

    Jon stood still, as in front of him, the rain stopped, the snow fell, and the hail melted away. The clouds disappeared into nothingness, as the bright sun shone down upon him, upon them all. The first feeling of true warmth, that he had felt in moons.

    His eyes closed, as he ignored the distractions around him. The crowd behind breaking out in shouts and screaming, as all who witnessed the miracle tried to think of some way to explain. Most shouted it a blessing of the Seven, a sign from the Old Gods, most concerning were the louder voices, the ones that had been convinced, that saw the burning husk of the Lannister maester and could only see one answer.

    The Red God.

    Jon ignored it all, as the warm winds blew across his face, blew northwards, to Hardhome.

    Hope was felt by all.

    Yet hope was always somewhat ephemeral.

    A raven flew from Eastwatch, and its tidings did not bid well.

    Westwatch had fallen, the Shadow Tower was crippled, Wildlings were crossing on mass, and Denys Mallster was dead.

    Tormund had made it to Hardhome, the land route was impossible now, Cotter Pyke and Mother Mole alongside half the Freefolk and almost all the Rangers sent were dead.

    Jon would wordlessly crumple the letter, as words of its contents spread amongst all, a negative aspect of lacking a maester. Jon would board a ship, followed by an army that suddenly looked far worse for wear. His mission was clear, and it was so simple.

    Save Hardhome.

    The fleet set out from White Harbour to clear skies, as a single Manderly ship travelled southwards, soon to be trailed by Borrel ships.

    All the while rumours abounded that White Harbour hosted sailors with webbed feet and hands, as religious tensions simmered.

    ​


    Deaths and Births​

    Bowen of House Marsh, executed for his participation in the mutiny at Castle Black.
    Clydas, executed for his participation in the mutiny at Castle Black.
    Wick Whittlestick, executed for his participation in the mutiny at Castle Black.
    Alf of Runnymud, executed for his participation in mutiny at Castle Black.
    Denys of House Mallister, Commander of the Shadow Tower, killed fighting the Weeper at the Bridge of Skulls.
    Theomore of House Lannister, Maester of White Harbour, burned alive for treason against the King of Westeros.
    Cotter Pyke, Commander of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, killed fighting the Wights at Hardhome.

    Stannis of House Bolton, arguable Lord of the Dreadfort, Hornwood, and Winterfell, born at Winterfell.
     
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  • Threadmarks
    • The Riverlands, The Westerlands, and The Vale of Arryn - 300 AC - First Three Moons
  • Threadmarks
    • The Brother

    Thanks to @Hyvelic for writing this POV section

    As the two hosts marched towards Riverrun, the Riverlands' verdant landscape stretched out before them like a canvas of emerald and gold. The gentle flow of the rivers accompanied their progress, and the distant echo of chirping birds created an eerie harmony amidst the silence that enveloped the approaching host. The breeze carried with it a subtle scent of blooming flowers and the promise of an impending storm.

    As the horizon welcomed the first blush of twilight, Black Walder Frey rode at the forefront of his forces, a dark and imposing figure amidst the sea of men clad in silver and blue. The anticipation of the coming storm crackled in the air like static electricity, and Black Walder's eyes burned with a mix of determination and a long-awaited thirst for retribution.

    With each passing step, the castle's imposing silhouette grew larger, Riverrun standing as a bastion of both strength and vulnerability. A fierce desire to claim it from Emmon Frey's grasp surged within Black Walder but was quickly discarded, knowing that his victory would serve as a stepping stone toward true and ultimate goals.

    The monologue played in his mind, a whispered affirmation of the chaos to come. "The storm approaches, brother Edwyn," Black Walder murmured, a sinister smile playing on his lips. "The winds of fate are shifting, and the Riverlands will know my wrath. All shall tremble before the true power that resides within the heart of this Blackguard."

    His heart pounded with anticipation, the thrill of the coming confrontation fueling his determination. The humiliation he endured at Edwyn's hands was but a distant memory now, woven into the fabric of his sinister plans. "You taunted and mocked, dear brother," Black Walder continued, his voice low and commanding, "but the time for reckoning draws near, and your condescension shall be repaid in full."

    As the armies approached the city's gates, the clash of steel and the resolute trampling of boots filled the air, mirroring the storm that brewed within the depths of Black Walder's soul. He was the harbinger of a storm, a force to be reckoned with, and Riverrun would bear witness to the fury of a man scorned.

    The sun dipped below the horizon, casting elongated shadows across the land, and the storm clouds gathered in the sky above, mirroring the turmoil that awaited Riverrun. Black Walder's eyes gleamed with an unwavering determination, his path set, and his destiny carved in darkness.

    The time for restraint was over; vengeance was within reach, and Riverrun would soon face the fury of the Blackguard knight. As the first raindrops began to fall, Black Walder's heart thundered with anticipation, knowing that the storm he had long awaited was finally upon them. The castle's fate would be decided, and amidst the chaos, Black Walder Frey would rise as a force to be feared and reckoned with, a true villain with an ambition that knew no bounds.    ​


    The Riverlands, The Westerlands, and The Vale of Arryn - 300 AC - First Three Moons​

    The Riverlands more than any other kingdom had faced the most hardship of this War of Five Kings. The initial spark as it were, was ignited as Lannister armies poured out of the Golden Tooth, and within a few moons, many lords lay dead, Riverrun was besieged, all lands south of the Red Fork were burned, and Tywin Lannister stood ascendant as the most feared man on the continent.

    Yet it would not remain so for long, though for the Riverlands, it would not be better. Robb Stark would capture the Kingslayer, would end the siege of Riverrun, would restore the lords to their rightful place, and soon it was Tywin Lannister who instead of ascendant, was trapped, and unable to return home. Those same lords would soon proclaim their saviour as King of the Trident, as his own lords proclaimed him King in the North. A free Riverlands was their dream, one free from the burnings, the killings, the rapes.

    Yet as Robb Stark won more victories, as Roose Bolton retook Harrenhal from a fleeing Old Lion. Instead of freedom, what they gained was yet even more burnings, killings, and rapes, as now not only did the lions prowl, but so did the Riverlords, and so did the wolves.

    Robb Stark would be murdered, his Northern army destroyed, and the Riverlords brought to heel. Yet as those who once served the wolves bent their knees to the lions, all officially would be loyal bannermen to Tommen Baratheon, but there would still be some resistance. The Brotherhood Without Banners was a brotherhood formed to fight for the king, who fought any who harmed the smallfolk. Now under new leadership, their brotherhood turned their eyes upon those twin towers where the most heinous of crimes were committed. As across the Riverlands, tensions simmered.

    ​

    Among the Riverlords themselves, one could not discuss them without discussion of the most prominent one left. House Frey after their Red Wedding has seen new heights which none would have thought possible, holding the Twins, perhaps the richest and most strategic seat in the Riverlands, only compounded with ownership of both Riverrun and Darry falling into their hands. Darry, once held by the powerful Darrys, with its sphere of influence once held over the entire Bay of Crabs. While Riverrun, once most recently the seat of the Lord Paramounts of the Trident, with strategic control over the western Red Fork and the Tumblestone, and itself in a supremely defensible position. Yet such control, such influence, such power, was far more ephemeral than most could see, only growing worse as news exploded out from the Twins. Walder Frey was dead.

    His heir was far from certain, his first son was dead, killed at Oxcross, his first grandson was dead, hanged at Fairmarket, while his first great-grandson, Edwyn was off at Riverrun, with his brother, Black Walder, having far from an easy relationship with his elder brother, holding a host at Seagard, within striking distance of the Twins. Add in questions of legitimacy for Edwyn's only child, and the fact that said child was a girl, and the question of succession promised to be messy.

    ​

    Yet they were not the only Freys of importance. Emmon Frey, second son of Walder Frey, and married to Genna Lannister, sister to Tywin Lannister himself chaffed at the idea that he, the newly made Lord of Riverrun would be subordinate to Harrenhal. Harrenhal being ostensibly ruled by the low-born, Petyr Baelish, who though made Lord Paramount of the Trident, was off in the far away Vale, would it not make sense for him, the elder wise lord that he was, to be ruling the Trident? No doubt with his guidance, all the ills that prevailed it would be whisked away. He believed all this all the while his wife, and gooddaughter, Lady Jeyne Darry themselves were far more concerned that their grandsons and sons had been passed over for the Lordship of Darry, a far more secure seat, which had been occupied by Gatehouse Ami, and her family of Crakehall descendants, all the while they hosted like Perwyn and Olyvar Frey, who though sidelined for now, continued to support the claim of their goodbrother, Edmure over Riverrun, or at the very least the babe growing in their sister's belly.

    Still, there were too other Riverlords of note apart from the Freys. Lord William Mooton for one, a rather weak and vacillating man himself, had turned himself to perhaps one of the most loyal Riverlords to the Crown. Marrying his only daughter and heir to Randyll Tarly's heir, while relying on both him and the Crown to assist in the repaying of his debts to the Iron Bank, while Maidenpool itself would have to rebuild from the war. While lords such as Tytos Blackwood and Jason Mallister are seen as "wolfish" by most, the last partial holdouts of the Northern Kingdom, and being among the last to bend the knee to the Iron Throne. There too are lords such as Jonos Bracken, who have seemingly become fully in league with the Lannisters, besieging Raventree Hall, though how much that is for his own benefit, no one can truly say. Of the last riverlords both high and low, their private thoughts go unknown, but their service under a Lannister banner is publicly reluctant.

    Still, though tensions remain high, though brigands, bandits, and the Brotherhood still plague the roads and woods, and some armies still roam the land. At the very least, the Riverlands have reached a time of relative peace, the war is over, and this all is only an interim to true peace… right?

    That belief was far from the thoughts of one, Edwyn Frey, the newly made Lord of the Crossing with the death of his great-grandfather. He had known far before the official announcement by that conspiratorial Lame Lothar, for he had kin and spies at Riverrun, eager to curry favour with the new lord, despite the Steward's best efforts to hide the death. It was his desire to immediately march upon the Twins and take his rightful place at his seat. Yet, it was far from a straight or clear road to the Twins, his spies already reported that the garrison at the Twins though not having declared for Lame Lothar, followed his instructions to the letter. Far more importantly, his hated brother, Black Walder, who had slept with half the women of the Twins, even Edwyn's own wife, now stood on the road to the Twins, with a host, no doubt to kill him and claim the Twins for himself. Far be it from Edwyn's nature to fear and stew in paranoia at his kin, and all others, Edwyn at the very least had a talent for spotting usefulness, and he could recognise that both his kin in the north held their own uses, one as a commander, and the other as an administrator.

    So as his host began building a pontoon bridge over the Blue Fork, repairing the Fairmarket bridge that the Young Wolf had once sought to cross, Edwyn dispatched letters to both of them. To Lame Lothar were instructions to bar the gates of the Twins to Black Walder and to organise a diplomatic expedition to the Vale. It was a good sign that the Steward was quick to respond, recognising Edwyn as Lord of the Crossing, and acceding to both orders, though this would prove to be a mistake in its own way later. To Black Walder was an offer, of sorts.

    For Black Walder the situation was not dissimilar to Edwyn's, though in position to stop Edwyn's march to the Twins, it would leave Lame Lothar's garrison to his rear, and it was far from certain what the Steward would do. Moreover, attempting to stop Edwyn would be far from an easy contest, a host he held at his command yes, but one smaller than the one opposite him, and possibly, unwilling to face the potential Lord Frey. If then he was to fulfil his heart's desire, to usurp the Twins from his elder brother, it had to stem from elements which Edwyn lacked, cunning and guile. Thus when a message came from the north that Edwyn intended to march north, and a message came from the south from Edwyn that he intended to negotiate, well, Black Walder Frey suddenly became the most loyal servant of his elder brother. Thus as Black Walder turned north, ostensibly to prepare the Twins for Edwyn's arrival, all the while receiving messages from Pennytree and Riverrun, and sending his own back, Edwyn would cross the Blue Fork, to avenge his father.

    Though Edwyn himself had considered several prospects for perpetrators of Ryman Frey's murder near Fairmarket, including but not limited to Jaime Lannister, and Black Walder, he was far from able to at current easily strike at either suspect. What he was able to do, on the other hand, was take out his rather indifferent anger on the town of Fairmarket, ruled by the twin, red and white snakes of Paege, and for his own benefit make himself rather rich. It would be here that all gained a good view of how the new Lord of the Crossing would operate, and to say the least, it did not leave a good first impression. Entering the town, with permission, or exploiting the powerlessness of the Paeges, Edwyn was quick to accuse the town leaders and merchants, even the knightly Paeges, of working with the Brotherhood Without Banners. However, he would claim, as a merciful man, and for his first action as the new Lord of the Twins, he would offer clemency to all those who were willing to pay a donative, to fund the restoration of the Riverlands, and of course surrender a member of their family to serve at the Twins, so that they may learn to love their Frey overlords. He himself would spend the night at the old crumbling tower, once owned by King Halleck Hoare, individually summoning each man of means to pay their donative, to surrender a member of their family, and then to be quickly begone. Any who may have had some private insidious thoughts to resist were quick to have them flee from their heads, as the Frey host sat menacingly, laughing, and lazing about around the tower, even tearing down neighbouring buildings to make for more space.

    ​

    By the coming morn, the Frey host departed from Fairmarket, their pockets laden with jewellery and small trinkets, behind them, wagons were filled to the brim with livestock, breads, cheeses, wines, along with any other valuables be they the lowliest shine of ore, or the greatest beads of gems. The host had grown larger as well, at the very rear, merchant sons and daughters, the town elder's brothers and sisters, and even Ser Halmon Paege's cousins, Robert and Damon walked or rode dispassionately forward, while on the Blue Fork travelling southwards sailed riverboats, barges and galleys, carrying with them pairs of guests as well, set for Maidenpool. Surrounding them all, stood levitating off the ground, silent figures, with taut ropes tied around their necks, as they stood their vigil below the tree tops. Neither pleading, crying, nor an excuse for a lack of wealth would save man or woman from the hangman's noose.

    All knew what sort of man the new Lord of the Twins was now.

    News of such events would soon find itself in Pennytree. There, a Lannister host was preparing to march south to Riverrun, their erstwhile commander, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Jaime Lannister having returned to them after weeks of being missing, with him accompanying the heiress of Tarth, alongside the Imp's old squire, Podrick Payne, and one of Lord Tarly's knights, Ser Hyle Hunt. They were all rather tight-lipped on the events that precipitated their disappearance, allowing rumours to go free, consolidating around the belief that the Brotherhood Without Banners was in the area. The fact that the silent, Ser Ilyn Payne did not accompany them, after having ridden off to find the Kingslayer only fueled these rumours. With the men spooked of an enemy that they could not see, potentially nearby, as Jaime retook command of the army, and sent off messengers northwards, to the Tooth, and to Riverrun, all were quite happy with the new orders to return there. After all, their new Warden of the West was to be married, and marriage meant more ale and bread.

    ​

    It would turn out that the Brotherhood Without Banners was nearby, all two of them. Lady Stoneheart had eyes across the Riverlands, and though she did rage and rasp at the traitor's escape, and would be given word of almost every movement that the army at Pennytree would make. She had many more goals than the deaths of Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth. Indeed, as a host of over a thousand of her men gathered in the eastern Riverlands, soon joined by their principal commander, a thirteen-year-old boy, with pale blonde air, and near purple eyes, once squire to the Lightning Lord and now leader of the remnants of the true Brotherhood, Edric Dayne led a host of near two thousand to march westward with all haste to liberate a rather dim hope of the Riverlands.

    For a child, Edric Dayne proved rather capable of leading such a host, though if that was due to his own leadership skills, his connection to Beric Dondarrion, or the unwillingness for Stonheart's Brotherhood to go against her word, was up in the air. One thing that could be said was that he had surrounded himself with rather capable and loyal subordinates, and it would be through them that he organised his force for this expedition. Anguy, Watty the Miller, Swampy Meg, and the Mad Huntsman, all either having experience in woodcraft, archery or stealth would take command of individual squads together totalling near five hundred men, who under Edric's orders would be part of a range ambush force. All the while Greenbeard would take command of two hundred men who wearing a mishmash of Frey and Lannister banners would be a diversion for the Lannister column, Greenbeard after all had once served in the Lannister army. Finally, the remainder, the majority of the force would be led by Merrit O' Moontown, Jon o' Nutten, Melly, Ser Puddingfoot, and Edric personally, most simply had the objective to kill as many Lannisters as they could while surviving, the commanders though, surrounding themselves with the best, would have a single objective, liberating Edmure Tully.

    Edric even with his youth had been meticulous in planning, recognising that he would not be certain where he would be able to stop the Lannister prisoner train, and went over with his subordinates every outcome and every detail, it would be his first major command after all. Though such complex plans presented in their design equal risk in a portion failing and throwing all into disarray, for the most part, none in the company found themselves able to disagree, though many of Edric's brotherhood had doubts of the expedition in the first place, all this for a Tully, they privately whispered. Yet, surrounded by their old comrades, who they had served together under with Beric, who now served a corpse more than a woman… nostalgia, or at least a chance to strike a blow against the Lannisters, kept them all quiet.

    It would be on a narrow wooded road, surrounded by steep hills, not far from the Golden Tooth, where the inevitable clash had come. The Lannisters had not been fools, having found proof of a force behind them, they had sped ahead, however, that kept their front far less covered. In front of them stood a force, far smaller than their own, but large enough to warrant investigation. They wore the red of the Westerlands, and the blue of the Twins, and their banners confirmed their identity to match. It would be a breath of relief for the convoy, so close to the Tooth, and finally being escorted back home. Most had not seen home for near a year by now. Yet, their commander was far less jubilant about it than his men, Ser Forley Prester was a cautious man, a careful man. When Jaime had been captured on the eve of the Battle of Riverrun, it was he who had successfully withdrawn the army in good order, even if his Tyroshi had defected. It was he who had lost his men for Stafford's folly, it was he who had sat around Riverrun, always nervous for what trick the Blackfish might pull next. It did not help his caution that it seemed his superior commander had adopted it, routinely messengers arriving at his column from the Lord Commander, escorted by a pair of knights, querying constantly at the progress of the column.

    ​

    He would ride out, with a guard around him, as unbeknownst to him, Greenbeard too rode out.

    The spark of recognition in Ser Prester's eyes would have been comical if it were not so dire. As Greenbeard began to speak of a change of orders, that they would link columns before marching to the Tooth in his thick Tyroshi accent, Prester's head would turn in a panicked craze.

    "The enemy is in front of us! Charge!" The panicked voice of the Knight would give out, as his sword was drawn out of its hilt, and he himself charged the Tyroshi. Greenbeard, thoroughly confused, drew his own blade to block the attack. A loud clamour broke out between the armies, as confusion spread between both ranks. Yet, by the time it dawned upon the Tyroshi, recognition of his old superior officer, it was too late. Ser Prester's bodyguard, though confused knew how to follow orders, and before Greenbeard could realise it, he was dead on the muddy road.

    The Lannister horse, leading the front of the column, realising regardless of what was happening, their commander had labelled the force opposing them to be foes, were quick to follow suit, beginning at a canter, and then a gallop, before breaking out into a full-blown sprint. The Brotherhood's decoys would be no match, arms with spears, maces, axes, and swords they might be, but most of them were nought but smallfolk, inspired and glassy-eyed at the thought of being free from their dull lives or burning with revenge against those who had hurt them and theirs. They would be finished, if they experienced a full frontal assault by armoured horses, carrying equally armoured Lannister knights. Wearing bright red, laughing or grim, blowing war horns that cracked the ears.

    That theory would be proven half-true. The front would bear the brunt of the initial advance, and within a second it would be evaporated into a hue of blood and corpses, for every rogue knight that would fall to a spear, would so many more of the Brotherhood, crushed underfoot. It would be the rear that would run first, the ones that bore none of the attack, the most able to flee. Within seconds, the path forward was clearing.

    Yet some fought on still, a stubborn refusal? A desperate last stand? Perhaps.

    More likely, it was the full thrust of the charge being cut off as trees fell upon knights and horses, the clean stream of horses being cut off into two as the front charged, and the rear, reared their horses upwards in shock. The rare few riders who lept over the logs would either be rewarded with glory or with twisted necks and painful deaths as their horses misstepped.

    Those would be the deaths that at least came quickly. As arrows flew down from the woods, figures stood up from the greenery and shrubbery, carrying a mish-mash of whatever could cause the most pain. Cries of "Death to the Lannisters" rung out across the woods. It was an ambush, but likely to Edric's imminent frustration, it had not even been triggered by him. The Lannister foot, which had been minutes ago given the order to charge, had their weapons drawn, and only had to turn to face their foes on each side. No, it was not an enviable position, but it could have been far worse.

    What might have been a slaughter in the woods, instead turned into a grinding battle of attrition, the Lannisters were forced back at every minute, Greenbeard's former command rallying even with his death against the Lannister horse. As the horse themselves tried to reform, cut off as they were and attacked on all sides, those who were brave enough to challenge a knight were fools and quickly cut down. But the lucky few, who were able to throw them off their horse, held the honour of hearing a man screaming out in mercy, pain, and anger in quick succession.

    Had Ser Forley Prester still been at the midguard, he might have thought to have been given the order that Ser Jaime had given him, that Edmure Tully and Jeyne Westerling be executed, lest they fall into the hands of the enemy. Yet Ser Forley Prester was far from the midguard, which held the carriages carrying Lord Tully and the Westerling family, for caught up in the adrenaline of the initial charge, he fought as a bloody mess, along with his bodyguard facing waves after waves of foes. Perhaps even if he had been at the midguard, his mind would have been too far away to issue such an order. Said carriage erupted in screaming and banging, as the occupants looked wildly at each other, having absolutely no idea of what was occurring outside their oaken doors.

    It gave Edric the opportunity to fulfil the main objective of this attack at the very least. Giving the signal to the men around him, shields were raised around the young lord, as they began sprinting forward. Arrows and javelins would strike the wood in audible thunks, the odd scream punctuated even further nearby, among the various screams and shouting around them, as another would replace the fallen shieldbearer, and be prepared to be replaced himself if he should fall. Yet with speed, and through the sacrifice of wounded and moaning men on the muddied floor, stepping over the corpses of those already dead or near enough, the carriage was reached. Axes made quick work of the wall, and the screams from inside were near enough confirmation that the prisoners were there.

    ​

    It must have been quite a sight for the recently deposed Lord of Riverrun to be looking down upon his saviour, the absent Lord of Starfall, but war made for strange bedfellows, and though Lord Gawen Westerling would stand in front of his wife and children, and Edmure specifically in front of his former queen, it became quickly evident that the armed individuals in front of them were friends and not foes, and most importantly that their swords would be pointed away from them.

    For Edric it was quite the moment of relief, things had not gone perfectly to plan, but that was to be expected, but the goal of this all was finally in his grasp and as Edmure, the Westerlings and Spicers stepped off from the carriage into the centre of his shield wall, he brought the horn to his lips.

    And hesitated.

    The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

    Another horn was blowing.

    ​

    The sun shone in the distance above a clear blue sky, that in itself did not bring the sense of dread buried deep into his chest. No, that was the appearance of a yellow pyramid upon the fluttering banners.

    They had been too close to the Tooth.

    Now the Leffords had come out to play.

    Lefford horse smashed into the rear of Greenbeard's cracked and breaking command, the final push to extinguish that surprisingly brave force.

    Lefford arrows fell from the sky, while the synchronised march of boots only seen in the West, and in Essos echoed down the muddied, bloodied road.

    Frustration or even despair mounting, Edric's horn blew out, it would be followed by horns across the battlefield. Merrit, Jon, Puddingfoot, and Melly, all leading their own contingents, would be the last to withdraw, as they allowed their men to flee back into the woodwork, fighting off the revitalised Lannister prisoner train, and advancing Leffords. Anguy and the Mad Huntsman, facing the Lefford advance, would quickly organise a line of fire, to blunt their attack, while Watty and Meg would follow with their men streaming out of the battlefield.

    Unfortunately, as bolts fell upon Edric's disengaging shieldbearers, there would be some last tragedies for the young commander. The scream near his eardrum alerted him to the first, Edmure clutching dual bolts at his shoulder, while another struck his leg, though incredibly painful for said lord, for Edric it would only prove a mild convenience, men coming out of the woodwork carrying a stretcher, specifically made in case of Edmure's injury. It would be in pain for days no doubt, perhaps even weeks, but for Edric's young eyes, it seemed he would survive.

    Alas, no amount of medical knowledge or preparation could diminish the pain of death. Another bolt breaking out between a gap in the shieldwall, striking a silent shout from Lord Gawen Westerling, eliciting sharper, and louder screams from his family, his children especially. It was at least quick, as Lord Westerling fell, his stand saving at the very least, the life of his wife, Lady Spicer.

    Edric was quick, to pull the grieving women and children off the corpse of their patriarch, ignoring the absence of the newly made Lord Rolph Spicer, who had unnoticed by all, through the chaos, fled out of the shield wall, and made it to Lannister lines, though himself rewarded with a bolt to the shoulder for his trouble.

    Lady Spicer, her instincts of self-preservation having saved her thus far, was quick to stand, cradling off her youngest children forward, while Edric pulled the former Queen in the North along past her tears. They were so close to the woods, once there, they would withdraw to the hills, account for their losses, and return to the Riverlands, their mission successful, even with the no doubt expensive loss of life for the Brotherhood.

    It was the cry, the quick gripping of his arms, and then the loosening of those fingers, which alerted him to it not being quite the case. Though perhaps the fresh blood flecks on his face should have alerted him first.

    An arrow through the heart.

    One destined for him if she had not been right behind him.

    Blood flowed upwards from her throat, falling onto the grass, as he pulled her forward still.

    He could save her, he just needed time.

    Her weight grew heavier, as her legs slowed.

    His grip loosened.

    He last saw the Queen in the North, resting her head upon the grassy rise, as Lannister men surrounded her, the Brotherhood in full flight.

    Ser Forley Prester could content himself with the fact that in front of him, a corpse of a young woman barely grown, stood the partial completion of his orders. Robb Stark's Queen was dead. Robb Stark's uncle on the other hand had escaped with the Brotherhood, though already he spoke with the two crossbowmen who he had specially ordered to lay him low, and they reported success in their query, while other men claimed they had seen his blue shirt and tunic, been darkened with deep burgundy.

    The Leffords reported some expensive success in running down the Brotherhood, yet it seemed the Brotherhood had been far more prepared than he could have expected. Traps sprung up to hug any who wandered too far into the woods, while the Brotherhood itself sat behind prepared defensive grounds, daring the Leffords to advance, his own prisoner convoy, far too tired to spare a pursuit.

    A raven was dispatched to Riverrun with news, while Ser Prester and the Leffords turned for the Tooth. Let the Fish lord bleed out, with Gawen dead, and his children kidnapped, a new Lord of the Crag would be needed, and he would be damned if that was to be the returned Rolph Spicer, who in joining their lines, had doubly proved his loyalty, and would no doubt ask for some reward with the rest of his kin gone. Ser Prester himself tended himself with the task of gathering corpses, and wounded, before deciding what to do.

    By the time Ser Prester would reach the Golden Tooth, he would find it a castle ready to go to war. Two large buildings had been given away, their banner known to all through history, yet had been reawakened so recently, the Swords and the Stars stood defiant, as men eagerly surrounded them. Men with Lefford banners were hard at work, training both knights and smallfolk alike, preparing them… well preparing them for war.

    For Ser Prester, watching it all with astonishment, there would be too another surprise. As Lady Alysanne Lefford showed herself, all would cry "The Good Lady Alysanne!"

    It was a strange sight, and as Lady Alysanne came toward him, she held a letter in her hand, from the Queen Regent.

    He was ordered to help raise the Western banners.

    It was war again.

    Back at the Brotherhood encampment, far to the east, the same sense of dispassion that was present with the Lannister army made itself evident. Both Brotherhoods had taken heavy casualties, most of the wounded being left behind, and no doubt being tortured and then executed, while all the corpses were left for the carrion. As quickly as the two Brotherhoods had coalesced to work together for a joint mission, nostalgia for their past battles won both over. It was just as quick that the two Brotherhoods had fractured, accusations ran out between those of Stoneheart who claimed that those of Edric's command had led them to their deaths, that evidently a boy could not lead. While those of Edric's command were quick to latch upon accusations of cowardice and incompetence, as they stood in a defensive circle around their commander.

    That provided them the opportunity they were looking for. Jack-Be-Lucky would step forward, the unofficial commander of Stoneheart's contingent had thus far been rather quiet. Sitting out of planning sessions with the rest of Edric's Brotherhood, and instead claiming that their Mistress had commanded them simply to follow Edric's orders, and thus they would simply do. Now standing, he would announce to all the men, that under the orders of their Lady, the Spicers and the Westerlings would be executed, deeming them guilty of participating in the Red Wedding.

    It was a bombshell announcement, one which for a moment none believed, yet soon, despair at loss turned into the rage of revenge. Yet who would be the target of their rage? Lord Gawen Westerling and Lady Jeyne Westerling were dead, Lord Rolph Spicer was missing. That left only Lady Sybell Spicer, and her two underage children, the three-and-ten, Lady Eleyna Westerling, and the ten-year-old, Rollam Westerling, the seeming new Lord of the Crag.

    Edric could do nought, as the prisoners were brought forth. Lady Spicer looked resolute, even with fear burying itself deep, while the two children looked confused. Edric pushed against his men, so shocked they were too, that he made it to the front of his lines. Yet as his hand went to his sheath, he would find the hand of Anguy holding his collar, pulling him back, looking on with a steely, anguished, and resigned gaze, as Edric screamed out for them to stop. For his men to press forward. Some looked as if they would, the rest looked ashamed, with the same look as Anguy on their face.

    Trees were around them, rope found.

    Sybell began shouting that the Lannisters would pay a ransom worth their weight in gold for their release. Eleyna, who it began to dawn upon what was happening, began to breathe heavily, short bursts accompanying each one, as Rollam looked even more confused.

    The ropes were tied around the trees, and Stoneheart's contingent gave out cheers and whoops, for a moment it was so clear, children? No, enemies, Lannisters, how many of their wives, their children, been raped, and murdered across the Riverlands these past years? They could never be brought back.

    But they could be avenged.

    Tears streamed down their faces, as they were brought to their makeshift gallows, Sybell made desperate pleas, while her children were bawling. Edric's shouts for this to be stopped were drowned out by the sounds of an army victorious.

    Yet for a moment, Edric's screams were heard, alongside the sound of taut ropes, cracked necks, and the last whimpers of blue faces.

    ​

    At Harrenhal, the newly declared Lord of Harrenhal, and thus Lord Paramount of the Trident, Ser Bonifer Hasty was fast at work. He had faced some desertions from his Holy Hundred at the news of his true loyalties to the dragon, yet that was to be expected, letting those men who recently joined up with him, or those who had doubted his convictions go with their geldings. They would not matter for the long term, as the banners of Harrenhal, doubtless without any personal loyalty to him, answered the call of Harrenhal regardless, Lolliston, Wode, and Butterwell arriving with their men. Other ravens were sent to all the other keeps of the Riverlands, yet thus far none had answered, still, there was time yet for that to change. Following them was a clean stream of smallfolk, most were women and children desiring only the protection of the walls of Harrenhal, but a substantial portion of them were men of fighting age, declaring their own loyalty to the Dragon. They spoke of the good king Aerys, and gallant prince Rhaegar, many spoke of dissatisfaction with all the kings of this war, the boy king at King's Landing and the usurper king in the North, a minority spoke of leaving the Brotherhood Without Banners, that once was a band of king's men, knights and heroes, had now become a brotherhood of monsters. All were welcomed by Lord Bonifer Hasty, as his army swelled in size.

    The most promising arrival had been one of Lady Barbara of House Bracken, daughter of Lord Jonos of Stone Hedge, accompanied by a pair of her father's knights. She had explained that her father had intended to send her to be a hostage at King's Landing, bidding the instructions of the Kingslayer, but when he had received the raven from Harrenhal, received word of events in the south, he knew that the time had come. Instructing her to come to Harrenhal, she now promised Lord Hasty that a host of a thousand Bracken horse and foot would come to reinforce Harrenhal.

    Though, not if Lady Stoneheart would have anything to do about it.

    Having dispatched over a thousand men to assist the Dayne boy, it still left the terror of the Riverlands with quite a force to manage other campaigns. One of the most important being that of an expedition against the only non-Frey Riverlord who had independent forces on the field, who had brought renewed war upon Raventree Hall, who had been among the first to lower his banners at the death of her son, Lord Jonos Bracken. Setting out from her base of operations with her Greyguard, she soon rallied the rest of the Brotherhood to her call, like a bee to flowers, they arrived promptly and eagerly, and soon a force of over two thousand was assembled, to take on an estimated thousand, who were presumed to be marching back to Stone Hedge.

    Brotherhood spies were quick to find this was false, those at Stone Hedge itself reporting that the castle garrison was expanding, while quickly repairing the last damage to the castle, alongside reinforcing and building additional defences. All the while those with the Brackens themselves were marching eastwards, on the road to Harrenhal.

    It would be at the crossing over the Red Fork, that the Bracken host would be caught.

    ​

    As half of the host was across the river, with all of the horse, the Brotherhood would begin their attack. Most were upon the northern bank, under the direct command of Lady Stoneheart, her ghostly appearance a boon to those under her command, a detriment to those who faced her. While at the southern bank, would stand Lem Lemoncloak, commanding the smaller force of five hundred, to pin the Brackens between two thrusts, surround them, and kill them all.

    The battle began as shouting emerged from the trees surrounding the ford, two thousand men Northerner and Riverlander alike breaking out in full spring out of the woodwork. The surprised Brackens, already outnumbered, but now with half of them across the ford, could do nothing but fight and despair, as their rear lines were cut down, by the time the rest were able to grab their weapons and fight back. It may have devolved into frantic fighting between desperate men, as the Red Fork ran red with the blood of both sides, as some men fled across the ford, while others thundered back across to help their allies. It may have been, if not for the presence of Lady Stoneheart.

    Riding out of the darkened trees, upon a pale white mare, as pale and white as she was, those that saw her, through pure fright were said to lose all the colour on their face. Many of the Brackens knew who she was, Jonos Bracken, knew her well especially.

    "Lady C-C-Catelyn Tully?" His shaky voice was reported to have said such sentiments were far from uncommon among his men either.

    Her presence alone was enough to cause a retreat. Morale broke, as men cut down from swords and arrows into their backs, as they trampled over corpses, or even their own friends to escape from the dead woman who had somehow come back. For Lady Stoneheart, gazing disinterestedly down upon her vanquished foes, it would not matter how quick or far they would run, they would not escape her, or her men.

    A hint of a smile, a hint of something graced her chapped and cracked lips, as an arrow flew out of the bow of Ser Dennet, and struck the lone plated figure upon the horse, wading through the shallow waters. He did not make a sound she could hear, as Lord Bracken fell upon the Red Fork, swept underneath the current, as his armour brought him low.

    The rest of them would join him.

    Or they would have, as her gaze rested upon the southern bank.

    If not for the dragons that appeared out of the woods. Red dragons, upon black fields. A hail of arrows fell upon the ford, cutting off the retreating Brackens from the advancing Brotherhood. An armoured figure, with a bushy brown beard, appeared out of those woods too, yet those were not his most distinct features, instead, it was his hooded yellow cloak, flapping in the wind.

    The Brackens now leaderless, once despairing, now were cautious, a host emerged out of the trees, once ordered to attack them, now standing with them. They had always been Kingsman, and as Ser Lem Lemoncloak let his cloak fall, it revealed another, one of red lips and golden skulls, Ser Richard Lonmouth had found them their Dragon King.

    Lady Stoneheart raised a hand, and by her hand held both death and life. Should she give the order, her Brotherhood would stream across the waters, would smash what was left of the Brackens, and their traitorous brothers.

    Yet, why would she? Why waste such lives, when their mission was complete? Lord Bracken was dead, and now, all would know her wrath.

    Thus the Brotherhood as it had always done, melted back into the greenery, while the newly revealed Ser Richard Lonmouth would lead his Kingsman, and the still sizeable if leaderless Bracken host to Harrenhal. Delivering the unfortunate news to the new Lady of Stone Hedge, but joining his strength to that of the new Lord of Harrenhal.

    ​

    His arrival would be heralded by that of Faith Legates from King's Landing, these men sent by the High Sparrow to preach to all corners of the Seven Kingdoms, would speak that the sins of Robert Baratheon, of Cersei Lannister, of Tywin Lannister, and all the brigands and bandits who brought harm to those of the Faith, were indeed, a punishment from God, that the rising of revenants and undead Beyond the Wall, and in the Riverlands, that the Demon of the Sunset Sea, were further punishments for the Kingdoms' lack of faith. They spoke further, that all of these foes could only be defeated, if the men of the realm rallied to the banner of the Faith, to protect the septons and septas, to defeat the demons, and to defend the Smallfolk.

    For Lord Hasty, still a man of the Faith even with flying the banners of the dragon, he allowed the legates to preach as they desired. It was not an unattractive or even untrue speech after all. Words against the Lannister regime benefitted himself and his King quite well, and he himself took faith in the fact the High Septon was not preaching against Aegon. Though such preaching would incidentally harm him should he have desired it or not. The Brackens, defeated as they were, now led by a woman, and having seen a real ghost were swayed by the legates' preaching, and many of them would quickly leave for King's Landing to join the Warrior's Sons or Poor Fellows, followed by many smallfolk, also convinced.

    Lord Hasty all the while was distracted by orders from the Legates, given by the High Sparrow. Commanding him to ride to Oldtown's defence from the Ironborn, as a figure who would be able to unite the disparate forces of House Targaryen and House Baratheon under a truce to make certain the Demon of the Sunset Sea would be unable to triumph. The Legates with the authority of the High Septon offered to bless his mishmash of an army, and too, most promisingly, that the Faith would fully back whichever King would throw back the Ironborn. Yet on the other hand, stated they had orders to excommunicate Bonifer should he fail to march, that he could either be remembered as the man who led the Faithful to prevent the sacking of Oldtown, or he would be remembered as among the damned for failure.

    What a man of faith such as Bonifer thought of such a proposal cannot be known, but what a Targaryen loyalist appointed by Lord Orton Merryweather thought could be seen as plain as day. Lord Hasty would protest the orders, replying that the distance between Harrenhal and Oldtown far too large for his relatively small army to cover, filled with unknown dangers and rampaging armies, and though his loyalty was to the Dragon, that he could not hope to convince him to pass by his rightful throne and work with an abomination of incest.

    Strangely such calls to reason seemed to work on the Legates, who withdrew both the offer and the threat, simply instructing Bonifer to defend the septs of the Trident and allow the mustering of the Faith Militant at Harrenhal, requests that Bonifer was more than happy to accede to.

    ​

    Back at the Twins, Black Walder sat. Drenched, cold, and shivering. He had been sat outside the Twins for weeks now, every day asking Lame Lothar for entry had only resulted in the making of further elaborate excuses. What had first started as excuses that the Twins did not have enough food to feed his army, now turned into whimsical that the privy smelled too much for him to dare let the brother of the Lord of the Twins enter.

    Black Walder had considered simply besieging the Twins with his host for such insolence… yet, as he had his army shoot down ravens travelling southwards, he could not help but think that Lothar was playing at something. Even disregarding that, there was the undeniable problem that Edwyn, and far more importantly, Edwyn's host was still to the south, and having them both catch him in the rear, would be rather problematic indeed.

    Thus as he had agreed with his elder brother, he grits his teeth, ignored the rain as best as he could, and waited. It was at least some solace that his bed was warmed every night. Until, one thankfully shining and warm day, his scouts reported to him of Edwyn's imminent arrival.

    It was a far more triumphal and bright arrival than any Frey ought the right to have, least of all someone as pathetic as Edwyn Frey. Standing upon a litter, with a laurel wreath atop his head, carried by four men apiece, Edwyn Frey, if one did not know he was Edwyn Frey, cast a dashing figure. The Freys atop the tower, having long since spotted Edwyn and his host's arrival, cast out excited cheers, as the gates opened and they emerged from the Twins. If that feeling was genuine, or if it was out of fear of what would happen if they did not show enough appreciation to their new lord, or if it was because of the gold dragons that surrounded Edwyn, was unknown.

    Yet as the Freys chattered, with Lord Edwyn asking for silence, only leading to more chatter, Black Walder silently considered the chances of throwing his sword aimed for between the eyes. A booming squeal, a shout or a scream uttered from Edwyn's lungs would cease all voices, even Black Walder's thoughts, as a rather petulant-looking Edwyn demanded then and there that all of the Freys swear their loyalty to him, or else. A rather awkward silence was broken as Lame Lothar, one of the last to leave the Twins, offered a friendly smile, and attempted to bend his knee, only for Edwyn to demand he walk forward, demanding all his family, and the Lords Charlton, Erenford and Haigh in silence form a line, to kiss his ring, and swear their loyalty.

    It was… rather odd, to say the least, yet with Black Walder and the host behind him doing nothing, and indeed Black Walder finding himself at the end of a very long line of Frey relatives, this odd request was followed through. And thus, long into the night, Frey family members would kiss the ring of Lord Edwyn Frey, the Lord of the Crossing, men would patrol along the line, kicking up all those who attempted to sit down, all the while Edwyn would mutter about how disgusting it was, rubbing his fingers constantly in lye and water to get the spit off, only to moan when the next in the line went forward. All who had to kiss the ring at the very least were happy when one of the men next to the litter flicked them a gold dragon, Edwyn seemed to have a good understanding of a Frey's heart.

    When it was finally Black Walder's turn. All he wanted was to draw his sword, step forward and kill Edwyn Frey. No more politics, no more intrigue. Just take his sword, and fucking kill him. Black Walder at this point had been standing up for a few hours, and while his family had been able to enjoy the creature comforts of the Twins the last few weeks, he had no such relief.

    Unfortunately, for Black Walder, almost as if Edwyn had somehow read his mind, a quick shout that Black Walder was there to kill him, had swords unsheathed and pointed in his direction.

    Frantic blinking was the only response before Edwyn ordered Black Walder to surrender his weapon before kissing his ring. Black Walder thus, faced even more humiliation, as he unclipped his sheath and sword, and threw it at one of Edwyn's guards…

    …Only to face more humiliation, as Edwyn demanded that he be patted down, for any other weapons. Thus Black Walder stood for several minutes, the rest of his family watching with rapt attention, with both Frey hosts watching each other suspiciously until Edwyn was satisfied.

    Then, the final humiliation, and perhaps the worst of all, as Black Walder lowered his head, and kissed the ring of his elder brother, thus almost every Frey in the world had recognised Edwyn as Lord of the Crossing.

    All the while Edwyn himself muttered about poisonous spit and washed and wiped his fingers.

    If any believed that the events of Fairmarket, and the rather strange ceremony out in front of the Twins would be one-off events, they were quickly proven incorrect, as the first feast of the Crossing would prove. At the centre of the high table would sit, Edwyn, atop his great grandfather's chair, surrounded by guards on both sides, with the doorways to the great hall guarded as well, with Walder's old lordly cup (being thoroughly cleaned) and filled with the last of the good Arbor Red, taking his fill, before passing it around the rest of the high table, until it returned to him (not before being thoroughly cleaned of course). Those who sat atop the high table along with Edwyn were Ser "Bastard" Walder Rivers, Ser Dafyn Vance, Ser Aegon "Bloodborn" Frey, and Ser Leslyn Haigh, alongside of course "Lame" Lothar Frey, Steward of the Twins, and Ser "Black" Walder Rivers. It was an obvious if potent powerplay, Black Walder was his brother, while Dayn, Aegon, and Leslyn were his full cousins by marriage or otherwise, while Bastard Walder and Lame Lothar held their own speciality be that war or administration. Still, within this centralisation of this House Frey's control over the Twins, there were its own power plays, Black Walder sitting far from the Lord's chair, being an unsubtle reminder of the brothers' relationship. Yet there were more unsubtle fractures, as the Frey family filtered into the great hall, told to follow to the letter new rules of courtesy and etiquette. Utter silence, unless something dignified was to be said. Not that there was much conversation to be had, the guards already made most conversation uncomforting, while others were far more concerned with looking up at the new paintings and tablets placed up by Edwyn, stolen from Fairmarket no doubt, but certainly brightening up the normally rather dull Twins.

    Yet as the sound of clinking plates, forks and spoons went underway, along with very muted and quiet chatter, it would be unsurprisingly and incidentally the High Table where the first violation of the new etiquette rules would come. Edwyn stood up from his seat, his guards at the ready, as he shouted down upon a struggling Lame Lothar.

    "What the fuck do you mean Walton is already gone?!"

    For Edwyn had wondered where his full-blooded still living male cousin was, Edwyn had not noted his presence at the swearing of the vows earlier that day, and neither was Walton here at the High Table as Edwyn had requested. It had made his head itch, every second of relief only compounding two seconds of itching. Walton was smart, intelligent, he was the one who could convince Littlefinger to get off his mountaintop and deal with the mess that was the Riverlands. He was to lead the embassy to the Gates of the Moon, yet he was gone… him and his Hardyng wife, him and his Hardyng children. When he had finally let go of his pride, or when the itching had grown too much, he had finally asked his capable steward. Only to receive a far from satisfying answer. Walton had left, left with his entire family for the Bloody Gate as soon as he had received permission. The only silver lining was that Edwyn's wife and daughter, not desiring to leave without the explicit permission of their patriarch, had remained behind. Though if Edwyn viewed that as a blessing… It was hard to say. Lame Lothar himself would state ignorance of the intentions of Edwyn's orders, yet that was another expression that was hard to place, was it real or was it feigned?

    Suffice to say, in rage, Edwyn was quick to sack his granduncle, so livid was he that he announced to the whole hall that Black Walder and himself would be bringing their hosts to Riverrun, that he has Lord Frey would give away his grandaunt, the "Maid" Tyta Frey, to marriage to the Warden of the West, and thus her full blooded siblings and their children, including Lothar would accompany them. His own wife and daughter would be sent under the protection of Ser Ryger Rivers to Maidenpool to hopefully join up with Walton and his family, to make their way to the Vale. All the while he would announce a reorganisation of the Twins, appointing Ser Walder Rivers as bailiff and captain of the guards, Ser Perwyn Frey as Castellan, and Ser Dafyn Vance as the new Steward. It would take a few minutes for the realisation that Ser Perwyn was in fact not at the Twins to sink in, for he and the rest of his full blooded siblings were currently at Darry, shunned for their non-participation at the Red Wedding.

    ​

    All of course, except for Roslin Frey, who held at the Twins was excused from both the oaths of fealty and the feast, to the great disappointment of Edwyn. Though even he could not fault the logic. For Roslin Frey had gone into labour some hours before, and as a relatively easy pregnancy ended, a fresh set of lungs cried into the air, cradled by the new mother, Edmyn Tully had been brought into the world, the arguable heir of Riverrun.

    It would be the far more important pregnancy that night, but it would not be the only one. As at nearby Erenford, the former Lady of the Crossing would give birth to a son too, though this one, far far away from being the heir of the Twins, yet that only promised a far more interesting future for one, Tommen Frey.

    Over at Riverrun preparations were underway for perhaps the most important wedding to take place in the Riverlands…

    …The second most important wedding to have taken place in the Riverlands.

    While news filtered down from the south that quite a large host was making its way down from the Twins, some two thousand (Oddly a raven would come from Edwyn announcing that the host was exactly two thousand and five men strong). Along with that news would be others, the birth of a male Tully would be among them, to the displeasure of the new Lord of Riverrun, Emmon. Yet there rumours rife as the Frey host came south, rumours of infighting between the ranks, while Edwyn himself was becoming… rather odd. If they were to be believed wholesale he had apparently taken up leaching eagerly, apparently out of some belief he had been poisoned… and was always poisoned… and strangely because he apparently believed that one of his arms were longer than the other due to uneven blood circulation.

    While these rumours could not be confirmed, they did provide Emmon quite a bit to laugh about in the days leading up to the wedding, as Genna the leading woman of the household, and perhaps the leading person of the castle, prepared. Negotiating an agreement with the Freys of Darry, Emmon and Genna would see off their eldest grandson to marry Gatehouse Ami, Tywin Frey riding off with a proper escort, with strict orders to take the long route around Harrenhal.

    Jaime's arrival with his host was a moment of relief for all, Genna would break courtesy to publicly embrace him, even pinch his ears, while Emmon stood awkwardly smiling at the side. Their happiness at his arrival was evident enough, he was kin, and the principal Lannister commander in the region, his going missing had brought great fear to all of them. Yet, there too was perhaps ulterior motives, his arrival was marked by news of battle on the Red Fork, Bracken banners lay bloody, amongst other unmarked corpses, all the while Stone Hedge had gone silent. Then with news of the Frey host's march to Riverrun, ostensibly for the wedding, it was relieving to have both the Warden of the West and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard nearby for their defence. Tom of Sevenstreams proved particularly active that day, going through a variety of songs in celebration of the Lord Commander's arrival, they had gotten along rather well the last time they were at Riverrn.

    Though as messengers had passed between Riverrun, Seagard and Pennytree, it became clear that Jaime could not stay for long. Giving his apologies to the groom, and his aunt and uncle, a day after he arrived, he would take his host of over two thousand and march to Harrenhal, taking his cousin, Ser Lyonel Frey to be his second in command, and ordering his other cousin, Daven Lannister, the prospective groom, and Warden of the West to join him with his host, once this wedding was done.

    Thus as the Frey host passed by Fairmarket, its townsfolk barricaded themselves inside their homes, as they prepared for a second round of extortion from the new Lord of the Crossing. Then breathing a sign of relief, and praising both the Seven and the Red, for having let him pass them by, Jaime's host was getting used to the new changes he was instituting on his men. Firstly organising a rotational basis for his scouts to make certain that his host never blind, and providing each with a musical instrument, to give first warning if something went wrong, Addam Marbrand as was his desire, was placed in command of the outriders. Jaime himself focused on the immediate rationing of his supplies, keeping a quarter as emergency provisions at all times, while food was stocked up not only from Pennytree, but also Riverrun and all other holdfasts on the way to Harrenhal. If any were annoyed by their commander's actions, and most notably the removal of them from war at Pennytree, into war at Harrenhal, without chance to rest and party at Riverrun, they said nothing. At least not to his face, it was hard to when their commander placed himself in their position, eating the same provisions as his men, while eating with them. It would be noted that their commander had quite the group of companions in Brienne of Tarth, Podrick Payne, Ser Hyle Hunt, Ser Lyonel Frey and his growing brood of squires, Hoster Blackwood, Lewys Piper, Garret Paege, and Josmyn Peckledon.

    It was a motley and varied crew to say the least, but in the chaos of the world, and even with all of them having once been on opposing sides, it was surprisingly comfortable.

    It would not last.

    As the Lannister host arrived at Harrenhal, a bright sunny day, only making it more apparent how strange it was to see the purple and white of Hasty, alongside the Seven Pointed Star of the Faith upon the walls. Yet, that was not the only strange banner upon the wall, indeed, it was not a banner that Jaime had seen at Harrenhal in almost two decades, and it was enough for him to feel a dreadful gripping at his chest.

    The red three headed dragon of Targaryen, fluttered in the wind.

    Yet he had his duty, even if he once had a duty to that banner as well. It would be impossible to traditionally besiege Harrenhal, the castle would be far too big. Thus, all that was left to him was assault or negotiation, and Jaime had long since learned the power of the latter. Thus as he decided the placement of his siege and picket lines, both in an effort to ward off sally from Hasty, but also raids from the Brotherhood. He set off to attempt to convince Ser Bonifer Hasty to end this folly.

    Until, a messenger rode up to the camp, his horse utterly exhausted, yet the man wide eyed and terrified.

    The Reach was in civil war.

    Aegon was on the march.

    Scrunching up the letters, both from the Hand of the King, and from the Queen Regent. He closed his eyes, let himself breathe.

    He had his duty.

    Lending over command to the inexperienced Ser Lyonel Frey, the closest thing to a Lannister in this Host of the West for leagues. He instructed him to listen to Ser Addam Marbrand above all, and continue the siege until he could be relieved by either Lyonel's father, Emmon, or Daven.

    Then without missing a beat, he took command of a fifth of the horse of his host, and began riding at full gallop to King's Landing.

    Leaving a rather bewildered army at his wake, who were far from certain about their new commander. Yet Lyonel proved for the most part an able if unexceptional commander, truly the best they could hope for in this situation. Taking the advice of Ser Marbrand, the best he could, partial siege lines were constructed, without stretching the host too far. They were too able to fend off small sallies from small bands usually led by a figure wearing the Lonmouth colours, none recognising Ser Richard Lonmouth after all this time. Yet Marbrand was continually frustrated at the loss of his outriders and horse in general, though the instruments had led to saving many, just as many would be left with their instruments intact as a mocking gesture, while their clothing, weapons and horses were long gone, along with their attackers.

    Yet, though it was far from an enviable situation, both Lyonel and Addam had confidence that once Daven had arrived, with his host, that they would prevail.

    Unfortunately dual news from east and west put an end to those hopes.

    ​

    At Riverrun, the Freys within the castle were well aware that the Lord of the Crossing, and many of their family were soon to arrive, and it was neither the way of a son of Walder Frey or a sister of Tywin Lannister to do anything but put their best foot forward. Surrounding the castle, any remnants of the siege of the castle had long since been cleared. While within the castle, any and all references or evidence of Tully rule stretching centuries had long since been removed, where once the trout of Tully stood, now was the twin towers of the Crossing. Genna may have not wanted this seat for herself, and she guarded herself and her family earnestly against any threat to it, but she would be damned if she would give up the castle that was now her home, and her home had to be fit for a lioness, no?

    Booming drums and trumpets announced the arrival of Edwyn atop his litter with all the pomp and fanfare which he seemed to believe he deserved, wearing his finest clothes stolen from Fairmarket, if one could squint, and look to him across a vast distance he looked among the greatest lords of the continent. Black Walder on the other hand was barely seen and noticed, yawning as he brought up the rear as yet another humiliation, but too as Edwyn still kept him as far away as possible. Between them was the all but imprisoned Lame Lothar, alongside his wife and children, along with the wives and children of Lothar's full blooded siblings, Jamos, and Whalen, and of course the bride to be, Tyta. Some other Freys also accompanied the host, such as Kyra Frey, and her Goodbrook children.

    Thus as Edwyn and his host filtered into Riverrun, to an awaiting Lord and Lady of the castle, it came to some surprise and proved rather indicative of the fracturing of the House of Frey, when instead of warm friendly greetings between those gathered, it was instead Edwyn announcing that Kyra and Whalen's families would be staying at Riverrun permanently. Emmon if he had desired to bluster at this insult, this insinuation that he was subordinate to the Crossing, subordinate to his grandnephew, said nothing. Instead, Genna at his side, gripping his hand softly stepped forward and agreed to host and ward their distant kin.

    Genna having now made a measure of the man metaphorically sitting atop his high horse, and with her belief of rumours and plans gathered from the north seeming to be confirmed, she was quick to use all of her decades of courtly knowledge to the test. Offering a full blown curtsy to the Lord of the Crossing, right as Edwyn opened his mouth to no doubt speak another insulting command, and instead his mouth only stood slightly ajar, but pleasantly silent.

    Raising her head, Genna would in a tone far more polite than anyone who truly knew her would attest to her lacking, spoke to Edwyn that matters between lords could be handled privately. That at the present time, let joy be the only emotion rather than frustration, for the first time in decades, the Lion and the Towers would be united.

    If Edwyn desired to resist her charms, resist her logic, then it would be quickly silenced, as Daven Lannister finally appeared, standing over the courtyard, with his emerald green eyes surveying over the Frey company. If it was intimidation from the Warden of the West, who had seemingly grown even more hair onto his bushy beard, or if it was due to his primary goal to give away the bride, and cement his ties with House Lannister, it was hard to truly say.

    Yet as Edwyn acceded to the request, believing that he could execute his secondary goal of seizing the grain of Riverrun at some later day, it would be him that was again rendered speechless as Daven held a letter in his hand. Speaking with urgency in his voice, that was far from the joking bearded figure, announcing that the wedding would have to be today, for reinforcements needed to be sent to Harrenhal, with him at command. This was not a surprise to Genna or Emmon, both had long since listened to the annoyed ranting of Daven, who if it were not for both of their efforts, would have charged out by himself to assist with the siege of Harrenhal.

    The contents of the letter on the other hand were unknown to both of them, the maester having only summoned Daven to the rookery, mere minutes before Edwyn's arrival. Yet his face painted a far from favourable tidings, indeed, it was odd to see such an urgent and worrisome look upon the bearded joking face of Daven Lannister.

    Scrunching up the letter in his hands, it became evident why that was.

    The Lannister prisoner convoy to the Golden Tooth was attacked.

    Gawen and Jeyne Westerling were dead.

    The Brotherhood had struck.

    Edmure Tully was missing.

    The words spilled out of Daven's words as quickly as water spilled out of a bucket, and soon a deluge had erupted in the courtyard, chaos as hundreds of voices spoke all at once. Daven proved himself that day, a man who had doubted his qualifications to be Warden of the West when both such figures as Jaime and Kevan Lannister had existed.

    Yet only through raising his voice, a booming sound as close to a horn, and just as incomprehensible, and all at once, the numberless Freys before him ceased their words.

    It would unfortunately only prove a momentary respite. For as they decided to have the wedding the following morning, that Daven as soon as the bedding was over would ride out with his host to the east, where the Brotherhood were last spotted in force, after their attacks both out west and on the Red Fork, news from the east would arrive.

    The Vale of Arryn had kept itself out of the War of the Five Kings and had prospered for it. Its people were healthy, its armies were at full strength, and its granaries were full. Nevertheless, not all was well in the Vale, and though some support existed for the policy of the late Lady Lysa Arryn, continued on by her successor, Lord Petyr Baelish. Lingering resentment over the perceived abandonment of the Young Wolf still abided in the kingdom, alongside continued concern and worry as more and more news filtered into the Vale through the Bloody Gate and Gulltown of the worsening conditions in the Riverlands as winter comes, and as the Lannister regime is unable to maintain order. Yet how much of this concern and worry stemmed from those reasons, rather than for selfish fears that the golden opportunity for the Lords of the Vale to gain glory and wealth for themselves is hard to answer.


    ​

    This split in opinion in the Vale was best seen in the conflict between Lord Baelish, the Lord Protector and Regent of Robert Arryn, and the Lords Declarant, led by Lord "Bronze" Yohn Royce, who sought to depose him. A temporary bargain had been struck, granting Littlefinger rulership over the Vale for a year, but how long such an agreement could stand was far from certain. Especially as Littlefinger's courting of the various members of the Lords Declarant pushed the remainder further and further into desperate action, or simply hoping beyond hope that Littlefinger would surrender power. To forestall any such dangerous outbreak of hostilities, Littlefinger convened the Tourney of the Winged Knights, a tourney to select eight guards for the little Robert Arryn, contrasting quite nicely to the seven guards of little Tommen Baratheon.

    Yet, this was Littlefinger after all, a man who dealt in plans within plans. A man who could orchestrate the demise of kingdoms, while at the same time changing his intentions at the drop of a dragon. The Tourney would be for beyond such petty reasons as maintaining peace, beyond simply providing little Robin Arryn with guards so that he could childishly claim to be superior to the King on the Iron Throne. Instead, it would be to maintain peace, his peace, his victory.

    Houses Belmore, Waynwood and Templeton had been brought to his side, half the Lords Declarant defeated without a sword. House Hunter was stuck in petty feuds between the three brothers, one who had already killed their father. All the while only House Redfort, and of course Royce stood against him. Yet, he already had the services of one Royce, this Tourney then was for a specific goal. To surround not only the Lord of the Vale, but too, the Lord Protector, with guards of the great Vale houses.

    Would they dare stand against his will with their family so close?

    Of course, the greatest prize would be Harrold Hardyng, Harry the Heir. Littlefinger had already bought his betrothal, should Harry agree, to marry his Alayne, his secret Sansa. Now if he was obligated to stay at the Gates of the Moon for three years… Well, it would provide him ample opportunity to teach Cat's daughter on the arts of seduction, just as her mother had seduced him, though he had noted with some pride when she too was interested in his matters of finance.

    Harrold, and the Vale fully, would be his, with his partner, in Sansa Stark, at his side.

    He had five knights, bought and paid for, who would throw their lists at the right time to fulfil his aims. Ser Morgarth, Ser Byron, Ser Shadrich, Ser Lothor Brune, and of course, Ser Lyn Corbray. He had much to be smug about as well, though he had created a plan which would have brought two Redforts, a Hunter, a Waynwood, and of course Ser Hardyng, with three positions spare. He had decided to be cautious, believing three would suffice where five would be too complicated, too risky, thus settling his eyes upon Ser Mychel Redfort, son of Lord Horton Redfort, Ser Roland Waynwood, grandson of Lady Anya Waynwood, and of course, Ser Harrold Hardyng, Harry the Heir.

    Unfortunately, for the rather confident Littlefinger, gazing down from upon the dais, with his daughter, Alayne speaking quietly with Lady Myranda Royce next to him, as the tourney went on below. It went far from planned.

    The whole of the Vale was abuzz with chatter of the tourney, the sky blue falcon of Arryn soaring high alongside the black iron studs of Royce, and the fiery titan of Baelish, all who looked down upon the other banners assembled. Waynwood, Hunter, Templeton, Redfort, Belmore, Corbray, Grafton, Lynderly, along with the other great Houses of the Vale. The noticeable absence of the Royces of Runestone went ignored among the great excitement and cheer, the opportunity to show off the might of the Vale.

    The first day would have thirty-two matchups, the second sixteen, the third and last, eight.

    On the first day, all had gone to plan.

    Cheers went about for each tilt, yet Littlefinger focused upon only the matters of most importance.

    Ser Byron had defeated Ser Shadrach, after a respectable four tilts. While Ser Harrold defeated Ser Wallace Waynwood, a rather shy and nervous knight, in just a single tilt, having all of the stands erupt into cheers, to the obvious annoyance of the little Lord of the Vale. Roland Waynwood too would have his victory against Ser Brune, who as Littlefinger had instructed, threw his tilt.

    Ser Lyn proved as vicious as all knew him to be, in a single tilt throwing Ser Ossifer Lipps off his horse. An upset proved to be Ser Symion Sunderland of all people, youngest of the Sunderland brothers, whose presence had been a constant target of mockery for the rest of the Valelords. A particularly common joke wondering how webbed hands held lances. Yet, he who was rather young, and beyond the expectations of all had in a single tilt had defeated Ser Uther Shett. Most contented themselves that it was a fluke, that he would fall the next day.

    Of particular note too was of a mystery knight, common in tourneys, true, yet most uncommon was wearing the sigil of a wolf's head. Yet it proved a most popular decoration, those assembled who had wanted to march for Robb Stark, cheering as he won his first tilt.

    Yet there were too, other upsets, Ser Jon Redfort falling to Ser Albar Royce, who most conspicuously was wearing Lady Alayne Stone's favour. Littlefinger had hoped that even without rigging the lists, that mayhaps he would have gained the second Redfort, yet as his plan had accounted for, one would do.

    The second day would prove the day where things began to go wrong.

    Ser Byron as planned fell to Harry, yet what was not part of the plan was the Sunderland boy in another surprise upset, defeating Ser Lyn, who in such wroth had almost drawn Lady Forlorn, but for a moment eying the audience around him, walking off.

    Still, Littlefinger did not worry too much, he still smiled and exuded the confidence he was known for. The Sunderland boy was proving himself well, yet perhaps carried on still by the air of those who still considered it just luck, just a fluke, he contented himself.

    The other parts of his plan still went well. Ser Morgarth fell to Ser Roland Waynwood as planned. While the mystery knight advanced too, toppling his opponent.

    However, what made this day special, proved to be far after the tourney, and into the feast of the night.

    A raven had come to the Gates of the Moon.

    Harrenhal had declared for Aegon.

    Not the Lord of Harrenhal, not the Lord Paramount of the Trident who sat amongst them.

    No, instead Ser Bonifer Hasty, the Lannister appointed Castellan of Harrenhal, had independently declared himself, and the castle for the dragons. Titling himself Lord of Harrenhal, with the Lord Paramountcy tied to the seat. It seemed that the Riverlands would now face yet another wave of chaos and war.

    Yet for the Valelords assembled at the Gates of the Moon, it beckoned other questions entirely. Who did they support? The Lannisters at King's Landing, or this claimed Targaryen at Storm's End? What about Stannis, who now held Winterfell?

    Other questions were raised too. What about Baelish? Was he truly a high lord without his seat? Could he be Lord Protector of the Vale without the dignity of Harrenhal? Some even gained the courage to ask, should Aegon or less likely Stannis triumph, would Baelish retain the Trident?

    Yet as those questions were asked, as lords and ladies mingled among each other, even finding Alayne, gracefully strolling through the chaos, as her father did his utmost to keep the confidence of the lords, all discussions soon fell upon a single house.

    House Frey.

    ​

    With the Lannisters in turmoil, it would likely fall upon the Freys at either Darry, at Riverrun, or at the Twins to retake Harrenhal. Darry was too weak, and the Twins in its own turmoil over the death of Walder Frey. It would be Emmon then, married to a Lannister who held sway over Lannister forces in the Riverlands. Would it not be he that would march for Harrenhal? And once he took it, he would not give it back, and now so close to Darry, he might press his grandson's claim on that too.

    This talk though the Lords of the Vale would not recognise it was only compounded with the presence of the Freys among them. Sandor and Cynthea Frey, wards of Lady Anya Waynwood and half-Waynwoods themselves, full blooded cousins to Gatehouse Ami would speak of defending the rights of their cousin at Darry. While Ser Albar Royce would speak of his half-Royce cousins by Ser Arwood Frey and Lady Ryella Royce who would be in danger in Darry should it fall to the Lannisters. While Maester Willamen Frey, Maester at Longbow Hall, brother to one of Robb Stark's personal guards, brother to Robb Stark's squire, and brother to Edmure Tully's wife would lead discussions to the matter of Riverrun, its rightful lord was gone, but his heir would be born soon, and if not them, Robert Arryn was Edmure Tully's nephew.

    Such talk would only become more profound as Walton Frey arrived through the Bloody Gate, half-Waynwood himself, married to a Hardyng, with a brood of half-Hardyngs. His speech of fleeing barely with his life and his family's from the Twins, and reporting of the bastardies of both Edwyn and Petyr Frey's daughters, and the infighting between Edwyn and Black Walder did much to rouse discussion.

    Such talking well into the night led directly to the morning of the last tilts. Littlefinger had done his best to retain the confidence of his lords, and for the most part, it had seemed he had found some success. No doubt after this tourney, he would have to do a lot more, yet as it stood, the candidates he had desired for the tourney had made it, even if his paid for knights had not. Regardless, soon the lords of the Vale would be gone back to their keeps, where he could deal with them individually.

    It began off promisingly, Ser Mychel Redfort to no one's surprise, made it through. Followed by Ser Ronald Waynwood. Two of out of the three he had desired had fallen into his lap.

    Ser Andrew Tollet, Ser Lymond Lynderly, and Ser Daemon Sunderland would make it through themselves. They were no great prize in themselves, of rather minor houses, one which he had already bought the loyalty of, yet it was nothing to complain about either. The Sunderland was interesting enough, the middle brother rather than the younger, whose advances had been outshined by the younger. Well at least with one Sunderland brat, he hoped they would be satisfied.

    What did sting was watching as his Sansa's favour led Ser Albar Royce to take the sixth position, in a surprise to all as Ser Eustace Hunter would be thrown well off his horse, with the lance cracking his armour, into his shoulder landing a grievous injury. Both Colemon and Willamen, who were quickly joined by Alayne, reporting that with the lance lodged so deep, they were uncertain if he would make it.

    At the very least it would make Ser Harlan happy… though it had robbed Littlefinger a Hunter hostage.

    Still, he had planned not to have one, so he did not let it linger on his mind too much.

    As the main event played out.

    A knight clad in plate and mail, atop a mighty destrier, his heraldry the quartered arms of Houses Waynwood, Arryn, and of course, Hardyng. He made for a dashing figure, as he rode past, the ladies would swoon, his smile exposing his dimples, as his sandy hair blew in the wind, and his deep blue eyes entranced all. He was as straight as a lance, clean-limbed and hard with muscle, with an aquiline nose, he was every inch the lord in waiting, some said he looked like Lord Jon Arryn in his youth. The wife of this man would no doubt be the envy of every highborn maiden in the Vale, but as well every lady of the Riverlands and Reach too. And as he rode the circuit, coming forth to the central dais, and placing a crown of flowers in front of Lady Alayne Stone, all knew who the target of their envy would be, and all knew, who would win this day.

    The man opposite him, could hardly be called a man, not that he was not of age mind you, but because of his rather short figure. Clad in mail, with some specks of plate centred at his chest and shoulders, he too was atop a destrier, though one of far less pedigree than the one he faced, a sacrifice made by a father needing to buy seven destriers for seven knightly sons. His heradly was much simpler, at least in the sense of it not being quartered, three women's heads atop waves of blue and green. Where the knight opposite him looked every bit the knight, one could not say the same for this man, his eyes were cold, calculating, they had witnessed all those around him call for his defeat, yet now here he was, among the finalists. Where Hardyng was easily called handsome, Sunderland was rather plain, where Hardyng was muscled, Sunderland was lithe, where Hardyng was the heir to the Vale, Sunderland was the seventh son.

    That in the end, made it so obvious who wanted to win.

    The first tilt had their lances smash against their shields.

    Gasps would give out across the viewing stands, as they rode past each other, squires and pages quickly coming forward to give them new lances. Hardyng's would almost be cobbled over, while Sunderland caught his, and was off.

    The second charge just as anticipated as the last as all stood at bated breath, none more than the Lord Protector and his daughter.

    Strike.

    Sunderland's lithe form had allowed a strike which would have been at the shoulder, no doubt bawling him over, miss. All the while Hardyng grunted like a pig, as he absorbed the impact, felt it go up his shield, to his hand, to his arm, ringing throughout his shoulder, as they passed again.

    Again squires and pages stood at the ready, again one would be an ass and another a knight.

    Again they all awaited in bated suspense. Littlefinger no doubt was tempted to begin biting at his nails.

    Strike.

    A cacophony as a lance crashed into armour, an uncomfortable crunch, as a body fell upon the floor, and the whiney of a horse riding forward in distress.

    Shocked gasps.

    Ser Harrold Hardyng lay on the floor, groaning. All the while, Ser Symiond Sunderland found himself the seventh member of the Winged Knights.

    The look of pain on Littlefinger's face, mirrored by that on Alayne's, would make for quite the sight. Though few noticed as that look of pain was mirrored across the viewing gallery, how could the picture of the Arryns fall to a Sunderland?

    Yet, that would not be the last tilt of the day, and though the Knight of the Wolf as he would become to be called was a favourite among the lords and ladies, after the loss of Harry the Heir, not much more attention was warranted. Littlefinger especially paid less than no attention, his mind quickly at work at how to fix all that had gone wrong.

    However, as he performed as well as he had always done, throwing off his opponent at the first tilt, securing his place as the eight Winged Knight. All the nobleborn, desiring for something to distract them from the sheer impossibility of not one, but two Sunderlands finding themselves upon their little Lord's guard, demanded, cheered, called for him to show them their face, show them the face of such a great knight. Thus, as he climbed the raised dais, his hand on his helm, a promise to all.

    ​

    None expected a familiar face.

    Yet familiar was exactly what he was. A face craggy and wind burnt, his features lined and weathered, but no doubt experienced and seasoned. Grey hair, that hinted at flames underneath, with great bushy eyebrows and deep blue eyes that glimmered with laughter. All that was unfamiliar was the hair growing around his face, where once clean shaven, had grown out heavy.

    Still, all recognised him.

    The former Knight of the Bloody Gate.

    The veteran of the Stepstones, Robert's Rebellion, and the War of the Five Kings alike.

    A rebel, a hero.

    Brynden Tully, the Blackfish.

    Before anyone could register their shock, before any could speak, the Lord of the Eyrie's face shone brighter than anyone had ever seen. The boy squealed and ran to the knight, burying his face in a shoulder. Muffled as it was, his laughter still rang through the field. He laughed and laughed, drawing smiles and chuckles from all around. Sweetrobin was breathless, holding on to the old man hard.

    In time, though, the laughter shifted. The boy wheezed between yelps once, then again. He breathed hard, harder still. What followed were tears. Robert sobbed, quietly at first, like a pattering of rain. Soon, the squall was upon them. As the boy weeped, his body shuttered and shook, though it was no spell.

    Muffled words were exchanged between them, as all looked on in awkward silence.

    The grey-haired knight was still a while, not seeming to know what he should do. Then he raised a hand to the boy's head and stroked his hair.

    When the boy's tears began to subside, the old knight stood, and spoke in his hoarse and smoky voice, before anyone could react, let alone speak.

    He spoke of how he had escaped from Riverrun, where his nephew had surrendered the castle rather than see his child catapulted across the wall. He spoke that as he saw it, regardless of who would sit at Riverrun, it could not be Emmon Frey. He looked directly into the eyes of every Valelord, those lords who he had known for years, those lords he had called friend, he spoke of his service as Knight of the Bloody Gate, and how he still held to his duties and oaths to Robb Stark, and now he beseeched the honourable knights of the Vale assembled here, to allow him to fulfil those oaths, to free the Riverlands.

    He condemned the Freys as vile murderers, as godless oathbreakers, and as he looked to each lord, each knight, he could see that his words had convinced them.

    Knights ran forward, bending their knees and vowing vengeance upon the Freys.

    Ser Donnel Waynwood, the new Knight of the Bloody Gate was joined by the Knight of Ninestars, Ser Symond Templeton as they shouted above cheers and clapping, that it was up to them to bring justice to the Riverlands.

    Lord Gilwood Hunter, with Maester Willamen whispering by his ear was quick to announce his support as well, that Riverrun had to be taken from Emmon Frey.

    While Lord Gerold Grafton joined as well, announcing that Harrenhal would need to be retaken from its own usurper.

    The Waynwoods too joined in, Walton, Sandor and Cynthea among them, playing their own games.

    In such energy, where it seemed almost anything was possible. It was still a surprise, when near Littlefinger, shy Alayne Stone quickly stood from the dais, positioning her hair in just a way, that as the sun shined upon it, her once darkened hair, for but a moment glowed auburn. She spoke, announcing herself as Sansa Stark, the daughter of Eddard and Catelyn, who with the blessing of Lady Lysa had hid herself at the Eyrie. She spoke of vengeance, of justice, of Winter, and as her soft, and quickly hoarse growing voice carried, it only elicited more and more cheers.

    Thus it left Littlefinger, shrewd, crafty, Littlefinger. His plans had blown up in his place, yet not all was lost. Sansa's reveal had come before he had ordered it, and far before he was ready. Yet, Littlefinger was not one to be cast down by single failures.

    He was Lord Protector of the Vale, while Brandon Stark was dead, after all.

    Thus as he also stood, his hand clasping themselves on the shoulder of the newly revealed Sansa Stark he would confess his participation in a plot. One which had been thought up by both him and his lady love, Lysa. They had worked together, for a singular purpose, bringing down House Lannister who had assassinated Jon Arryn, spiriting Sansa out of King's Landing, Littlefinger did his utmost to bring chaos to the regime. Thus he echoed the words of both Tully and Stark, as Lord Protector of the Vale, would they give him their support, to bring vengeance and justice to the Riverlands?

    The resounding cheers was enough of an answer.

    Thus as a host five thousand assembled itself at the Gates of the Moon, containing within it banners both for the Lord Protector and the Lords Declarant. As the Lords of the Vale far from the Eyrie heard of the events that took place, and too offered their support, it would be Lord Bronze Yohn Royce's arrival with the leading contingents of the Royce host, that finally signalled the truth that made the rest of Westeros quiver and quake.

    The Vale had finally joined the war.

    The snowed out High Road proved only a minor obstacle, for one as knowledgeable of the area as the Blackfish, who with Lord Royce at his side, emerged out of the Bloody Gate at a speed none expected. However what else was not expected was the frequency of Mountain Clan raids that took place at every step, the Blackfish's outriders reporting that every league crossed resulted in another attack. These Mountain Clansmen were far from the regular sort as well, from where once they may have used bronze and iron weapons, with the rare steel, they now held entirely steel, were armoured from head to toe, and combined with their ferocity… they proved a deadly threat.

    Between the snows and the clansmen, many would die. Yet the fire of revenge burned on, and as the Blackfish had ordered, a rapid march along the Kingsroad began. Unfortunately, a rather immediate problem became apparent for the host, as the snows began falling in the Riverlands, the High Road well and truly closed behind them, no reinforcements or supplies would reach them from that avenue. Something now the assembled lords among the party, grew increasingly concerned. It would take the combined efforts of all the lords to ward off desertion, notably the efforts of Lord Royce, who though likely having been able to usurp command, instead firmly placed himself as the self-less subordinate, an example to all, and a calming influence to all the lords who might have had second thoughts. Yet desertion did occur, as it became all the more apparent that the Blackfish's intention for a decisive battle against the Freys would not occur, as in fact, no Frey army engaged with them. No resistance at all really.

    All apart from a host of less than five hundred, that seemed much less an army, and far more an escort.

    What they were escorting indeed likely saved Brynden's command, as Ser Ryger Rivers surrendered, and under his charge were Lady Janyce Hunter, and Lady Walda Frey, the wife and only child of Lord Edwyn Frey. Thus as the host finally reached the Twins, shooting down ravens and placing it under siege, and quickly eating everything from the surrounding area. Both food and reinforcements became heavily needed.

    Thankfully, both were not too far away.

    Littlefinger left in command of the Vale, with his greatest rival off gallivanting in the Riverlands was given a golden opportunity. Continuing his policy of stockpiling grain, he would send off ravens calling for the hosts of the Vale to assemble at Gulltown, before appointing Lord Nestor Royce, as High Steward of the Vale, and riding off to join them. Though it was not as if Littlefinger had a completely free hand to act, as though Lord Royce was away, his wife and children would prove shrewd and capable themselves. First rather suddenly announcing that grain exports would be slowly reduced, having finally likely deduced Littlefinger's plans, while both Lady Royce and Ser Andar Royce would be seen visiting Ironoaks, Longbow Hall, and the Redfort, the strong garrison left behind by Bronze Yohn making certain of their protection. The most portent action proved to be the arrival of Ser Marlon Manderly, the official ambassador to the Vale, of King Stannis Baratheon, hosted now at Runestone. Many whispers would come about the next few weeks, of where House Royce's loyalties truly lied, as Ser Marlon would accompany the Royces on their makeshift tour of the Vale.

    Littlefinger after those few weeks, would arrive at Gulltown to the sight of five thousand men assembled, with many, many more coming still. With news of difficulty in the west, Baelish, far from a military man, found himself in command of a fleet and army, on the way to land at Saltpans.

    It would be a somber wedding, as the first snows fell. Yet Emmon and Genna did their best, great drums were pounding, pounding, and pounding with all the guest's heads pounding with them. Fiddles screeched, horns blew, the skins skirled a lively tune, but the drumming drove them all. The sounds echoed off the rafters, whilst the guests ate, drank, and shouted at one another below. The bards did as best they could, singing amongst the noise a variety of songs, "Alysanne", "The Bear and the Maiden Fair", and the "Flowers of Spring", led by Tom o' Sevens, as the servants of Riverrun went about the hall, refilling drinks, and bringing out the next courses. The first had been a warm bean soup, then a garden malady of a salad, then a roast horse, enough to feed a hundred men, while jellied eels rounded out the finish.

    A raging fire sat at the foot of the hall, burning and providing warmth to all sitting. A warm comfort as winter made itself evident, yet men still complained as they sweated out their ale, wine and mead, which was particularly potent and strong. Most knew it would be the last time they could drink so freely as this, the outside gave them all they needed to know that winter had come, and with winter would come rationing, would come empty stomachs and cold hearts.

    Outside of the hall had the Frey and Lannister soldiers, making due however they could with with the snow, but warming up in their own way, be it alcohol, or a warm body.

    Genna and Emmon walked among the tables, not partaking in drink themselves as they were all smiles, the charismatic hosts.

    The groom ignored the bride, far more focused on his cups and battle strategy with the Lord of the Crossing next to him, a makeshift game breaking out between them, echoed by those below. Edwyn making it a point to bring his own goblet, his greatgrandfather's he would say, as behind him two guards stood their vigil under his orders. The bride sat silently, a woman of thirty, a self-proclaimed maid, ignored at her own wedding, it made for a sad sight on an already sombre day. Yet half the day was done, and Tyta Frey was now Tyta Lannister, with the golden lion on the red field painted upon her back.

    Black Walder was noticeably absent, afforded a seat at the High Table by both Edwyn and Emmon, he instead sat off in a dark corner.

    In his hand, a dagger.

    The musicians were playing the "Iron Lances", while the bards sang "The Lusty Lad". As Black Walder Frey hid the dagger underneath his sleeve, placing a cloak atop his face, and with the drums booming in his head, a natural rhythm for every step, he advanced slowly upon the High Table, Edwyn who sat atop it, twitching like some pale rat. Soon fists were upon tables, clapping against wood as they banged with the rhythm of the drums, it was for him, Black Walder must have thought. His anthem as he killed his brother.

    Yet then the momentum left his body, the tables no longer clapped, the rhythm was off.

    Edwyn was atop the dais, gazing down upon him, Black Walder's heart had stopped, how could he have known? His heart began to beat faster, no, no, there was no way he could have known. The dagger was hidden, the cloak incinpous. Then his heart slowed,as Edwyn's eyes left him to gaze upon all the others assembled. Clapping a hand upon Daven, his voice boomed, announcing to them all that they had been fed and watered, that the septons had spoken their words, now it was time for House Frey and Lannister to be truly united.

    The musicians and bards at once were playing "The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, And The King Took Off His Crown", drunken louts were shouting about beddings, and as soon as Edwyn's hand dropped, they were off. Tyta sat as silent as she always was as she was taken away, first her shoes falling off, then her dress ripped off, Black Walder would not get the chance to see her smallclothes off, as he himself stood still. Daven himself shouted bawdy jokes, as women stroked his beard, before ripping off all the best of clothes the gold of Casterly Rock had bought. His cock waved freely in the air, and Black Walder had to grimace as his eyes caught a full gaze of it.

    The hall was deserted now. Not entirely, some were too drunk to have left with the hordes of lustful fools. The musicians and bards still played their songs, while the servants went about taking the opportunity to clear plates and replace cups. Yet there were noticeables there, including himself Emmon Frey and Genna Lannister still stood. So did Lame Lothar, his club feet making it obvious why he did not go along with the rest of the men.

    Yet most importantly, upon the dais in his cups, sat Edwyn Frey, his guards about him, but his host outside from the hall.

    Too far away to help.

    He looked meaningfully at his co-conspirators, both Emmon and Genna, Ser Jaime too would he have been here. They looked back as meaningfully, knowing, with men loyal to them outside the hall doors. It would be the best time.

    Thus as Genna opened her mouth to speak, Edwyn's eyes having finally fallen upon them, and a hint of concern made itself.

    They all stopped.

    A haunting melody played across the hall. One they knew all too keenly.

    "And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?"

    They all knew the song, knew it all too well. Emmon's face paled, Genna looked sick. Black Walder's vision filled with blood, through his ear, every drum beat was another bolt loosed, more blood sprayed across his walls, he could barely see now, it was all too red.

    How could Edwyn have known?

    Messengers and ravens had flown between them all with Edwyn none the wiser. No man was unaccounted for, no bird either. No one else knew who could have told Edwyn.

    "Only a cat of a different coat, that's all the truth I know."

    Had Emmon? No, he was too craven.

    Had Genna? No… she would not betray them like this.

    Jaime? Had the Kingslayer doomed them all?

    His eyes gazed upwards.

    And stopped.

    Edwyn looked far more pale than anyone else, his eyes away from them, resting strictly upon the bards, as they played the melody.

    "In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws"

    The song would end as quickly as it came, but not at the decision of the singers, not the order of the lords, not even for the curiosity as those who had laid the groom and bride to bed and returned.

    It would instead be through the sound of the great oaken doors opening, the feel of cold blowing into the room.

    "The Knights of the Vale march on the Twins! The Burning Towers of Grafton disgorge men of plate and mail at Saltpans! Castle Darry flies the eagle of Arryn!"

    It was enough for all to stop, as the panting men, clutching his chest, collapsed onto the floor, at a bewildered, a surprised audience.

    Black Walder did not know what to think, he felt numb. He did nothing as Edwyn stood still, shell shocked, he did nothing as Emmon and Genna went close aside, their grandson had went to Darry, had not he? He did nothing as Lame Lothar had found a calculating look upon his face.

    It was a new song that broke them out of their stupor.

    "And the stars in the night were the eyes of his wolves, and the wind itself was their song."

    Warhorns and screams from outside the hall, made all alert that something was greviously wrong.

    At the corner of his eye, out a window… he was not certain why men of Frey and Lannister colours were about killing their own men. Once drunken friends, laughing and merry gasped, and bloody as they looked into the cold eyes of their executioners. Swords slashed throats, axes struck bellies, while maces and hammers would break skulls.

    Those in the hall, who might have charged out to assist were stopped, as crossbow bolts struck them, instantly killing many, injuring many more.

    "To Lothar, Lord of the Crossing!" Tom O'Sevens would shout as where once a harp was naturally held by his fingers, now a crossbow was just as naturally placed.

    Men who brought out daggers, men who were too drunk to do naught but fight, men who had sense to hide under tables, none were safe.

    The servants.

    Daggers in hand, were quick to ring any and all, their daggers rising and falling.

    Black Walder saw Kyra huddled around her sons, only to be surrounded by demons without mercy.

    Colmar Frey would be struck in the back with a bolt, as he attempted to run away. They said Black Walder could have been the boy's father… was it so? Did he care? Did it matter?

    The bolts did not make distinction.

    Ser Aemon Rivers fought off waves off attackers, telling them each time to come at him, to fight harder.

    He would get his wish, as he was overpowered, his screams echoing the walls as their knives stabbed him, over and over again, their faces growing bloody with every stab. Ser Ronnel Rivers would not be spared the fate, as he attempted to pull off the attacked from his half-nephew.

    Emmon pulling out a sword would in a moment prove himself, standing in front of Genna, his son Walder, and his grandson Martyn, warding off foes. The guards of Riverrun rallying to their lord and making a makeshift shield wall, as those injured and still alive crawled to some salvation.

    Lothar stood, not as a warrior, but as a father and husband, in front of his wife and children as the bolts and daggers avoided them all.

    Black Walder himself lost to his senses, battled on, a wound to his shoulder doing nothing as he elbowed a boy, and quickly ran down a woman. He would pass by Mathis and Dickon, sobbing over the corpse of their father and mother, Jammos and Sallei. He would witness Whalen, wail at his attackers, before being brought low by a bolt through his neck. His wife, Sylwa, would not be spared, even as she attempted to hide their children beneath her skirt. Hoster and Merianne would not be spared as their throats were cut.

    Edwyn stood still, his guards surrounding him, as he somehow looked even paler.

    Servants ran off toward the bedding chamber, and he did nothing.

    As bolts flew against his kin, he did nothing.

    As another horn sounded, as steel clashed, as the musicians, the singers, the bards, and the servants began fleeing out of the hall, he did nothing.

    Such was the mark of Edwyn Frey, the mark of a man who only ruling for three moons, so many wished to kill.

    It was cruel then, that none would succeed.

    For only one could.

    Thus as Edwyn Frey, Lord of the Crossing, gave out a sharp gasp, his guards eyes widening as they feared, somehow, a bolt had passed between their lines.

    It was not a bolt at all.

    Instead, a dagger.

    Held by a cloaked figure, cloaked in shadows, standing behind him.

    Black Walder Frey looked up to his brother, air long having left his lungs for blood. His dagger was bloody, bloodied with those that had harmed their family.

    Yet as they looked to each other across the room, Black Walder's face one of shock, while Edwyn's one of betrayal.

    Only one word passed between them.

    "W…W…Walder."

    And thus, the Lord of the Crossing was dead.


    Deaths and Births​

    Ser Pello "Greenbeard" of Tyrosh, killed by Ser Forley Prester near the Golden Tooth.
    Gawen of House Westerling, Lord of the Crag, killed by Lannister bowmen near the Golden Tooth.
    Jeyne of House Westerling, former Queen in the North, killed by Lannister bowmen near the Golden Tooth.
    Sybell of House Spicer, hanged by the Brotherhood-Without-Banners near the Golden Tooth.
    Rollam of House Westerling, hanged by the Brotherhood-Without-Banners near the Golden Tooth.
    Eleyna of House Westerling, hanged by the Brotherhood-Without-Banners near the Golden Tooth.

    Jonos of House Bracken, Lord of Stone Hedge, killed at the Battle of the Red Fork.

    Ser Eustace of House Hunter, died of a tourney injury at the Gates of the Moon.

    Kyra of House Frey, murdered at the Blue Wedding.
    Walder of House Goodbrook, murdered at the Blue Wedding.
    Jeyne of House Goodbrook, murdered at the Blue Wedding.
    Colmar of House Frey, murdered at the Blue Wedding.
    Ser Aemon Rivers, murdered at the Blue Wedding.
    Ser Ronnel Rivers, murdered at the Blue Wedding.
    Ser Jammos of House Frey, murdered at the Blue Wedding.
    Sallei of House Paege, murdered at the Blue Wedding.
    Ser Whalen of House Frey, murdered at the Blue Wedding.
    Sylwa of House Paege, murdered at the Blue Wedding.
    Hoster of House Frey, murdered at the Blue Wedding.
    Merianne of House Frey, murdered at the Blue Wedding.
    Tyta of House Frey, murdered at the Blue Wedding.
    Edwyn of House Frey, Lord of the Crossing, murdered at the Blue Wedding.

    Edmyn of House Tully, arguable heir of Riverrun, born at the Twins.
    Tommen of House Frey, born at Erenford.
     
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  • Threadmarks
    • Essos - 300 AC - First Three Moons
  • Threadmarks
    • A Slave Unchained

    Special thanks to @Hyvelic for writing this POV section.

    Amidst the turmoil that engulfed Meereen, I found myself swept up in a torrent of emotions. My name is Maelor, and as a slave, I was once just a face among countless others, my existence barely acknowledged by those in power. Yet, that night, as the protests erupted and chaos reigned, something shifted within me, a whisper of hope in the shadows.

    The air crackled with tension as the Green Grace's protest grew into something far more fierce. I could hear the echoes of voices, the cries of anger, and I wondered if it was all a nightmarish illusion or the dawn of something liberating. The lines blurred between dream and reality, leaving me unsure of where I truly stood.

    Amid the riot, the Shavepate and his Brazen Beasts emerged as defenders of order, but the Loraq Pyramid bore the scars of the mayhem. Amidst the ruins, I saw a chance for change, a chance for our voices to be heard. Yet, as days passed, and the city faced uncertainty and threats, doubts crept into my mind. Was this newfound freedom real, or just a fleeting dream? The path ahead seemed hazy, and I yearned for sight.

    The Dwarf's efforts brought both progress and controvery, leaving me caught between hope and uncertainty. The future of Meereen hung in the balance, and the decisions made by the Council held the key to our fate. In my heart, I longed for the dream to be real, to see the chains of slavery shattered forever. But as events unfolded, I couldn't shake the feeling that it all might slip away like sand through my fingers.

    As the world watched, my thoughts intensified. I clung to that glimmer of hope, yearning for the dream of liberty to be more than an ephemeral whisper in the night. Yet, the uncertainty weighed heavy on my shoulders, leaving me to wonder if Meereen's fate was a grand tapestry or a chaotic mirage. The answers eluded me, but I held onto the belief that whatever lay ahead, it would be a new chapter, reshaping the city and the lives of countless others, including my own.    ​

    Essos - 300 AC - First Three Moons
    Special thanks to @Hyvelic for essentially writing this entire report.
    ​
    Slaver's Bay and the Free Cities had held an uneasy balance between powers in the region. This balance was put into place through centuries of effort and interactions. Recent years have shown that the region cannot maintain the previous balance any longer. New alliances and conflicts are coming to light. One such victim of the changing tides sweeping across Essos is the poor city of Astapor. It was once a city once renowned for its Unsullied warriors, who were warriors unbound and raised to be the most dangerous warriors on the field at any time. The change that has overtaken the city in recent years however was one arguably one of the best. Astapor, which had become a beacon of hope for the liberation of slaves across the Free Cities, had fallen into a newer low. The Unsullied, who symbolized courage and the yearning for emancipation that all men who had been chained to a master's whims held within their hearts, were defeated at last.

    The once-mighty walls that stood as symbols of resilience and defiance have been ruthlessly breached, leaving the city vulnerable to the relentless onslaught of tyranny. Its brave defenders fought valiantly, but the overwhelming force brought upon them left the streets stained with the bitter cries of anguish and despair. The haunting cries of the enslaved echo through the city once again, every day is seeped with poignant reminders regarding their fate. Their dreams of a life free from chains have been cruelly snatched away, leaving them to endure a future filled with suffering and exploitation.

    North of the bay from Astapor, the city of Yunkai, which had once shown a glimmer of hope by relinquishing slavery, has succumbed to the allure of its dark past. Like a siren's call, the practice of enslavement has drawn the city back into its clutches, undoing the fleeting progress it had made toward liberation. Yunkai's once-promising steps toward change have been replaced by a renewed dedication to the abhorrent practice of slavery.

    In a startling turn of events, a formidable coalition of slaving cities has emerged, stretching from the prosperous land of Qarth to the ancient gates of Volantis. United by their shared interest in the lucrative slave trade, this coalition poses a significant threat to the stability and harmony of the region. Their alliance not only emboldens their resolve but also strengthens their combined forces, making them a potent and imposing entity.

    Despite their initial defeat outside the walls of Meereen, the coalition has rebounded with newfound vigour and determination. They have meticulously regrouped, shoring up their ranks with fresh recruits and resources, eager to resume their relentless pursuit of power. The defeat only served to fuel their ambitions, and they are now prepared to march once more, setting their sights on domination and wealth.

    The forces of the coalition swell in numbers, their ranks now brimming with soldiers from various corners of Essos. As they gather their strength and coordinate their efforts, the threat they pose becomes increasingly tangible. Their desire to reestablish the slave trade knows no bounds, and they are prepared to challenge any force that stands in their way, fueled by their shared goal of restoring the profitable and exploitative practice that once defined their cities.

    ​
    In the wake of the upheaval in Slaver's Bay, the city of New Ghis stands tall as a formidable force, known for its legendary Iron Legions. These Iron Legions are different fundamentally from the Unsullied that many consider a higher quality, and rightly so. The Legions, however, have qualities unlike the Unsullied that make them their menace on the battlefield to face. The first would be their numbers, these numbers allow them to field more than twenty-five thousand men to fight for their cause. The cause itself is also a strong factor in why they are so successful, for the Iron Legions seek to safeguard their way of life against all who seek to control or dominate them, no matter the cause. The zealous fires of freedom engulf their hearts and none should find them wanting, and as those hearts demanded others be put in bondage, so it would be. The last and perhaps most important factor would be that the Iron Legions are veterans of war, a thousand zealous men can fall like a tree before a woodsman should they not be as experienced, and numbers can only provide so large a buffer. To be blooded, to fight and die and fight again shows the dedication the Legions have, and their reputation only grows with every successive fight.

    ​

    Volantis, a city of grandeur and mighty ambitions, has set its course with unwavering determination. A formidable fleet of five hundred warships sails forth, bearing the symbols of its power and intent. Their mission is clear – to quell the rise of the enigmatic Dragon Queen, whose influence has spread like wildfire across the realm. No expense is spared, and no obstacle is too great as Volantis seeks to assert its dominance and vanquish the perceived threat to its supremacy.

    The treacherous journey has not been without its trials. Storms, fierce and unyielding, have unleashed their fury upon the fleet, claiming some of their vessels in their relentless assault. Yet, undeterred by the unforgiving sea, Volantis soldiers on, their resolve as unyielding as their mighty ships. Each lost vessel serves as a grim reminder of the perils that lie ahead, but it fuels their determination to succeed in their quest.

    ​

    In the vast and enigmatic realm of Slaver's Bay and the Free Cities, the city of Braavos stands as a watchful observer, shrouded in its legendary neutrality. Like an ancient guardian, it watches with cautious curiosity as other factions in the region make bold and decisive moves, vying for power in the tumultuous political landscape. Braavos, a city of secrets and intrigue, carefully navigates the currents of uncertainty, ever mindful of how the events unfolding in Slaver's Bay could impact its interests.

    Amidst the chaos and upheaval, Braavos' attention is drawn to the debts of King's Landing, a matter of great significance to the Iron Bank of Braavos. With the Lion of King's Landing refusing to fulfill its financial obligations, the city is closely monitoring the repercussions of this defiance. The Iron Bank, renowned for its ruthless pursuit of repayment, stands ready to wield its considerable influence, eager to protect its interests and ensure that debts are settled, one way or another, even if it should mean the Stag who sits at Winterfell.

    Yet, as the city's gaze shifts towards the North, it finds itself drawn to a new and compelling force. A Dragon at Storm's End has emerged, its presence stirring the winds of change and adding an unpredictable element to the unfolding drama. Braavos watches with heightened curiosity, intrigued by the potential implications of this new contender on the regional power dynamics.

    But it is not only Slaver's Bay and Westeros where its interests lay.

    Whispers of an enigmatic newcomer spread like wildfire, and fear and intrigue ripple through the hearts of those who hold dominion over the Stepstones. Its sudden appearance sends shockwaves through the established factions, leaving them on edge and uncertain of what lies ahead. The emergence of this new force adds an unsettling air of unpredictability to the already tumultuous landscape of Slaver's Bay and the Free Cities.

    Already all these factions have their sweet doves circling the city, all hoping to make a beneficial agreement, lest they fall to the wayside of a rival's ambition and ability.

    The stage is set for a grand and chaotic struggle for power, with Slaver's Bay and the Free Cities as the backdrop. Ancient traditions clash with newfound ideals, and the winds of change sweep through the land. The fate of countless lives hangs in the balance as armies march, ships set sail, and plots unfold.

    In the midst of the vast tapestry of conflict and intrigue that engulfs Slaver's Bay and the Free Cities, the Dragon Queen stands as a radiant symbol of hope and liberation to the oppressed masses. She stands undaunted by those who would seek to cast her down and enforce the old order of the world unto the new. Her Grace stands, and like a lighthouse, she guides and lights the way forward away from Slavery and toward freedom for all. The masses gaze in awe, seeking approval from her and seeing the path she forges as she advances through the city and its issues. The issues plaguing her are the ones that have plagued the city for time immorium. The old order and the foundation it was set upon have been broken, but not irrevocably so. As events in Astapor have shown, the vile machinations of the slave masters have returned the state of affairs to what they once were, and while the foundation they sit upon is shaking and perhaps cracked, it remains and stands once more.

    Many are cautious, and at the same time worry now. They worry that things will return to what they once were, and while this may be unfounded it still causes its strife. Yet, for the Queen, the road ahead may be treacherous, but it will lead to a new era of freedom and justice, the only difference now is whether it's built on a bed of stone and chains, or ashes and fire.

    Amidst the turmoil, Meereen, the largest city in Slaver's Bay, grapples with one crisis after another. Though the Slaver army has been momentarily defeated, the looming threat of their resurgence hangs heavily over the city like a dark cloud. Within Meereen's walls, fear reigns as the masked Sons of the Harpy continue to strike in the shadows, eliminating all those who stand in opposition to the Dragon Queen's rule. The enigmatic Harpy, their elusive commander, escapes the retaliatory efforts of the Shavepate, leaving the city in a state of constant dread.

    As the deadly grip of the Bloody Flux tightens its hold on Meereen, the once-vibrant streets are now marred by the haunting presence of death. The outbreak of this merciless disease has cast a dark shadow over the city, leaving its people in a state of perpetual fear and uncertainty. The Pale Mare, the Bloody Flux, as the plague is ominously known, runs rampant through the crowded alleys and bustling marketplaces, sparing no one in its relentless assault.

    The disease, as silent as a wraith, claims its victims swiftly and mercilessly. Those afflicted are struck down by its debilitating grip, their bodies weakened and wracked by fever, chills, and agonizing pains. The once-joyful laughter and lively chatter that once filled the streets have been replaced by the mournful cries of the sick and the desperate pleas of their loved ones.

    Amidst the chaos and despair, the people of Meereen struggle to find a semblance of security. They seek refuge within their homes, praying that the Pale Mare will pass them by. But even the walls of their dwellings cannot protect them from the suffocating sense of impending doom that lingers in the air. Every cough and sneeze echo like a death knell and the fear of infection casts a pall over every interaction.

    The once-great slaver city, with its towering pyramids and grand architecture, now stands as a haunting reminder of its own mortality. The grandeur of its past is overshadowed by the grim reality of the present. The streets, once bustling with merchants and traders, are now eerily quiet, save for the occasional mournful procession carrying the bodies of the fallen to their final resting place. Plague has devastated the lands and people of Meereen, and in the wake of the dead and damned the people are tested again and again and again.

    The once-powerful masters and the freed slaves are united in their vulnerability, facing a common enemy that shows no mercy and recognizes no status. It has shown all that breathe that the Rich and Poor, Master and Slave, Saver and Enslaver rot and wither all the same. Despite this, the people of Meereen survive. They struggle, they fight, they claw, they bite, they punch. Day after day after day they survive and even when facing something that seems otherworldly, they live and while mayhaps not thrive, they come as close as they can in these circumstances.

    Beyond the walls of Meereen, a complex and intricate power struggle unfurls, casting a shadow over the supposed unity under the banner of House Targaryen. The establishment of the Ruling Council, an attempt to provide governance amidst the turmoil, proves to be a delicate balancing act. Led by the seasoned knight Barristan Selmy and the elusive but able Skahaz mo Kandaq, the council faces the daunting task of managing a diverse and untested coalition of factions with disparate interests.

    At the heart of this delicate balance are the Freedmen, liberated from the chains of slavery but seeking to secure their newfound freedoms. For generations, they had known only servitude and now yearn to shape their destiny. The challenge lies in integrating them into a system of governance, where they can have a voice while respecting the traditions and customs that shaped their past.

    ​

    The Dothraki, a fierce and nomadic people, stands as both a powerful force and a wild card in the equation. With Daenerys' initial khalasar fiercely loyal to her, their fanatical devotion to the Dragon Queen remains steadfast. However, the absorption of Khal Jhaqo's khalassar into the fold leaves the Dothraki in a state of flux. Some are devoted to their khaleesi, enthralled by the sight of her dragons, while others begin to question the feasibility of a woman leading a khalasar, calling for the return of the khaleesi Ornella to Vaes Dothrak.

    The enigmatic and cunning Sellswords present yet another intricate thread in the web of power. Figures like Daario Naharis, Brown Ben Plumm, and the Tattered Prince operate with their motivations, each vying for love, plunder, or conquest. Their loyalty is as fleeting as the changing winds, making them both powerful allies and dangerous adversaries. The presence of these formidable warriors among the ranks adds a layer of unpredictability to the delicate balance of power.

    Former Slavers, once the oppressors, now find themselves navigating the uncharted waters of a world they once controlled. Their allegiance to the Dragon Queen is far from certain, with old resentments and desires for their former glory lingering beneath the surface. The Shavepate, Skahaz mo Kandaq, leads the Brazen Beasts, enforcing the law with efficiency, yet his deep prejudices raise questions about the fairness and inclusivity of the council's governance.

    The addition of Lions and Krakens further complicates the already intricate dynamics. Houses Lannister and Greyjoy, each with their ambitions and motivations, become entangled in the affairs of Meereen. Their involvement presents both opportunities and threats, as alliances and betrayals become a constant dance in the power struggle.

    The Ruling Council's attempt to bring cohesion to this diverse and volatile coalition is a precarious endeavor. It is a realm where loyalties are fickle, and the desire for power can sow discord among allies. As the delicate balance of the council teeters, the future of Meereen remains uncertain, and the quest for unity amidst diversity continues to be a grand and chaotic dance on the razor's edge of power.

    Daario Naharis, renowned for his striking blue hair and flamboyant demeanor, is not one to be bound by conventional allegiances. His devotion to the Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, may have been undeniable, but the allure of adventure and the promise of conquest have always beckoned him. His love for the Queen, however, adds another layer of concern, as he finds himself torn between his desire for glory and his feelings for the formidable leader.

    Brown Ben Plumm, a seasoned warrior hailing from as he claims, House Plumm of Westeros, has long sought wealth and renown. The path to his loyalty lies not in blind allegiance but in the promise of gold and glory. His pragmatic approach to life and ambition makes him a shrewd tactician on the battlefield, as he weighs his options carefully and aligns himself with the faction that offers the most advantageous prospects.

    Perhaps the most mysterious of them all is the Tattered Prince, a man of intrigue and secrets, shrouded in enigma. His true name and origin remain unknown, and his motivations are a riddle that few can decipher. Some say he seeks vengeance for a past betrayal, while others speculate that he craves power and seeks to carve out his realm from the chaos of the power struggle.

    Yet, despite the ambiguity that surrounds their loyalties, one thing remains undisputed – these Sellswords command some of the most formidable soldiers in the army. Their prowess on the battlefield is unmatched, and their presence is both an asset and a liability. Their skills can tip the scales of a battle in favor of the highest bidder, but their unpredictable nature means that no one can fully trust them.

    As the power struggles in the city intensify, the various factions seek to court these Sellswords more and more often, hoping to secure their loyalty with enticing promises and generous rewards. Each mercenary captain knowing the value of their allegiance, use it as leverage to negotiate the best deal for themselves. Yet, in the game of power and ambition, loyalty is a fleeting currency, easily swayed by the winds of fortune.

    The pit fighters, a formidable yet compact force, stand as a testament to the resilience and exceptional fighting skills honed through years of brutal training. Once shackled in the chains of slavery, they now revel in their freedom, longing for the glory days of the pits. Their hearts ache for the adrenaline-fueled battles that once defined their existence, and they yearn for a leader who can guide them back to the arenas that were once their proving grounds. As they train in the dusty courtyards and shadowy back alleys, their fierce determination burns like a smoldering fire, waiting to be unleashed upon the battlefield once more.

    The Ironborn, who had once bent their knees to the Crow's Eye, Euron Greyjoy, now find themselves torn between old allegiances and new alliances. While they reluctantly follow the Dragon Queen's banner, their true loyalties remain hidden, whispered among captains and crew. Their internal debates spark rumors and suspicions, as Meereen's political landscape becomes a tangled web of uncertainty and shifting allegiances. The Ironborn's role in this grand power struggle remains a mystery, a potent wild card that could either turn the tide or sink them into oblivion.

    ​

    The Unsullied and Freedmen, stark contrasts in loyalty and ability, present both strengths and challenges in the fires of war. The Unsullied follow orders with unwavering obedience, a disciplined force that can carry out their commanders' will without question. However, their lack of initiative can prove a hindrance when confronted with unforeseen circumstances on the battlefield. In contrast, the Freedmen's bravery and fervor in battle are commendable, but their quick retreat in the face of adversity raises questions about their resilience. The challenge lies in balancing these strengths and weaknesses, forging a unified force that can withstand the trials ahead and prove to be an indomitable power under the leadership of the Dragon Queen.

    As the power struggle intensifies, the fate of Meereen, Slaver's Bay, and the Free Cities rests on the edge of a knife. The outcome of this grand and chaotic game is uncertain, and the future of the known world hangs in the balance. Only time will reveal which forces will rise to dominance and which will be cast into the annals of history.

    Amidst the intensified struggle for power, the fate of Meereen, Slaver's Bay, and the Free Cities hangs precariously in the balance, like a ship navigating treacherous waters. The grand and chaotic game being played out has left the future of the known world shrouded in uncertainty. As the forces of various factions collide, only time will unveil which will ascend to dominance and which will succumb to history's merciless grasp.

    Among threats that lurk just beyond the city walls. The weight of leadership rests upon her shoulders, and the choices she makes can determine the fate of Meereen, Slaver's Bay, and the Free Cities at large.

    Every word spoken, every alliance forged, and every strategic move becomes a delicate dance, where a wrong step can lead to disaster. She must remain vigilant, ever mindful of the shifting tides of politics and the intricacies of the power struggles that surround her. In the absence of absolute loyalty from all, she must discern the true intentions of those who claim to be allies and those who may harbor ulterior motives.

    As Daenerys gazes upon her city, now a symbol of hope and liberation, she draws strength from the thousands who have rallied to her cause. Yet, she is acutely aware that unity is fragile, like the wings of a dragon struggling to take flight. She must summon the wisdom and foresight of a true leader, for the fate of countless lives rests upon her shoulders.

    In this realm of shifting sands, where chaos and uncertainty reign, Daenerys embraces her destiny with steely resolve. She knows that peace, no matter how fragile, must be preserved at all costs. Meereen's survival depends on her ability to tread the fine line between compassion and strength, diplomacy and force, mercy, and justice. Only through these trials can she hope to steer her city and the realms beyond toward a future that is not only free from the shackles of slavery but also free from the specter of war and violence.

    Amidst the uncertainty that pervades Meereen, Daenerys Targaryen takes her first decisive action as Queen – formalizing the Ruling Council of the city. Recognizing the need for stable governance in these tumultuous times, she seeks to create a semblance of order and structure. The once ad hoc assembly now transforms into a more defined body, with prominent figures occupying key seats of power. Among those chosen to guide Meereen's fate are the newly declared Hand of the Queen, Tyrion Lannister, and the formidable Master of Ships, Victarion Greyjoy. Their inclusion elevates the council's significance, bringing the total number of members to a notable eighteen.

    However, as the council expands, the intricacies of managing such a large assembly become apparent. The size of the council proves to be a double-edged sword, presenting both opportunities and challenges. Within the ranks of the council, factions emerge as various members align themselves with like-minded individuals, forming coalitions to further their respective agendas.

    Moreover, the imminent departure of key military leaders, including the Queen herself, to the frontlines amplifies the internal challenges. Their absence creates a power vacuum within the council, leaving it exposed to potential machinations and political maneuvering. Skahaz, Tyrion, and the ever-loyal yet inattentive Strong Belwas find themselves grappling with the complexities of maintaining unity and cohesion among the council members. As the council debates and deliberates, internal dynamics are shaped by influential figures like Goghor, Belaqhuo, Camarron, and the enigmatic Spotted Cat, the former guardsmen of King Hizdahr zo Loraq. Each of these individuals has their motives and aspirations, seeking to assert their authority and further their interests.

    In this political arena, alliances are forged and broken, and loyalties are tested. Daenerys must tread carefully, for the fate of Meereen depends on her ability to navigate these treacherous waters. The Ruling Council, though a symbol of unity, also harbors the potential for division and discord. It is up to the young Queen and her advisors to forge a united front, quelling internal strife, and ensuring that the interests of the city and its people remain at the forefront of their decisions.

    In a city marked by uncertainty and external threats, the Ruling Council becomes both a source of hope and a potential source of unrest. The weight of governance rests on their shoulders, and the choices made within its chambers can determine the destiny of Meereen and its people. Daenerys must show not only her strength as a conqueror but also her prowess as a diplomat and leader, for the true test of a ruler lies not only on the battlefield but also in the halls of power, where the future of a city is shaped by the hands that hold it.

    The current composition of the Ruling Council of Meereen is a delicate tapestry woven with diverse threads, each representing different facets of the city's society. Military commanders, battle-hardened and resolute, stand side by side with partisans who have embraced the cause of the Dragon Queen. Alongside them are former guardsmen, loyal to the deposed King Hizdahr, now finding themselves in the service of a foreign ruler.

    As these diverse voices clash and harmonize, tensions run high, and disagreements are inevitable. The ever-shifting dynamics within the council create moments of contention and disagreement, each member advocating for what they believe is best for Meereen's future. Balancing the interests of the city's inhabitants, while safeguarding the hard-won freedom and abolishment of slavery, requires a deft touch and a keen understanding of the city's intricate social fabric.

    Daenerys must rely on the counsel of her advisors, those left behind to steer the course of Meereen during her absence. The choices made within the council's chambers hold the potential to shape the fate of the city and its people for generations to come. With every decision, Daenerys must strike a delicate balance, honoring the contributions of her military leaders while ensuring the voices of the partisans and former guardsmen are heard and respected.

    As the sun sets over the Great Pyramid, casting its shadows across the city, the Ruling Council stands as a symbol of unity amidst diversity. Their shared vision of a liberated Meereen and a future free from the clutches of tyranny unites them in this pivotal moment. The world watches with bated breath as the Dragon Queen and her council navigate the treacherous waters of power, knowing that the future of Meereen, Slaver's Bay, and the Free Cities rests upon the decisions made within these walls.

    Amid the discussions and debates within the Ruling Council of Meereen, a subtle ripple of discontent begins to surface from the ranks of the Second Sons and Windblown. Their murmurs of dissent arise from the notable absence of their leaders, Brown Ben Plumm and the Tattered Prince, from the council's esteemed seats. The Second Sons, renowned sellswords known for their fierce loyalty, and the Windblown, a company of battle-hardened warriors, cannot help but voice their concerns.

    Within the council chambers, the absence of these influential figures is palpable, and their voices are noticeably absent from the discussions. The Second Sons and Windblown question the rationale behind not having their leaders present at this crucial juncture, while Daario Naharis of the Stormcrows is, as their expertise and strategic acumen have proven invaluable in past endeavors. Their absence leaves the council devoid of representation from two powerful and skilled mercenary companies, and this raises eyebrows among their ranks.

    Despite the fuss arising from the ranks, the situation does not escalate into overt action or open confrontation. The leaders of the Second Sons and Windblown refrain from taking any drastic measures, for they recognize the delicate balance of alliances that holds Meereen together. In a city brimming with various factions, each with its own goals and ambitions, the importance of maintaining a semblance of unity becomes paramount.

    For Daenerys, the murmurs of dissent serve as a reminder of the intricacies of ruling Meereen. She knows that the delicate web of alliances can be easily disrupted, and losing the support of the Second Sons and Windblown could have dire consequences for her rule. Their loyalty has been hard-earned through past alliances and shared victories, and their absence from the council raises questions about their standing in the new order.

    Amidst the labyrinth of Meereen's internal politics, Daenerys Targaryen must navigate a treacherous path, balancing the delicate dynamics of the Ruling Council while facing imminent external threats. With the looming arrival of the Volantene fleet and the Slaver Alliance's regrouping at Yunkai, Daenerys and her advisors must stand united to preserve the hard-earned peace in the city they seek to liberate.

    Inside the council chambers, Daenerys presides with a regal poise that commands attention and respect. She lays out her vision for maintaining order within Meereen while preparing to confront the impending threats on the horizon. With a determined tone, she instructs Skahaz and Tyrion to take charge of handling the city's domestic matters, emphasizing the need to maintain stability and ensure the welfare of its people.

    Skahaz, the Shavepate, listens attentively to the queen's orders, his stern demeanor reflecting his unwavering loyalty and dedication to her cause. He nods solemnly, understanding the gravity of the task at hand. As the leader of the Brazen Beasts and a master of political intrigue, he knows the intricate workings of Meereen's society like the back of his hand. With a firm hand, he is determined to suppress any dissent and eliminate the lurking threats posed by the Sons of the Harpy.

    On the other side of the table, Tyrion Lannister, the newly declared Hand of the Queen, leans back in his chair with a calculating gaze. The sharp-witted and cunning dwarf has a reputation for deftly navigating political landscapes, and Daenerys is well aware of his talents. She entrusts him with the task of managing the city's bureaucratic affairs and ensuring a smooth transition of power from the old order of slavery to the new era of liberation.

    Victarion Greyjoy, the fierce and seasoned Ironborn warrior, stands by Daenerys' side, his face a mask of stoic determination. As the Master of Ships, his responsibilities lie in securing the city's waters and preparing the fleet for any potential naval confrontations. He nods in agreement, ready to take command of the Iron Fleet and ensure Meereen's defenses are impenetrable against any attackers from the sea.

    Barristan Selmy, the legendary knight and warrior, listens to the queen's plans with a sense of duty and pride. As the supreme commander of her forces, he will lead the charge on land, fighting alongside his men to protect the city and its people. His experience on countless battlefields makes him a formidable leader, and Daenerys knows she can rely on him to defend their interests fiercely.

    With the council's division of responsibilities clear, Daenerys has laid the groundwork for a cohesive and strategic approach to confronting the challenges that lie ahead. Each member of the council knows their role, and their strengths will be critical in ensuring the safety and prosperity of Meereen. Together, they form an alliance that transcends cultures and backgrounds, united under the banner of House Targaryen and the promise of a new era of freedom and justice for the city. As they prepare to face the tumultuous days ahead, Daenerys' eyes glimmer with determination, ready to embrace the trials of leadership and forge a path toward a brighter future.

    Yet that brighter future dims, as the prospect of what to do with the King of Meereen and Daenerys' husband is raised, tension mounts within the council chambers as Daenerys' seeming to listen to one, Moqorro, a red priest, decides to execute Hizdahr zo Loraq, loyalists of the King rally to his defense. They argue vehemently, pleading for mercy and asserting his importance as a stabilizing force in Meereen. The Queen, aware of the potential consequences of such an act, hesitates, seeking counsel from her advisors on the best course of action.

    Meanwhile, the Green Grace, a powerful figure in the city's religious hierarchy, receives wind of the rumored plan to burn Hizdahr and embrace the Lord of Light. Concerned that this radical shift in religious alignment could ignite unrest among the Ghiscari faithful, she takes it upon herself to raise her objections to Daenerys. Urging the Queen to reconsider, she gathers support from the religious community to voice their protest.

    However, the peaceful demonstration takes an unexpected turn as emotions flare and the crowd's frustration boils over. The initial protest transforms into a full-fledged riot, as anger and discontent spill onto the streets of Meereen. Chaos ensues, with buildings set ablaze and the city engulfed in disorder.

    ​

    Skahaz, ever vigilant, leads the Brazen Beasts into the heart of the riot, facing the raging mob head-on. The city's chief enforcer strives to restore order and protect innocent lives, but the scale of the riot proves overwhelming. As fires spread and the streets become a battlefield, the Loraq Pyramid suffers significant damage, its once-grand halls now charred and crumbling.

    Fueled by the success of quelling the riot, Skahaz seizes the opportunity to execute the next phase of his plan. Coordinating with the Brazen Beasts, he launches a series of precise and devastating attacks on the Pyramids of the Meereenese Great Slaving Houses. Drawing upon information from sympathetic servants, the assaults on the pyramids of Dhazak, Ghazeen, Quazzar, and Rhazdar are carried out with striking precision. The Brazen Beasts, masked and disciplined, prove their mettle as they execute simultaneous and ruthless strikes on the houses that once thrived on the misery of the enslaved.

    Skahaz's strategy goes beyond merely capturing the pyramids. He seizes the pyramid of Rhazdar, stripping its former owner of his wealth and influence, justified by his contribution to the blockade that threatened the city. The other attacked pyramids, Merreq and Zhak, escape with their family members still at large, but not without significant losses. Their treasuries and food stores, essential to their power, fall into Skahaz's hands, effectively crippling their resources.

    However, the situation is far from contained. News arrives from outside the walls of Meereen, bearing word that Lords Merreq and Zhak are amassing their forces, preparing to join the Slavers in a desperate bid to retake their pyramids and free the hostages in the Great Pyramid. Skahaz recognizes the severity of this threat and stations companies of Brazen Beasts in the pyramids, ready to defend against any attempted recapture.

    The Brazen Beasts' relentless assault on the pyramids, however, does not come without consequences. Protests arise, particularly from the Green Grace and House Galare, who vocally oppose the attacks on both the pyramids and those proclaiming loyalty to Daenerys. The tensions escalate as Houses Reznak and Loraq, who sto;; assert their allegiance to the Dragon Queen, find themselves captured and joining their heads imprisoned in the Great Pyramid. As Lord Naqqan seemingly vanishes into the shadows, the true extent of the Sons of the Harpy's influence remains uncertain, adding yet another layer of complexity to the city's tumultuous political landscape.

    Not stopping there, Skahaz extends his campaign to include the pyramids of Merreq, Zhak, and Pahl, achieving varying degrees of success. With every pyramid attack, the balance of power within the city shifts, and the landscape of influence changes.

    In light of the attack on the Pahl pyramid, Skahaz's intelligence gathering pays off immensely. The discovery of orders for poisoned locusts unveils a chilling revelation – Daenerys was not the intended target. Instead, the assassination plot targeted Strong Belwas, the fearsome warrior known for his victory over Oznak zo Pahl, the Great Masters' champion. The revelation sends shockwaves through the council and serves as a grim reminder of the ever-present dangers lurking in the shadows.

    The Hazkar, Yherizan, and Uhlez Pyramids remain safe from attack, though less due to Skahaz's disinterest, and more due to practicality, the first two having crumbled into stone heaps, at the face of dragonfire, while the latter, the home of the dragon Viserion, a wild drake in all sense of the world, who all kept a wide berth from, lest he develop a taste for manflesh.

    Skahaz's calculated attacks on the pyramids yield a significant gain for the Targaryen regime, securing much of the great houses' wealth and power within Meereen. The treasury swells with the seized resources, providing a crucial advantage to Daenerys and her council. However, these actions also lead to an unintended consequence – an upsurge in Sons of the Harpy activities. The brazen attacks on the Pyramids and the capture of prominent figures from neutral or Targaryen-aligned houses fuel the Harpies' rage, resulting in an escalation of violence, particularly against Freedmen on the streets.

    Skahaz's challenge now lies in balancing the number of casualties among his Brazen Beasts with recruitment from the Freedmen. Maintaining the loyalty of the newly liberated, while instilling discipline and efficiency in his forces, proves to be a delicate task. The Freedmen, who once suffered under the yoke of slavery, are now called upon to defend the very city that once enslaved them, a situation that breeds both bravery and trepidation.

    To stabilize the situation, Skahaz organizes military districts centered around the captured Pyramids. The Brazen Beasts station themselves in strategic locations to maintain order and repel Harpy attacks. Yet, despite these measures, the weekly assaults on the Pyramids persist, with casualties mounting on both sides. The relentless and decentralized nature of the Sons of the Harpy poses a significant challenge for Skahaz and his forces, as they face an elusive and fanatical enemy.

    Furthermore, the Brazen Beasts' committees, designed to assist the people during these tumultuous times, become targets for Harpy attacks. In a disturbing and gruesome display, Red Priests, who have been instrumental in the committee's efforts, are found crucified on the streets of Meereen. This ruthless act serves as a grim reminder of the stakes at play and the brutal methods employed by the Sons of the Harpy.

    Throughout these trials, Skahaz remains unyielding in his determination to root out the Harpy and maintain peace within the city. The revelation of the Harpies' decentralized structure only adds to the frustration, leaving Daenerys and her council to tread carefully in their pursuit of justice and stability. The choices made in the face of these challenges will determine the future of Meereen – whether it will flourish under the banner of the Dragon Queen or descend into chaos and unrest once more. As the city stands at this critical juncture, the eyes of the world are upon it, awaiting the outcome of this grand and uncertain tale.

    ​

    While Skahaz dealt with the issues plaguing Meehreen using force and brutal cunning, it was clear that Tyrion, the shrewd and cunning Imp, would take on the task of handling the less violent domestic matters in coordination with Skahaz. Recognizing the need for effective governance and representation for the freedmen, he creates the Freedmen Council, bringing together representatives from various professions – farmers, shepherds, fishermen, artisans, miners, merchants, and even prostitutes.

    Establishing the Freedmen Council proved to be a test of Tyrion's diplomatic skills and perseverance. As representatives from each profession of the freedmen gathered under the Great Pyramid, local issues threatened to overshadow the council's broader goals. For example, farmers, whose newfound freedom allowed them to tend their lands, clashed over accusations of stolen animals and encroachments on their farms by others. Tyrion listened patiently to their grievances, knowing that addressing these minor concerns, even if far from important, was essential to building a cohesive and functional Meereen.

    The inclusion of prostitutes on the council sparked public mockery and scorn from some citizens. Sarcastic labels like "the Demon Monkey's Whorehouse" adorned the Great Pyramid's walls, but Tyrion remained undeterred. He understood that the council's success hinged on representing the diverse interests and needs of all freedmen, regardless of their profession. Slowly but surely, Tyrion's genuine efforts and dedication won the Freedmen's appreciation, earning him their trust as he ventured to gain valuable insights into their desires and aspirations.

    Amidst the intricate tapestry of Meereen's reconstruction, Tyrion embarked on the transformative endeavor of establishing the Grand Guild of Meereen. With slavery abolished, freedmen craftsmen now sought success in a fiercely competitive environment, forming their guilds. Tyrion recognized the need for unity, security, and quality in craftsmanship to ensure the prosperity of the city's artisans. With a strategic vision, he boldly announced the formation of a city-wide guild, inviting all skilled workers to join.

    However, the guild's creation encountered resistance from some freedmen with ties to old slave families. Fearful of the competition posed by the state guild, they voiced their objections loudly. Tyrion carefully listened to their concerns and sought to strike a balance, assuring them that the guild aimed to uplift all Meereenese craftsmen and provide a fair platform for their talents to flourish.

    The looming food crisis demanded immediate action, prompting Tyrion to implement rationing measures to manage scarce resources. Granaries were vigilantly guarded by the Brazen Beasts to prevent desperate civilians from rushing in and exacerbating the situation. To tackle the crisis at its roots, Tyrion introduced agricultural subsidies, providing support to the royal farms and enterprises. He encouraged the production of olives, cheeses, and cheap wines, the latter of which was used to produce vinegar for preserving meat and fish, thus extending the city's food reserves.

    One Captain Chekhov of the Iron Fleet would for several days become the most popular man in Meereen, as he would bring his ship to port, and carrying within his stores, a full bounty of smoked hams. Why exactly a captured ship of the Iron Fleet would carry such cargo would go on to be a minor mystery, but such a gesture would do much to increase the stocks of the granaries.

    Tyrion's inventive mind saw an opportunity to revitalize Meereen's economy through the introduction of a ceramics industry. Though expensive, the venture made sense, utilizing the city's resources to create highly prized ceramics. However, the pressing question remained – who would buy these exquisite creations when most citizens were focused on basic survival?

    While grappling with these challenges, Tyrion also found himself dealing with the influential figure of Ornella, the former Khaleesi of Khal Jhaqo. Her support for the former Lhazareen slaves and the establishment of a religious school raised eyebrows among the traditionalists in Meereen. Rumors of teaching the Lamb God, the Great Shepherd, triggered protests from the Green Grace and the growing number of Red Priests. Juggling these religious tensions alongside his other responsibilities proved to be a daunting task for Tyrion.

    Nonetheless, the Imp's ambitions knew no bounds. He envisioned Meereen as a beacon of hope and opportunity, seeking to turn the city into a hub for "grey" markets that welcomed traders from across the world. Despite the ongoing war and the blockade imposed on Slaver's Bay, Tyrion made loud proclamations that all were welcome, offering tax incentives and promising minimal taxes after the first year. He even dispatched a ship to negotiate a trade treaty with Braavos, hopeful that this alliance could breathe life into Meereen's economy once more.

    Amidst the complex web of domestic affairs and economic reforms, Tyrion found himself grappling with a dire and deadly threat – the dreaded Bloody Flux. Collaborating closely with Skahaz and the Brazen Beasts, they devised a bold plan to contain the spread of the deadly disease.

    Recognizing the importance of swift action, Tyrion and Skahaz agreed on a multi-faceted approach. They decided to make quarantine the so-called Loraq military district, after the burned-down Loraq Pyramid, into a designated isolation zone. Additionally, they implemented smaller quarantine zones in the other districts to prevent further contagion. The hope was that by isolating the infected population in one area, the disease would eventually burn itself out, while those uninfected could be moved to safer parts of the city. It was a cruel act, for those who held the disease could not hope to survive it, they would cry and scream, scratch and tear, to be allowed to live. Yet, many saw the necessity of the cruelty.

    The task of containing the Bloody Flux was no easy feat. The Brazen Beasts, led by Skahaz, worked tirelessly to enforce the quarantine, patrolling the district with unwavering determination, yet the cries of the dying did more hurt to the soldiery than any blade. Those dead were transported to a designated area near the walls to be cremated, their bodies were burned to halt the disease's spread. It was a thankless and grisly duty, but one that needed to be done to protect the rest of Meereen's population.

    Tyrion also launched an initiative to improve sanitation throughout the city. Criminals and prisoners were enlisted to descend into the city's vast and grimy sewers to clean them out. The task was both repugnant and dangerous, as many of these laborers risked contracting the Pale Mare themselves. But Tyrion understood the necessity of sanitation in preventing further outbreaks and epidemics.

    The combination of quarantines and sanitation measures marked a turning point in the battle against the Bloody Flux. Slowly but steadily, the disease's grip on Meereen began to loosen. However, it came at a great cost, with the loss of many lives, including some of the brave souls who undertook the unsavory work in the sewers.

    These efforts were not without controversy. Some questioned the effectiveness of the measures, while others accused Tyrion and Skahaz of being too harsh and inhumane. But for Tyrion, the welfare of the people came first, even if it meant making difficult and unpopular decisions.

    ​

    As all this happened within Meereen, events spiraled just as greatly outside of it. On land, Barristan Selmy, the unofficial supreme commander of the Targaryen host, as ordered by their Queen, balanced a truly vast, but equally diverse army, from the silent but disciplined Unsullied, the raucous but unruly Freedmen, the distrusted sellswords, to the barbarous Dothraki. It would be his charge to bring these disparate forces into one unified command before marching forth to Yunkai to bring the Slaver's Alliance to heel.

    Barristan knew that the key to victory lay in the cohesion and unity of his forces. While each group had its strengths and weaknesses, they needed to function as a unified whole to achieve success on the battlefield. The Unsullied were a formidable force, unwavering and disciplined, while the Dothraki brought fierce and agile cavalry to the ranks. The sellswords could be skillful fighters, but their loyalty was always uncertain, and the Freedmen, though passionate and eager, lacked the experience of seasoned warriors.

    Realizing that the Freedmen needed the most work to be integrated into the larger army, Barristan set about addressing the issues that plagued his command. The first problem he encountered was that not all of the Freedmen were under his direct command. Victarion Greyjoy, needing men to crew his ships, had already requisitioned the Free Brothers led by Symon Stripeback, taking two thousand Freedmen away from Barristan's army. This reduced their numbers and further complicated the task of forging a unified force.

    The second challenge Barristan faced was recruitment. Street battles in Meereen had disrupted his efforts to recruit more Freedmen for the Mother's Men and Stalwart Shields companies. Most of the recruits had been redirected to reinforce the Brazen Beasts, leaving him with fewer troops than he had hoped for. Despite this setback, Barristan was determined to make the most of what he had, and by the time he was ready to march, the Mother's Men and Stalwart Shields had each reached two thousand men.

    To address the lack of cohesion and unity among his forces, Barristan devised a plan. He worked closely with Grey Worm to select the best Unsullied warriors who were also sociable and disciplined enough to lead and interact with the other troops. Then, he announced a controversial decision to the Freedmen: they would be split into companies of five hundred, with an Unsullied leading each group, to train in the art of the phalanx.

    Marsaleen, himself an Unsullied, welcomed the idea eagerly and began drilling the Mother's Men in the basics of the phalanx formation. However, Tal Toraq, the commander of the Stalwart Shields, strongly opposed the move. He wanted his Freedmen to remain united and under his direct command, seeing them as his potential future sellsword company. His refusal to accept the division galvanized his Freedmen against the decision.

    Barristan found himself in the middle of this dispute, trying to balance the need for cohesion and the desire to maintain the loyalty and morale of his troops. He recognized that unity was crucial for the upcoming battle against the Slaver's Alliance, but he also understood the importance of keeping the trust and respect of his troops. It would require careful diplomacy and leadership to navigate these challenges successfully.

    As the situation outside Meereen grew increasingly tense, Barristan knew that the time for action was approaching. With his diverse army and the potential for internal divisions, he needed to find a way to rally his forces and lead them to victory. The fate of Meereen and the Targaryen cause rested on his shoulders, and he was determined to prove himself worthy of the trust Queen Daenerys had placed in him.

    Barristan's responsibilities were no small matter. This was no mere game of cyvasse, but a complex puzzle where one wrong move could cost not just the loss of a piece, but countless lives and the very survival of Meereen. His strategy had to be sound, his decisions swift, and his leadership unyielding. As he weighed his options, considering the varied strengths and weaknesses of his forces, news from outside the city brought a harsh reality into focus.

    The Old Meereenese families had risen in rebellion, blocking the flow of food to the city. With each passing moment, the specter of starvation loomed larger, the pressure mounted, and the Slaver's Alliance's shadow grew ominously larger on the horizon. Now, Barristan had to navigate these added layers of complexity and guide his forces through the turbulent waters ahead.

    With news of the Old Meereenese families' rebellion and the city cut off from its vital food supplies, Barristan Selmy found himself facing an even greater challenge. The situation had escalated quickly, and he knew that he had to act swiftly to prevent the city from falling into chaos and starvation. The threat of the Slaver's Alliance returning to exploit this moment of weakness added an even greater sense of urgency to the situation.

    In this precarious position, Barristan turned to Ser Levon of Lhazar, the Red Lamb, for a solution. Recognizing Ser Levon's loyalty and trusting his skill with a blade, Barristan assigned him a critical mission. He placed Ser Levon in command of the Stormcrows, Second Sons, Windblown, and a quarter of the Dothraki, tasking them with defeating the renegade nobles and reopening the vital supply routes to Meereen.

    The decision to entrust Ser Levon with this task was not made lightly, but Barristan knew that he needed a commander who could handle the delicate situation with both force and diplomacy. The sellswords were skilled fighters, but their loyalty was often questionable, especially in a city torn by rebellion. Barristan also recognized the precarious state of the Dothraki, who were hesitant to follow someone they called a "Lamb Man" into battle.

    However, Barristan had confidence in Ser Levon's ability to command this diverse force effectively. The Red Lamb had proven himself on the battlefield and had a reputation for both courage and cunning. He had also shown an understanding of the local customs and politics, which would be essential in navigating the complexities of the Meereenese rebellion.

    As Ser Levon set out with his mixed army, including the Tattered Prince, Brown Ben Plumm, and Daario Naharis, the city of Meereen held its breath, hoping for a swift and successful resolution. The task ahead was not an easy one, as they would be facing nobles who had newly furbished armies, eager to defend their power and privileges. However, the prospect of reopening the supply routes and securing much-needed provisions for the city served as a powerful incentive.

    With the Red Lamb leading a portion of his forces, the sellswords and a quarter of the Dothraki away from Meereen, Barristan Selmy felt the weight of his decisions pressing upon him. The fate of Meereen rested in their hands, and the legacy of Queen Daenerys and her vision of justice and freedom lived on through their continued struggle in the turbulent lands of Essos. He would fight not just for Meereen but for the ideals he believed in, knowing that the fate of an entire city and the Targaryen cause rested on the choices he would make in the battles to come.

    As Barristan Selmy marched his forces out from beneath the walls of Meereen, he carried with him a heavy burden of responsibility. He knew that the Slaver's Alliance still held a formidable force, one that outnumbered his own. But he also knew that he could not afford to stay within the city's walls and wait for the enemy to strike. He had to take the initiative and provoke them into battle, for he understood the stakes at hand.

    With the Red Lamb, Ser Levon of Lhazar, leading the sellswords and Dothraki away on their critical mission to defeat the renegade nobles, Barristan was left with the core of his army. Determined to inspire and train the next generation of knights, Barristan took on the responsibility of personally mentoring and selecting squires from among the Freedmen.

    Having lost many of his former squires during the battles at Meereen, Barristan saw an opportunity to replenish the ranks of knighthood in his Queen's service. He sought young individuals with potential, those who showed courage, skill, and dedication to the ideals of chivalry. He aimed to make them not just capable fighters but also true knights, embodying the virtues of honor, loyalty, and courage.

    As they marched toward Yunkai, Barristan conducted trials and training sessions for the aspiring squires and pages at every camp. He taught them horsemanship, weapon handling, and the art of combat. He instilled in them the importance of discipline and unity, emphasizing that they were not just fighting for themselves but for a higher cause—the liberation of the oppressed and the defense of their Queen's just rule.

    It was not an easy path, and many would drop out along the way, realizing the hardships and sacrifices that came with becoming a knight. But for those who remained, the trials forged a strong camaraderie and a sense of purpose. They found strength in their shared determination to protect and serve Daenerys Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons.

    During these training sessions, Barristan felt a mixture of pride and sorrow. He was proud of the young men and women who showed promise and dedication, eager to take up the mantle of knighthood. But he also mourned the loss of those who had fallen in battle, remembering their bravery and sacrifice.

    One particular young man stood out among the aspirants—a spirited and determined Freedman named Orin, who showed exceptional promise as a swordsman and a natural leader. Barristan took him under his wing, seeing a reflection of his own younger self in the boy's passion and courage.

    As they approached Yunkai, Barristan knew that the time for battle was near. The city's defenders would not remain idle for long, and the Slaver's Alliance would be eager to test their strength against the Dragon Queen's forces. With the sellswords and Dothraki carrying out their mission to secure Meereen's supplies, Barristan's remaining army would have to face the enemy head-on.

    He addressed his troops, reminding them of the battles they had fought together, the victories and the losses, and the importance of standing united in the face of adversity. The young squires and pages listened with admiration and determination, inspired by the legendary knight who led them.

    The impending battle weighed heavily on Barristan's heart, knowing that the outcome would have far-reaching consequences for the future of Meereen and the Targaryen cause. But he also had faith in the resilience and strength of his forces, and he trusted that Daenerys Targaryen's grand vision would ultimately prevail.

    As the sun set on the eve of the battle, Barristan Selmy found himself once again preparing for the clash of swords and the chaos of war. He felt a mix of emotions—anticipation, fear, and resolve—but above all, he felt the unwavering commitment to his Queen and her righteous cause. And as he led his army toward Yunkai, he prayed that their courage and valor would be enough to secure a victory that would pave the way for a free and just Essos under the rule of Daenerys Stormborn.

    However, Barristan's original plans had been thwarted by unforeseen circumstances, forcing him to adapt and rely on the Dothraki instead. Barristan Selmy had originally planned for the Red Lamb to lead his horse against Yunkai, but circumstances had changed. He ordered the Dothraki to march ahead of his army and attack slave plantations on the road to Yunkai, securing vital resources of water and food for the Meereenese forces. However, what awaited him on the other side of the border left him immensely dissatisfied and troubled.

    Crossing the border saw Barristan and his army greeted with a grim scene. Smoldering ruins, burned-out homes, and starving common folk, whether slave or free, testified to the brutal effectiveness of the Dothraki's actions. The slavemasters had paid dearly for their cruelty, their corpses hanging from trees, crucified upon corpses, or strewn by the wayside. The entire army bore witness to the aftermath of the Dothraki's vengeance.

    Upon their return to the marching column, the Dothraki displayed a sense of satisfaction and triumph. They had reaped the spoils of their raids, leaving them well-fed and content with their actions. Barristan, however, was torn. While he recognized the need to secure provisions and seek justice for the oppressed slaves, he was troubled by the brutal and merciless methods employed by the Dothraki. Disciplining them was not a simple matter, as they constituted a significant portion of his army, and he was far from the guidance of his Queen, Daenerys Targaryen.

    Caught in a difficult position, Barristan chose to remain silent for the time being. The immediate concern was the army's survival, and the secured resources were essential for their continued march toward Yunkai. Besides, in a way, this was what his Queen had desired – justice for the slaves and retribution against the slavers. However, he knew that he would have to find a way to address the issue delicately, balancing the need for discipline with the preservation of unity among his diverse forces. The days ahead would be fraught with uncertainty and challenges, and the fate of Meereen and the Targaryen cause rested on their collective strength and determination.

    ​

    The battlefield was set, deploying upon a small hill, tension hung heavy in the air as the Meereenese forces prepared to face the formidable alliance assembled by Yunkai. Barristan Selmy surveyed the scene, his mind focused on strategy and determination etched across his weathered face.

    With precision and discipline, the Unsullied held their ground atop the hill, forming an unyielding wall of spears. Behind them, the Freedmen stood firm, determined to prove their worth in the coming battle. On the flanks, the Dothraki split into two groups, awaiting their moment to strike. Barristan positioned himself with his knights, ready to lead the charge on the right, while the Khaleesi's loyal bloodriders commanded the left. In the center stood Grey Worm, the stoic leader of the Unsullied, a symbol of strength and unity amidst the chaos of war.

    As Barristan Selmy stood at the flank, his heart sank at the sight of the approaching Slaver's Alliance. The dust clouds had heralded their arrival, and now the enemy forces loomed before him, a formidable and overwhelming sight. First came the yellow banners of the Long Lances, their desire for revenge evident after their previous defeat at the hands of the Mother's Men. Alongside them, the camel riders proudly displayed the banners of the Queen of Cities, while the New Ghis Legions' light horses positioned themselves in between, a potential weak link that could still pose a threat.

    To the rear, the slaves assembled on the left flank, their chains a stark reminder of the cruelty they had endured under the rule of the slavers. On the right, the Company of the Cat, led by the ruthless Bloodbeard, stood ready for battle, perhaps disappointed that the Prince of Tatters was absent from their ranks. Barristan knew that facing this formidable alliance of forces would be a daunting task, and the odds were not in their favor.

    As he assessed the enemy's formation, Barristan's attention was drawn to the Elyrian Crossbows and Tolosi Slingers, skilled and deadly ranged fighters who had proven their worth during the siege. They stood before the main force, presenting a significant challenge for his army to overcome. And then there were the Iron Legions and their elephants, a sight that sent shivers down Barristan's spine. He recalled facing elephants in the past, against the Golden Company upon the Stepstones, they had not saved Meleys then, would they save the Slavers now? The memory filled him with a sense of foreboding. These massive creatures with their sharp tusks were a force to be reckoned with and could prove instrumental in the upcoming battle.

    As the battle began, Barristan Selmy observed the coordinated advance of the Slaver's Alliance with a mixture of admiration and concern. Their forces moved in a well-organized manner, led by the fearsome elephants charging directly for the hill where the Unsullied stood steadfast. The New Ghis lines followed closely, displaying a synchronized march that hinted at a newfound unity among the disparate factions. Behind them came the Yunkish forces and the Company of the Cat, while the Elyrians and Tolosi prepared for skirmishes, protected by the watchful Qartheen camels, New Ghis horse, and the Long Lances.

    It was evident that someone with tactical prowess and leadership abilities had taken command of the Slaver's Alliance, forging an alliance that seemed far more cohesive than the chaotic command structure seen during the Siege of Meereen. Barristan could not help but acknowledge the effectiveness of the New Ghis Legions, who, unlike the other slaver forces, had not suffered humiliation on Meereen's walls and now comprised the core of the enemy army, placed strategically at the center of their formation.

    As the realization sank in, Barristan knew he was facing a formidable foe, one that had learned from their past mistakes and had united under a capable leader. The odds of victory appeared even more daunting, but he pushed aside his doubts, drawing strength from the unwavering loyalty and determination of his forces. He knew that they fought not just for victory in this battle but for the ideals and dreams of their beloved Queen.

    The clash between the Dothraki and the charging elephants was swift and intense. The Dothraki, skilled horse archers, unleashed a volley of arrows upon the oncoming elephants, attempting to slow their advance. However, their efforts proved to be only partially successful, as the elephants continued their relentless charge, undeterred by the arrows that found their mark on one or two of the mighty beasts. The mahouts, protected by the elephants' armor, urged them forward, while archers and javelin throwers from the towers atop the elephants retaliated against the fixed and unmoving Unsullied lines.

    Behind the Unsullied, the Freedmen joined the fray, using whatever ranged weapons they could muster to answer the oncoming charge. Crude bows, javelins, and slings were fired in an attempt to weaken the elephants' resolve. Yet, the heavily armored elephants of Ghis proved to be formidable opponents, their sheer size and strength making it difficult for the projectiles to have a significant impact. The Dothraki, having retreated to avoid the onslaught of the Tolosi and Elyrians, regrouped and prepared to strike again, their determination unshaken despite the initial setback.

    Barristan Selmy's plan had been set in motion, and as he observed from atop his horse, he saw the Unsullied lines shift and adjust with remarkable fluidity. The typically rigid and unyielding formation had transformed into something entirely unexpected—a formation designed to counter the charging elephants. Barristan gave the signal, and with impeccable timing, the Unsullied lines opened up in wide columns, creating clear pathways just large enough for the elephants to charge through unopposed.

    The Mahouts, skilled handlers of the elephants, recognized the sudden change in the Unsullied formation, but by the time they reacted, it was too late. Most of the elephants, taking the path of least resistance, charged through the columns, while the New Ghis Legions behind them remained oblivious, their view obstructed by the dust kicked up by the relentless advance of their formidable beasts. The momentary confusion was enough to throw off the elephants' charge, causing them to veer off course and sparing the Unsullied from the full brunt of the impact.

    As the chaos of battle continued, it became clear that Marsaleen and Tal Toraq, stationed in the rear with the Freedmen, had anticipated the elephants' charge and prepared a clever defense. Their Freedmen fighters held long pikes, forming a formidable wall at each open column in the Unsullied lines. The elephants, unsure of whether to charge into a wall of pikes, wavered and hesitated, their mahouts struggling to assert control over them.

    Meanwhile, the Freedmen skirmishers now standing directly before the elephants rained down projectiles upon the beasts. The Freedmen marksmen had ample targets, and their accurate shots disrupted the enemy's attempts to maintain cohesion and coordination.

    The resounding noise of the Unsullied banging their shields reverberated across the battlefield, and at that moment, the true brilliance of Barristan's plan became clear. The rhythmic pounding sent shockwaves through the charging elephants, unnerving the massive creatures and unsettling their mahouts. The once disciplined and controlled elephants now grew rowdy, their panic evident in their wild movements and flaring tempers.

    As the elephants turned and attempted to flee from the battlefield, their path back the way they had come was open and clear. The chaos that ensued among the Slaver's forces was palpable, as the elephants broke ranks and disrupted the cohesion of the New Ghis Legions and the other allied forces. The Slavers were caught off guard by this unexpected turn of events, and their well-organized advance began to crumble.

    The once-proud Iron Legions now found themselves in disarray, their tightly-knit ranks shattered by the uncontrollable stampede of their war elephants. The chaos that ensued was nothing short of horrifying, as the massive creatures, now free of their mahouts' control, wreaked havoc upon the Iron Legionnaires. Some mahouts managed to slay their elephants in a desperate bid to regain some control, but the damage had been done. The earth shook beneath the force of the falling elephant bodies, crushing their projectile towers and adding to the cacophony of screams and cries of pain.

    The Unsullied, having expertly executed Barristan's plan, stood firm amidst the chaos, their discipline, and composure unwavering even in the face of the rampaging elephants. They held their ground, pikes at the ready, and swiftly dealt with any Iron Legionnaire who dared to advance, cutting down their adversaries with precision and skill.

    As the dust settled, the Iron Legions were left reeling, their once-formidable formation now broken and scattered. Barristan Selmy's cunning strategy had turned their greatest weapon against them, leaving the Slavers disoriented and demoralized.

    The momentum of the Unsullied charge was unstoppable, and the disarray within the Iron Legions made them easy prey. The disciplined and relentless Unsullied warriors cut through the first lines of Legionaries with calculated precision, their spears and swords finding their marks with deadly accuracy. The Iron Legions, still reeling from the surprise assault of their rampaging elephants, could do little to offer a cohesive defense.

    With Barristan leading the charge, the Dothraki unleashed their ferocity upon the Slaver's Alliance forces. The combination of their speed, skill in archery, and ability to strike with shocking force made them a formidable force on the battlefield. The Iron Legion's light horse, hoping to rescue the Tolosi slingers, found themselves caught in the whirlwind of the Dothraki onslaught, and their attempts to intervene only led to their demise.

    The Dothraki's lightning-fast attacks and maneuverability allowed them to exploit weaknesses in the Slaver's formation, tearing through the weakest parts like a scythe through wheat. Barristan's tactical prowess and his precise timing ensured that the Dothraki charge struck at the exact moment when the Iron Legions were vulnerable, catching them off guard and throwing them into disarray.

    As the dust settled and the full force of the New Ghis Legions came into view, Barristan realized that his initial hope of overwhelming the Slaver's Alliance with a single devastating charge had been overly optimistic. The Iron Legions, though reeling from the Dothraki onslaught, managed to hold their ground with unwavering discipline, proving themselves to be a formidable force to contend with. And now, with the arrival of the other half of the New Ghis Legions, the odds had shifted drastically against the Meereenese forces.

    The Company of the Cat, known for their exceptional skill and ruthless tactics, had seized the opportunity to strike at the Dothraki and disrupt their charge. The mercenaries expertly picked off the Dothraki warriors, pulling them from their mounts and cutting them down one by one. It was a grim sight for Barristan, knowing that every fallen Dothraki warrior was not only a loss in manpower but also a blow to the morale of the Meereenese forces.

    With the Iron Legions standing firm and the Company of the Cat cutting through the Dothraki ranks, Barristan knew that the battle had taken a turn for the worse. His initial plan had been to break the Slaver's Alliance with a swift and decisive strike, but now they faced a well-coordinated and determined enemy that showed no signs of yielding.

    As chaos erupted on the right flank, Barristan Selmy was unaware of the unfolding disaster. His attention was focused on the clash between the Unsullied and the Iron Legions in the center, and the successful charge of the Dothraki on the left. Little did he know that on the right, his carefully laid plans had come undone.

    The Bloodriders, Aggo, Jhogo, and Rakharo, were at the heart of the turmoil. Inexperienced in leading a portion of the Khalasaar unknown to them, they had been unable to keep discipline in check. When the elephants charged, the Dothraki were unleashed upon the field, their wild and ferocious nature taking over. The Elyrian crossbows took advantage of the disarray, picking off Dothraki warriors with deadly accuracy before making a hasty retreat.

    The Long Lances, seeking revenge for previous defeats, seized the opportunity and launched a devastating counterattack on the unsuspecting Dothraki. The heavily armored horse, their appearance akin to that of Westerosi knights, clashed fiercely with the Dothraki, who were ill-prepared for such disciplined and armored adversaries. The Qartheen camel corps, with their imposing presence, further disoriented the Dothraki's horses, creating even more chaos on the right flank.

    Barristan, still focused on the situation in the center and on the left, remained unaware of the unfolding disaster on the right. He had no idea that a significant portion of his forces was on the verge of collapse. He continued to fight with determination, leading the Dothraki and the other forces forward, unaware of the peril that awaited on the right.

    As the Pit fighters, who were engaged in a fierce battle with the Yunkish slave troops, quickly realized that the tide had turned against them. The Yunkish soldiers, once considered weak and inept, now stood their ground and fought with unexpected tenacity and skill. The Pit fighters, who had once effortlessly sliced through their ranks, found themselves facing a formidable adversary.

    Unbeknownst to both Barristan and the Pit fighters, the Yunkish slavers had taken measures to improve the training and condition of their slave soldiers. Smarting from the humiliating defeat of their forces at Meereen, the Yunkish had worked closely with the Iron Legions to reform their army and bring their slaves to top form. The efforts were now bearing fruit, and the once-maligned slave troops were proving to be a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield.

    The Pit fighters, who were no strangers to combat, were caught off guard by the newfound resilience of their opponents. Despite their best efforts, they struggled to gain the upper hand against the determined and disciplined Yunkish slave troops. The advantage of numbers only added to the challenge, as the Yunkish soldiers fought in a coordinated and united manner.

    Amid the chaotic and bloody melee, the Dothraki on the right found themselves pushed back by the fierce counterattack of the Long Lances and the Qartheen camel corps. The swirling dust and deafening clash of weapons made it challenging for the Dothraki to maintain control over their panicked horses. It seemed like all hope was lost, and the situation appeared dire.

    However, during the turmoil, Aggo, Jhogo, and Rakharo, the loyal Bloodriders of Khal Drogo and staunch supporters of Daenerys rose to the occasion. With their commanding presence and unwavering determination, they rallied the Dothraki, encouraging them to keep fighting despite the odds stacked against them.

    Their fierce battle cries and rallying calls echoed across the battlefield, reigniting the spirit of the Dothraki warriors. In the face of adversity, the Dothraki refused to yield, finding renewed courage and determination under the guidance of their esteemed Bloodriders. They fought with a ferocity and intensity that rivaled even their most legendary ancestors.

    As the dust settled, it became evident that the Dothraki were no longer in retreat. They pushed back against the Long Lances and the Qartheen camel corps, fighting with newfound vigor and purpose. Aggo, Jhogo, and Rakharo led their fellow warriors in a furious charge, cutting through the enemy lines with their curved arakhs and fierce resolve.

    As the sun set and darkness enveloped the battlefield, the sounds of battle gradually subsided. The Slavers, exhausted and wary of fighting in the darkness, withdraw to their camp, leaving behind a field stained with blood and littered with the fallen. Barristan Selmy's forces, though battered and bruised, remained steadfast, unwilling to yield despite the heavy toll the day's fighting had taken.

    In the cover of night, both armies tended to their wounded, the groans of the injured and dying filling the air. Barristan gathered his commanders to assess the situation and plan their next move. He knew that the battle was far from over, and the Slavers would likely regroup and come back with renewed vigor in the morning.

    Amidst the flickering torches, Barristan addressed his commanders and troops, their faces smeared with dirt and blood, their resolve unshaken. He praised their bravery and resilience, reminding them of the righteous cause they fought for—the freedom of Meereen and the end of slavery in Essos. The fate of countless lives hung in the balance, and they bore the weight of that responsibility.

    Throughout the night, Barristan and his commanders strategized, analyzing the strengths and weaknesses of both sides. They knew that victory would require more than just courage; it would demand cunning and precision. Their diverse army would need to find unity and cohesion to stand against the formidable Slavers.

    As the hours passed, the soldiers found some respite, but sleep was elusive, as the battle's events weighed heavily on their minds. They prepared their weapons, polished their armor, and steeled themselves for the challenges ahead. Barristan made his rounds through the camp, offering words of encouragement and assurance to his troops, instilling in them the belief that they could emerge victorious in the end.

    As the first rays of sunlight pierced the horizon, the Slavers' camp was abuzz with jubilation. News had spread like wildfire among their ranks—apparently, the Dragon Queen's army had withdrawn during the night. The Slavers reveled in their apparent victory, cheering and raising their cups high in celebration. They believed that the battle was won, and the city of Yunkai would remain firmly under their control.

    Meanwhile, the slaves, who had endured unspeakable hardships under the rule of the Slavers, watched in fear and uncertainty. They had placed their hopes in the Dragon Queen's army, believing that they would be their liberators. But now, with news of their withdrawal, their dreams of freedom seemed to be slipping away.

    In the aftermath of the fighting, Barristan Selmy reflects on the brutal battle they had just endured. Despite the toll it had taken on his tired army, he knew they had achieved significant victories against the formidable Slaver forces. The annihilation of the New Ghis elephant corps and the resolute defense against the Iron Legions were achievements to be proud of, even amidst the hardships. But that did not stop the bitter taste from intensifying in his mouth. It did weaken in strength as he read the most recent reports on the state of his cause.

    News soon arrived from the east, bringing a glimmer of hope to their weary hearts. The Red Lamb's successful engagements against the Meereenese nobles had kept their enemies at bay, trapped within their estates. It was a small but important victory that bolstered their spirits.

    Yet, amidst the celebrations for their triumphs, the most intriguing tidings would soon emerge from the sea. Whispers spread among the soldiers, hinting at good news on the horizon.

    ​

    As Barristan Selmy led his army on the march from Meereen, another scene was unfolding on the vast expanse of the sea. The newly reestablished Meereenese fleet prepared for battle against daunting odds and set sail from the bustling harbor. Just as Barristan had meticulously organized his forces, so had Victarion Greyjoy devoted his efforts to readying his fleet for the impending clash.

    However, the same challenges that vexed Barristan's plans seemed to haunt Victarion as well. Just like Barristan's frustration at the Dothraki's less-than-disciplined behavior, Victarion's preparations were tinged with annoyance. Recognizing the necessity of bolstering his fleet's strength to counter the overwhelming numbers of the Volantene armada, he had made decision to requisition the Free Brothers under the leadership of Symon Stripeback. The former slaves were far from thrilled to serve under a slaver's command, for they were acutely aware of the horrors of thralldom. However, the sight of their Mhysa, their liberator, soaring above them quelled their murmurs of discontent. With their sails billowing in the sea breeze, they ventured into deeper waters, finding their footing as sailors. Although Victarion had hoped for seasoned naval experts, the defection of the Meereenese navy to the Slavers left him with limited options, and he had to make do with what he had.

    Yet within Victarion's ranks, a quiet undercurrent of discontent began to swell, mirroring the simmering tensions that Barristan was dealing with among his commanders. Victarion summoned his captains, channeling the fiery fervor that had earned him a following through victorious campaigns and costly defeats alike. His reputation as the Iron Captain, who had led the Ironborn to glory and, at times, to ruin, had forged a complex bond of loyalty and resentment. As he denounced his brother Euron for perceived betrayals of the Drowned God, dissenting voices within the Ironborn captains spoke out.

    They questioned Victarion's accusations, asserting Euron's legitimacy through his anointment by the revered Aerion Damphair. Debates raged about the rightful king and the path the Ironborn should tread. While some questioned the wisdom of aligning with the Targaryens, viewing them as perilous allies, others yearned for a return to the Old Way of reaving and pillaging. The impending battle against the forces arrayed against Daenerys Targaryen's enemies brought these underlying tensions to the forefront, forcing the Ironborn to grapple with their identity and loyalties.

    With a mixture of compelling rhetoric and sheer force of will, Victarion managed to suppress the brewing dissent among his captains. Yet beneath the surface, it was clear that a genuine consensus had not been achieved. The arrival of Shark and five additional ships momentarily shifted the focus, completing the fleet's numbers to a solid 75 vessels. However, the news they brought cast a solemn shadow over the assembly.

    Reports confirmed that the Volantene fleet was approaching Yaros, the looming confrontation with their adversaries casting a foreboding air over the Ironborn. Despite having suffered attrition from the unforgiving seas and relentless storms, the Volantenes remained a significant force. Estimates of their numbers varied wildly among the Ironborn, ranging from double to quintuple their own fleet's strength. The impending clash weighed heavily on Victarion's mind, adding to the burden of leadership he already carried.

    But beyond the concerns of manpower and numbers, Victarion faced yet another significant challenge. The ships that had weathered the fiery chaos of the Battle of Fire, and especially those that had been captured, bore the scars of their battles. The immense heat of dragon fire and the brutal pounding of naval warfare had taken a toll on these vessels. Knowing that the effectiveness of his fleet could be severely compromised if he sailed into battle with damaged ships, Victarion made the strategic decision to allocate a month for the repair and reinforcement of each vessel.

    It was a necessary investment, an effort to ensure that their fleet would be as prepared as possible for the treacherous waters ahead. As the ships were carefully mended and strengthened, the mood among the Ironborn was a mixture of unease and anticipation, a reflection of their uncertain fate and the divisiveness that threatened to undermine their united front.

    As Victarion Greyjoy meticulously prepared his fleet for what could very well be the most significant battle he would ever face, the scene was mirrored by Daenerys Targaryen, who soared overhead atop Drogon's mighty back. Her objective was to persuade Viserion, her wayward dragon, to abandon his perch at the Uhlez Pyramid and return to her side. However, her efforts to convince her dragon son met no success, leaving her with a sense of lingering frustration.

    While the process of coaxing Viserion was a struggle, Daenerys managed to secure one victory. Her interactions with Victarion resulted in the turnover of the Dragonbinder horn, an object of great importance and mysterious power. The act, however, carried with it a measure of humiliation for the Ironborn, and particularly for Victarion himself, who seemed extremely reluctant to part with the horn. To onlookers, this action was symbolic of Victarion's willingness to submit to Daenerys, though the true implications of this submission remained ambiguous.

    With Moqorro, the Red Priest, now entrusted with the task of studying and breaking the enchantment of the Dragonbinder, the young queen's growing relationship with the priest garnered attention and speculation. Whispers of a possible illicit affair circulated, but the more widespread concern lay in the religious influence Moqorro held over Daenerys. Among the Graces, these developments were seen as worrying, and there were murmurs that Moqorro's words might have been responsible for turning Daenerys against her husband. Although Moqorro's first attempt to bur Hizdahr had failed, there was an unsettling uncertainty about what influence he might still wield.

    In truth, the discussions between Daenerys and Moqorro remained professional, centering around their plans for the impending battle against the Volantene forces. The Red Priest brought crucial intelligence, a message from Bennero, the high priest of R'hllor in the Red Temple of Volantis.

    The message contained a strategic directive: when the battle commenced, Daenerys and her forces should raise the flags of the Red God, setting them ablaze. This would serve as the signal for the enslaved rowers to revolt against their slave masters. Victory in this battle would set the stage for Daenerys to potentially sail for Volantis, where the slaves would aid her liberation as the prophesized Azor Ahai.

    The news was a welcome relief for both Daenerys and Victarion. The Iron Captain, though seasoned in naval warfare, had never faced such overwhelming odds before. Daenerys, too, felt the weight of her dragons' reduced numbers—Rhaegel had flown west, while Viserion remained stubbornly close to Meereen. Only Drogon remained, and though impressive, a single dragon was a significant reduction in her aerial firepower.

    Conversations between Daenerys and her advisors, including Victarion and Tyrion, were filled with strategic concerns and historical parallels. Tyrion raised a cautionary tale from history—the Gullet, where six dragons and the Velaryon fleet had met disaster. While Victarion would boast that they would reenact the Fourth Dornish War, when three dragons had sunk the Dornish. Despite their differing perspectives, both Victarion and Tyrion urged caution and care.

    As the fleet under Victarion's command set sail for the Straits of Yaros, Daenerys arrived ahead of them. She signaled her assessment of safety to the waiting fleet before setting out to the western end of the island. Unbeknownst to both parties, they passed the point where Barristan Selmy's advance had halted and his withdrawal had commenced. The stage was set for a climactic confrontation that would shape the destiny of Meereen and the entire region.

    As Victarion's fleet set sail for the Straits of Yaros, Daenerys had already arrived, scouting the area and confirming that all was clear. However, their relief would be short-lived as news later arrived that the Volantene fleet, stationed at Astapor, was making its way directly toward them.

    Their plan, while straightforward, was well suited to their combined strength and the gravity of the impending battle. Victarion's fleet was to establish a blockade at the narrowest point of the strait, effectively preventing the Volantene fleet from advancing any farther. This strategy would force the Volantenes into a ship-to-ship engagement, negating their numerical advantage and placing the battle on more equal terms. Victarion was confident in his Ironborn and trained Freedmen crews, believing they could outmatch the mixed assortment of Essosi sailors opposing them.

    However, as formidable as Victarion's forces were, the calculus of numbers still worked against them. Even if they managed to kill twice as many men and sink three times as many ships as they lost, they would still face overwhelming odds. This was where Daenerys and her dragons would come into play. Soaring through the skies, her dragons could unleash fiery devastation upon the Volantene fleet, turning dozens of their dromonds into charred wrecks that would sink beneath the waters of the Dothraki Sea.

    Victarion's main task would be to maintain his position and prevent the Volantene fleet from progressing any further through the strait. Meanwhile, Daenerys had to bring forth the fire and blood she had sought to avoid, harnessing the destructive power of her dragons to their fullest extent. She had to maneuver deftly to evade any potential countermeasures that might be used against her and ensure that the Volantenes would not attempt to sail around Yaros to bypass the straits.

    And if worst came to worst, there was still the possibility that the enslaved rowers would rise against their masters, as Bennero's message had suggested. The battle was poised on a knife's edge, with the fate of Meereen and the balance of power in Essos hanging in the balance. The straits would soon bear witness to a clash of forces the likes of which had not been seen in generations, as the forces of the Dragon Queen and the Iron Captain united to face the formidable might of the Volantene fleet.

    As night descended upon the fleet, its ships safely beached on the shores of Yaros, the Ironborn found camaraderie and solace around lively fires that illuminated the dark. Laughter and excitement filled the air as the crew members shared tales, danced, and indulged in whatever provisions they had secured from Meereen. It was a night of revelry and anticipation, a celebration on the eve of what could potentially be their final battle.

    Gathered around Victarion, the Iron Captain, the captains of the fleet assembled for a final briefing of the plan. The atmosphere was charged with a mixture of resolve and trepidation, as each individual faced the looming uncertainty of the coming conflict. Even those not part of the leadership circle couldn't escape the feeling of unease, especially when the great shadow of Drogon stretched over the moonlit scene, a stark reminder of the power that stood with them.

    Amidst the throng, Daenerys Targaryen, the Dragon Queen herself, stood alongside Victarion, her presence commanding attention far beyond her youthful appearance. When she spoke, her voice carried an authority that exceeded her years, a testament to the weight of her destiny and her experiences. She listened intently to the plan being reiterated, and when the time was right, she interjected with her own insights and directives, lending her strategic acumen to the preparations.

    The sight was a juxtaposition of celebration and anticipation, the dance of firelight casting flickering shadows on faces filled with determination. The eve of battle had arrived, a night when the Ironborn prepared for a confrontation of monumental significance, bolstered by the presence of a dragon and the unwavering spirit of those who had come together for a cause greater than themselves.

    The arrival of a small boat on the beach marked a pivotal moment, interrupting the leaders' preparations to send their captains off for some much-needed rest before the impending dawn. An emissary hurried into the command center, bearing news that, though grim, was expected. The scout ships had sighted the Volantene armada, signaling that their formidable foe would reach the battlefield by the time the sun graced the sky. Such news left little room for rest that night.

    Sleep became a distant luxury as tension gripped the camps. The quiet murmur of the sea contrasted with the growing unease amongst the troops, their minds fraught with the impending clash. As night deepened, whispers traveled across the cool breeze, telling tales of the prowess and ambition of Volantis. The island's sand became a tapestry, etching the footsteps of soldiers, spies, and strategists, all trying to anticipate the moves of their adversaries.

    As the waves break against the shores of the island of Yaros, Volantis gathers its forces, preparing for the confrontation that awaits them. The island becomes a strategic staging ground, a springboard for their assault on the Dragon Queen and her followers. The fervent slaves who dwell beneath their feet, whipped and broken, find solace and hope in the enigmatic ruler. They hail her as their savior, their liberator, faithful followers of the Red God who believe in the prophecy of her coming.

    In the heart of Yaros, a palpable tension hangs in the air. The contrast between the forces of Volantis, fueled by the desire for domination, and the devoted followers of the Dragon Queen, driven by their unwavering faith, creates an electrifying atmosphere. The stage is set for a clash of ideologies, where the might of Volantis will collide with the unyielding hope of the enslaved masses.

    As the days count down to the inevitable confrontation, the world watches with bated breath. The outcome of this monumental struggle will shape the fate of Slaver's Bay and beyond, reverberating across the known world. Will Volantis achieve its ambitions and quell the rise of the Dragon Queen, or will the fervent faith of the enslaved masses prevail, ushering in an era of change and upheaval? The answers lie shrouded in the uncertainty of the future, as the wheels of fate turn and the players in this grand and chaotic game maneuver for dominance and survival.

    With the sun's gradual ascent, the Meereenese fleet formed a formidable formation along the strait. For Victarion, the familiar scents of saltwater, timber, and rope transported him back to a time when he had stood at the precipice of his last battle, a victorious yet somber memory. His thoughts meandered to Euron and his wife, her lips grey and smiling, a poignant image etched in his mind.

    Now, standing on the precipice of another monumental confrontation, his eyes gleamed with intensity, his smile unburdened. He gripped his charred and blackened hand with ease, a testament to his resilience. As his gaze fixed ahead, it rested on the approaching hulks of the Volantene fleet, their oars slicing through the water and air in perfect synchrony—a rhythm forged through the suffering of slaves and the lash of whips. Somewhere among them, Symon Stripeback, once a former slave himself, must have been fuming at the familiarity of such treatment. Victarion himself could hardly complain, for the speed and efficiency of the Iron Fleet were born from similarly harsh methods.

    Upon the hulks of the Volantene fleet likely stood the elite of their army, prepared to face the Iron Fleet. They were a force that had weathered encounters with Dothraki, Free Cities, Westerosi, and even dragons, having fought valiantly for centuries before relinquishing their ambitions. Now, three hundred years later, that deep-seated resentment still simmered beneath the surface. Volantis was not a city that would easily yield.

    Adorning each ship, their red banners fluttered in the wind, displaying the emblem of Volantis—a symbol of unity amidst diversity. Upon them was the eternal fire of R'hllor, encircled by representations of a tiger and an elephant. The banners declared Volantis's unbreakable resolve to quell the Meereenese uprising. Yet, even as these symbols proclaimed unity, the glaring disunity between slaves and slavers remained undeniable.

    As the formidable fleet advanced, a sense of confidence undoubtedly pervaded their ranks. Their scouting reports had indicated only the presence of the Ironborn fleet; Daenerys Targaryen was conspicuously absent. Her whereabouts remained a mystery—she could have been back in Meereen or perhaps leading the army rumored to have left the city for Yunkai. The Volantenes weren't without caution, for they were well aware of the notorious reputation of the Ironborn. Choosing to confront the Volantene Fleet in a narrow strait was a conventional yet effective strategy to counterbalance their numerical disadvantage.

    However, confidence among the Volantene captains bordered on arrogance. They counted merely a hundred enemy ships opposing them, a minor obstacle on their path to Meereen, wealth, slaves, and what they deemed an assured victory. With such conviction, the Volantene fleet surged forward, with the vanguard leading the charge into the awaiting jaws of the Ironborn kraken.

    The remainder of their fleet followed, positioned just far enough to remain out of immediate battle, but ready to reinforce when required. Their strategy aimed to ensure that the main body of their fleet would remain untouched by the initial clashes—a decision that disappointed some of the more eager captains but ultimately reflected the Volantene command's careful and calculated approach, aiming to safeguard their anticipated victory.

    ​

    As the lead vanguard of the Volantene fleet surged ahead, their fellow ships followed suit, aligning themselves to fit within the confines of the strait. The close proximity meant that both sides quickly came into firing range, initiating a chaotic exchange of deadly projectiles—catapults, ballistae, and scorpions. The air was filled with the whistling of missiles as ships from both sides took devastating hits. The clash of wood and metal echoed across the water, and the sea soon bore witness to a chaotic spectacle.

    In this intense skirmish, ships from both fleets suffered heavy damage. Some ships were struck so hard that they were severed in two, hanging precariously on the verge of sinking. The tactical approach of the Ironborn proved advantageous, as Victarion had intentionally allowed his formation to be more dispersed. He understood the importance of evading the clustered formation that the Volantenes had adopted, aiming to punch through his blockade in a single concentrated assault. As a result, the Ironborn managed to minimize casualties and damage, achieving a tactical edge over their opponents.

    However, the tumultuous engagement was not without its significant losses. Among the battered ships, several notable vessels met their end in the fierce struggle. The Golden Wind, the Leviathan, and the Warhammer—ships of repute and renown—succumbed to the chaos of battle, their destruction a testament to the ferocity and unpredictability of the conflict.

    The air was filled with a symphony of deadly sounds as the bows of both fleets released their deadly cargo—arrows, bolts, and javelins—aimed at the enemy ships. The once-silent sea was now punctuated by the splintering of wooden decks and the anguished cries of sailors unlucky enough to be struck by a well-aimed projectile.

    Amidst this chaotic exchange, the impending clash of rams against hulls was anticipated. It was a moment that held both dread and anticipation, the looming impact that could mean the sinking of ships and the drowning of men. Yet, a sudden disruption shattered the expected rhythm of the battle. Victarion, with his unnatural hand, raised a banner that was entirely unfamiliar to the Volantenes—a simple red cloth fluttering in the wind. The sight of this unknown standard caused a momentary hesitation among the captains of the Volantene vanguard, a brief pause before the momentum of battle resumed.

    The Ironborn flagship's signal was clear to its fleet, and it spread like wildfire. Each Ironborn ship, despite the distance, held aloft the same red banner. It was a sight that puzzled both the Volantene commanders and their crews. The confusion spread throughout the fleet, as sailors and officers exchanged bewildered glances, trying to decipher the meaning of this unexpected and unprecedented signal.

    Amidst this rising confusion, a new development unfolded that deepened the mystery. One by one, the red banners that had been raised were set ablaze. The flames spread rapidly across the cloth, creating a radiant and almost choreographed spectacle. The onlookers, both Ironborn and Volantene, watched in awe and uncertainty as the banners burned to ash.

    Yet, the perplexity was shattered by a sudden and electrifying chant that echoed across the lower decks. The words "Muna!" filled the air, growing in volume and intensity. The once-muted questions of the crews evolved into genuine concern, a collective unease that spread among the sailors.

    ​

    As the tension mounted, a sound like hurricane winds reached their ears. Eyes turned toward the isle of Yaros, and a collective gasp went through the fleet. A dark shadow loomed in the distance, the shape unmistakable. Fear gripped the hearts of those who beheld it. The Dragonrider had made her dramatic entrance, her presence undeniable and her intentions unclear.

    Amidst this chaotic and unforeseen turn of events, the once-confident Volantene vanguard found themselves immobilized. The slave rowers, driven by the whispered command of "Muna," refused to continue, leaving the Volantene ships vulnerable and adrift.

    Seizing this moment, the Ironborn fleet advanced, taking advantage of their loose formation. With the tactics honed through years of naval combat, they surrounded the heart of the Volantene vanguard. Ironborn reavers and Meereenese freedmen surged forth, leaping onto enemy ships with fierce determination. The clash was brutal and unforgiving, as Ironborn axes met Volantene swords and spears.

    The battle was an equal contest of valor and ferocity. Ironborn reavers, well-versed in the ways of the sea and unflinching in the face of danger, met the relative inexperience of the newly freed Meereenese. The latter, though less experienced, were driven by their newfound freedom and their loyalty to their Mysa, Daenerys. These factors balanced the odds, creating a deadly symphony of violence.

    Amidst the chaos, Daenerys herself soared on the back of her dragon, Drogon, striking at the exposed left flank of the Volantene navy. The impact was devastating and instantaneous. In a matter of seconds, a dozen Volantene ships were reduced to flaming wrecks, their occupants consumed by the fire and the sea alike. The very force that the Volantenes had banked their confidence on had turned into a harrowing downfall.

    As the Ironborn and Meereenese freedmen pressed their assault with relentless determination, the Volantene crews found themselves pushed back, their lines breaking under the onslaught. Some attempted to retreat to the safety of their lower decks, seeking refuge from the fierce battle above. However, their escape would be met with a chilling and unexpected revelation.

    Within the lower decks, a growing unrest had taken root among the slaves forced to man the oars. The whispers of "Muna" had spread like wildfire, kindling a spirit of rebellion. These slaves, long subjugated and oppressed, now saw an opportunity for freedom in the chaos of battle.

    As the Volantene crews descended into the lower decks, they were met not with submission, but with defiance. The slaves rose up against their masters, armed with whatever makeshift weapons they could find. The narrow confines of the lower decks became a battlefield, as the slaves fought with a desperation fueled by years of suffering.

    The tide of the battle had shifted dramatically. The once-formidable Volantene vanguard now faced threats from all sides—Ironborn and Meereenese forces on the decks above, and a rebellion of their own slave rowers in the depths below. Chaos reigned, as shouts and clashes echoed through the air, mingling with the groans of wounded ships and the roars of dragons.

    In the midst of this turmoil, the destiny of the straits hung in the balance. The Iron Captain and the Dragon Queen had orchestrated a symphony of unexpected turns, turning the tide of battle against the once-confident Volantenes.

    In the confined space of the lower decks, a rebellion erupted like a volcano, driven by the fervent belief that Muna, the chosen one, would lead them to freedom. The slaves, who had endured years of torment, rallied behind this newfound hope, channeling their pent-up anger and frustration into a brutal uprising.

    Armed with makeshift weapons and fueled by an overwhelming desire for liberation, the slaves launched a furious assault on their oppressors. Slavers who had once wielded whips and chains now found themselves facing a relentless onslaught. Desperation and rage gave strength to the slaves' strikes, and their determination to break free propelled them forward.

    The lower decks became a battlefield of unimaginable brutality. Slaves fought with a ferocity born from years of suffering, their blows landing with unbridled force. The slavers, caught off guard by the sudden rebellion, were swiftly overwhelmed. Wooden planks and beams echoed with the sounds of impact, and the air was filled with the guttural cries of combat.

    In this maelstrom of violence, the slaves sought retribution for their stolen lives. They hunted down their oppressors with an unyielding resolve, delivering brutal retribution in return for years of cruelty. Bloodied hands and battered bodies clashed, as the lower decks turned into a gruesome arena of vengeance.

    Amidst the chaos, the belief in Muna, in Azor Ahai, gave the slaves an unwavering conviction. They fought not just for their own freedom, but for a future where chains would be broken, where the horrors of slavery would be shattered forever. And as the rebellion raged on, the destiny of the straits hung in the balance, a testament to the power of hope and the will to rise against tyranny.

    With the Iron Victory as his command center, Victarion orchestrated the strategic dance of war, making swift decisions that capitalized on the chaos unfolding on the battlefield. His expert tactics and leadership guided the Ironborn to victory, ship after ship falling under their control.

    Amidst the turmoil, the shadow of Drogon appeared in the sky, a harbinger of fiery destruction. Daenerys, riding atop her dragon, swooped down upon the Volantene fleet with breathtaking speed and precision. Her presence struck terror into the hearts of the enemy, and the destructive force of dragonfire engulfed the ships in a sea of flames.

    The Volantene fleet found themselves trapped between the relentless assault of Victarion's Ironborn forces and the devastating power of Drogon's onslaught. Ships were consumed by fire, their sails and masts turning to ash. Chaos reigned as sailors jumped overboard to escape the inferno, while others futilely attempted to douse the flames.

    The battle had shifted dramatically, the tide turning decisively in favor of Daenerys and her allies. The trapped Volantene ships were caught in a nightmarish crossfire, unable to escape the onslaught from both sea and sky. The waters churned with debris and the desperate cries of those caught in the maelstrom.

    As the battle raged on, the sea transformed into a chaotic dance of death and defiance. Victarion's prowess at the helm of the Iron Victory became a rallying point, a tempest of destruction amidst the turmoil. Amidst the smoke and blood, the Ironborn captain's strategic brilliance shone as he seized one enemy ship after another, quickly repurposing them to his advantage. The newly acquired vessels merged into his own fleet, driven by the trembling hands of newly liberated slaves. Even as he steered his flagship back into the fray, his eyes couldn't help but be drawn to the skies above. Daenerys, the Targaryen queen, displayed a mastery of her dragons that was nothing short of awe-inspiring. One of her majestic beasts descended with the fury of a storm, its fiery breath engulfing an unsuspecting Volantene vessel, ensnaring it within a deadly embrace of flame and smoke.

    Yet, the Volantenes were not so easily cowed. Their history bore the mark of the ancient Valyrians, and the secrets held within the pages of The Fires of the Freehold held their salvation. While the Ironborn and the Meereenese slaves fought valiantly, the Volantene admirals executed a calculated maneuver. From the shadows of the Black Walls, knowledge flowed like wildfire through their ranks. They had learned how to counter the dragons, how to deprive them of the skies they ruled. Armed with this long forgotten wisdom, the Volantene captains executed a coordinated assault, using ancient anti-dragon tactics. Ingenious ballistae and scorpion placements began to target the dragons with a precision that unnerved even the Targaryen queen. A barrage of bolts and projectiles filled the air, forcing Daenerys's dragons to soar higher, away from their natural advantage. It was a well-executed plan, born from the pages of history, one that threatened to turn the tide of the battle.

    Amidst the chaos, as Daenerys and Drogon engaged in their deadly ballet of fire and destruction, the battlefield became a canvas of devastation. The monstrous dragon, akin to the legendary Balerion, plunged into the Volantene fleet with a fury that was as awe-inspiring as it was terrifying. The battle cries of men and the wails of wounded ships filled the air, a cacophony of war that echoed across the waves. But even as Drogon unleashed his formidable power, the Volantenes proved resilient. Their ballistae and crossbows continued to fire, a relentless barrage that tested even the mighty dragon's defenses. Bolts that missed their mark left trails of smoke and fire in their wake, while others struck true, causing Drogon to let out primal roars of pain and anger.

    Yet, despite the chaos and the fierce resistance, Drogon's wrath was undeniable. His fiery breath washed over enemy vessels, transforming wood and sail into charred remnants. The impact of a dromond crashing down upon another sent shockwaves through the fleet, a testament to the immense power the dragon commanded. The flames that consumed thirty ships in their embrace painted the sea with a fiery hue, casting long shadows that danced with the waves. The Volantene fleet, a once formidable force, now found itself teetering on the brink of despair. Some ships, recognizing the hopelessness of their situation, began a hasty retreat, sails billowing as they fled the inferno that raged around them.

    Yet, amidst the chaos and destruction, the true essence of the battle became clear. It was a clash of not just arms, but of ideologies. On one side stood the symbol of oppression, of an empire built on the backs of slaves, now brought face to face with the very embodiment of liberation. The enslaved masses, touched by the prophecies of the Red God, fought with a fervor born of desperation and newfound hope. And as Drogon continued to weave his fiery path of destruction, the fate of the Volantene fleet hung in the balance, a testament to the enduring power of the human spirit to rise against tyranny and oppression.

    Amid the chaos and determination on both sides, the battle's tempo shifted once again, like the ebb and flow of the tides. The Volantene leadership, resolute in their convictions, pushed forward another line of ships, hoping to regain their momentum and counter the assault. But they were met with the same challenge that had beset the previous waves – the rebellion of the slave rowers. The once-enslaved oarsmen, emboldened by the presence of their liberator and the promises of the Red God, refused to follow the commands of their masters. Disorder and confusion reigned within the Volantene ranks, leaving them vulnerable to the advancing Ironborn fleet.

    Seizing this opportune moment, Victarion's forces surged forward, a plague of iron and rage unleashed upon the pristine Volantene ships. Ironborn reavers and Freedmen fighters swarmed the enemy vessels, setting off slave revolts in a cascading chain reaction. The Volantenes found themselves trapped on their own ships, powerless against the onslaught of their former captives. As the battle raged, Daenerys grappled with a complex mix of emotions. She watched as Drogon hovered overhead, ready to unleash his devastating fire, his presence both a protector and a weapon. But amidst the chaos and the violence, a new sense of doubt and regret crept over her.

    The reality of the cost of victory was inescapable. The flames that consumed the ships, the cries of pain and fear, and the chaos of battle – all of it weighed heavily on her heart. She had come to this land with the hope of liberation, of justice, but the path to those ideals was paved with the suffering of both slaver and slave. And now, faced with the danger that threatened her son, her determination faltered. Drogon's fiery breath held the power to turn the tide of battle, but it also meant causing more destruction, more death. As the battle raged on below, Daenerys grappled with the moral dilemma before her – to unleash her dragon's wrath for victory or to find another way, one that could spare lives and still achieve the liberation she so fervently sought.

    With the Volantene fleet retreating, their damaged and burning ships slowly fading into the horizon, a momentary lull descended upon the battlefield. Daenerys stood upon the precipice, her eyes fixed on the departing enemy ships, her thoughts a whirlwind of uncertainty and contemplation. The Ironborn forces, bloodied but victorious, held their position, tense and watchful, their hard-won triumph tempered by the knowledge that the battle was not over. As she surveyed the waters, her mind churned with questions, her instincts as a leader urging her to consider the possibilities that lay beyond the immediate scene.

    Indeed, the absence of the entire Volantene fleet did not escape her keen observations. The vastness of the sea could easily conceal the presence of more ships, ships that might be regrouping, waiting for the opportune moment to rejoin the fray. Daenerys understood the intricate politics of Essos, the alliances and rivalries that shaped the continent's landscape. She knew that Volantis held connections far beyond the Straits of Yaros, allies who might answer their call for reinforcements. And so, even as the battle seemed to have tilted in her favor, a lingering uncertainty remained, a feeling that victory might still hang in the balance.

    As the sun cast its golden light over the battlefield, illuminating the smoldering wreckage of ships and the exhausted faces of the Ironborn and Freedmen fighters, Daenerys knew that the true test of her leadership had only just begun. The question of what lay beyond the horizon weighed heavily on her mind, a question that could determine the fate of not only this battle but also the future of her campaign to liberate Slaver's Bay. With her gaze fixed on the waters where the Volantene fleet had disappeared, she steeled herself for the challenges that lay ahead.

    With a determination that burned hotter than any dragon's fire, Daenerys commanded Drogon to take to the skies once more, his wings unfurling as he soared above the battlefield. Ignoring the fading specter of the Volantene fleet, she turned her attention to the western passage of Yaros, a route she had scouted only the day prior. In her heart, she felt the weight of her suspicions crystallizing into a dire reality.

    As she and Drogon raced towards the passage, the wind whipping through her hair and her gaze fixed on the horizon, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. The Volantenes had been crafty, intending to use the cover of night to move a flanking force through the western passage, positioning themselves to strike at Victarion's fleet from an unexpected direction. The advantage of numbers and strategy had been theirs, a dangerous pincer movement that could have spelled disaster for the Ironborn and their allies.

    But Daenerys was not only a Targaryen, but also the Mother of Dragons. As Drogon's mighty wings propelled them forward, she felt a surge of power, a reminder of the forces she commanded. She had faced adversity before, had stared down the threat of death and emerged stronger. This battle, this moment, would be no different.

    Approaching the western passage, Daenerys scanned the waters below, her sharp eyes catching the glint of armor and the movement of ships. The Volantene flanking force was there, hidden from view only to those who lacked the vision of a dragonrider. With a fierce determination burning in her gaze, she guided Drogon into a swift descent, the dragon's roar echoing across the sea as they descended upon the unsuspecting enemy ships.

    Fire and blood erupted from Drogon's maw, a torrent of flames that consumed ships and men alike. The element of surprise was hers, the advantage of the skies lending her the upper hand. As the Volantene ships writhed in the inferno, panic and chaos spread among their ranks. Daenerys and Drogon carved a path of destruction through the heart of the flanking force, their combined might obliterating any hope the Volantenes had of executing their pincer strategy.

    Amidst the smoke and flames, Daenerys felt the familiar rush of exhilaration, the intoxicating dance of battle that mingled fear with triumph. Her actions had once again shifted the tides of fate, turning a dire situation into a decisive victory. As the last remnants of the Volantene flanking force succumbed to the flames, Daenerys and Drogon ascended back into the skies, triumphant cries of freed slaves and Ironborn reaching their ears.

    Her suspicions had led her here, her instincts guiding her to the very heart of danger. And in the crucible of battle, she had emerged victorious once more. With the winds of victory at her back, she turned her gaze towards the straits, knowing that the battle was far from over. But for now, she would revel in the taste of triumph, the wind and fire of the battlefield mingling with the exhilaration of her own indomitable spirit.

    As the first light of dawn painted the horizon with hues of gold and pink, the Ironborn scouts ventured closer to the aftermath of the inferno that had consumed the waters. Their faces were etched with both awe and trepidation, for the scene that greeted them was one of devastation, yet also of triumph.

    The burning wrecks of Volantene ships floated like charred ghosts upon the sea, a testament to the power of fire and dragon's breath. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burnt wood and scorched flesh, a reminder of the price paid for victory. Among the wreckage, they found the bodies of slavers and slaves alike, their fates sealed by the flames that had danced upon the waves.

    As they ventured further, their eyes settled on a small commune of ships, beached upon the shoreline. Above them all stood the monstrous black drake, his presence awe-inspiring even in the aftermath of battle. Beside him was their queen, Daenerys Targaryen, a figure both regal and fierce. She was not alone, surrounded by freedmen who knelt before her, their faces filled with gratitude and reverence.

    The scouts exchanged glances, a mixture of wonder and confusion passing between them. This was the scene of a victory, of liberation, but also of mystery. They had not witnessed the events that had unfolded here, the clash of dragon and fleet, the rebellion of slaves, the roar of fire and the scent of blood. Yet here, before them, was the culmination of those events, a tableau of triumph that defied their expectations.

    Victarion, their Iron Captain, stood among them, his one eye fixed upon the scene. His gaze was a mix of pride and satisfaction, for he knew that their efforts had not been in vain. Meereen had been saved, the Volantene threat thwarted, and Daenerys had once again proven her worth as a ruler and a dragonrider.

    The scouts returned to Victarion's side, their report unspoken yet understood. The battle had been won, the enemy routed, and the Dragon Queen's influence solidified. For now, Meereen was safe, its people free from the tyranny of the Volantenes. But as the Iron Captain's gaze shifted to Daenerys and her dragon, he knew that the challenges of Essos were far from over.

    As the sun climbed higher in the sky, casting its warm light over the scene of victory, Victarion couldn't help but feel a sense of cautious hope. The path ahead was uncertain, the dangers of the world vast and unyielding. But with Daenerys at their side and the power of dragons to guide them, perhaps they could face whatever came next, and forge a new future for themselves and the lands they sought to free.

    As the focal point shifted to the Stepstones, a stage far removed from the drama of Slaver's Bay, the intricate threads of fate continued to weave their tapestry in distant corners. Among these narratives, a tale of maritime intrigue unfolded with the arrival of Tarth and Estermont ships upon the shores of Sunstone, Bloodstone, Wreckstone, and Grey Gallows. This formidable fleet, comprising over fifty vessels, sailed with purpose and authority, casting a shadow that most pirate vessels dared not challenge. News from the distant realm of Westeros had trickled through, bearing tidings of Storm's End's capture by the Golden Company and the subsequent fall of the Stormlands. This stormy news painted a vivid picture of the turmoil gripping the Iron Throne and its contested dominions, casting a pall over all who wished to avoid the impending tempest that was certain to engulf the realm, regardless of who held its reins.

    Yet, fear of the approaching squall was not the only force driving the pirates to maintain a cautious distance from these new arrivals. The echoes of a potent legacy resonated within the marauding hearts of these pirate lords — the legend of the Golden Company. The mere mention of this renowned mercenary company sent shivers down their spines, harkening back to the Company's accidental yet resounding presence in the Stepstones. In a matter of weeks, they had methodically purged the islands of their pirate scourge, leaving an indelible mark of authority upon the Stepstones. The pirates, who had long reveled in their autonomy, found themselves cowed by the disciplined might of the Golden Company and the grim fate that awaited those who challenged them.

    Thus, as the Tarth and Estermont fleet cast its shadow upon the Stepstones, a delicate dance unfolded — one of cautious respect and calculated avoidance. The pirate lords, seasoned navigators of both seas and subtleties, recognized the shifting winds of power, their future courses determined by a complex interplay of alliances and uncertainties. Amidst the sun-drenched shores and hidden coves of these isles, the tides of destiny ebbed and flowed, carrying with them the seeds of both conflict and compromise.

    Amidst the clamor of conflicting interests and the rumbling calls for unity, the great pirate lords found themselves at an impasse. While some voices within their ranks implored for a united front to expel the foreign flotilla, the grand halls of cooperation remained eerily empty. The enigmatic Hidden King of Shame Isle, if the whispers were to be believed, was rumored to be considering a lucrative contract from the very heart of Volantis, a pact aimed at bolstering their depleted fleet and turning the tide in their favor. Meanwhile, within the Skulls and Last Refuge, the Lusty Lord and Moreo Ryndoon — the latter dubbing himself a successor to the once-revered King of the Stepstones, Racallio Ryndoon — grappled with intractable disagreements. As the two pirate lords found themselves at an impasse, their differences seemed to epitomize the fragmentation that plagued the very foundations of the pirate realm.

    ​

    Yet, in this complex tapestry of divergent ambitions, the Prince of the Narrow Sea, the ever-charismatic Salladhor Saan, and the enigmatic Lord of Waters, Aurane Waters stood as silent figures, their intentions shrouded in mystery. In the midst of this intrigue, smaller and more impulsive pirates, driven by bravado that outweighed reason, launched audacious attacks upon the Stormlander fleet. As one might expect, the repercussions were swift and merciless — these reckless buccaneers soon found themselves at the watery grave they had courted. Yet, the bold strikes were not without consequence, as the Stormlanders bore their own share of damage and losses.

    As the pirate lords awaited with bated breath for the inevitable storm of retaliation from the Stormlands, a surprising twist of fate veiled their horizon. Instead of witnessing the wrath they anticipated, news came cascading down the currents of rumor: the Golden Company had withdrawn from their newly occupied territories. The ominous silhouette of the Stormlander fleet receded, its destination homebound. For the pirates, this unexpected turn of events was akin to a gust of wind that shifted the sails in their favor. An exhale of collective relief rippled through their ranks, diffusing the tension that had gripped the pirate isles, if only for a fleeting moment.

    Yet the shifting tides of fortune in the Stepstones brought with them a twist that left a bitter aftertaste. Swiftly following the Golden Company's departure, the once-occupied islands were reclaimed — not by any unexpected power, but by the very man who had seemed to orchestrate their departure. The Lord of Waters, had seized the opportunity with calculated precision, reclaiming the vacated territories for his own cause. The speed of this maneuver raised suspicion in the minds of many, prompting whispers of treachery and clandestine knowledge. How could he have orchestrated such a swift recapture unless he was privy to the Golden Company's intentions from the outset?

    In the face of this audacious move, the Lusty Lord and Moreo Ryndoon, their differences set aside, forged an unlikely alliance. Their shared determination to confront the upstart Lord of Waters unified them, their mutual resolve embodied in their pledge to wrest control of Sunstone, Bloodstone, Wreckstone, and Grey Gallow from his grasp. This alliance marked a significant turning point, a testament to the gravity of the situation that had arisen.

    However, even as they set their sights on this united front, a new element entered the arena. A Braavosi flotilla, consisting of ten formidable warships, set sail along the coastline. The memories of the Braavosi intervention in the Stepstones' affairs remained fresh, casting a long shadow over the prospect of their involvement. While the pirate lords recognized the manageable scale of this new flotilla, they also recalled the repercussions of underestimating the Braavosi resolve. The recollection of how the quiet presence of Braavosi merchants had once snowballed into a significant shift of power cautioned them against rash actions that might ignite an incident with these determined newcomers. The clash of ambitions in the Stepstones was further complicated by these foreign forces, as each move carried the potential to tip the precarious balance and plunge the isles into deeper chaos.

    The arrival of the Braavosi flotilla at Torturer's Deep sent shockwaves reverberating through the pirate-infested waters. A collective gasp of surprise swept over the pirate lords and their crews, as the Braavosi ships came to a halt and the intent of their visit became apparent. Tormo Fregar, the new Sealord of Braavos, made a bold proclamation, officially declaring his backing of the Lord of Waters and establishing an unofficial protectorate over his burgeoning realm. The unexpected alignment between the powerful Braavosi and the ambitious Lord of Waters reshaped the very foundation of the Stepstones' dynamic.

    The contents of the Braavosi ships further intensified the astonishment. As the holds were opened, a wealth of resources spilled forth — engineers prepared to fortify the newly conquered territories, weapons and siege equipment meant to secure Waters' dominion, and even representatives of the Iron Bank, a formidable force in its own right. However, the most significant reinforcement was a detachment of the renowned Jolly Fellows, a sellsword company led by Ten Eyes, successor to Nine Eyes. Though once in service to the Blackfyres during the tumultuous times of the War of Ninepenny Kings, the Jolly Fellows now marched under the banner of gold, or so they claimed. Their arrival added a formidable military strength to Waters' cause, bolstering his chances of establishing dominion over the Stepstones.

    As the Braavosi engineers began fortifying the territories under Waters' control and rumors swirled of his agents negotiating ship construction contracts with the Iron Bank, a sense of unease settled among the other pirate lords. The implications of these developments were significant — not only did Waters seem to have secured formidable allies and resources, but his intentions seemed to reach even further. Whispers of his potential dealings with the Faceless Men only deepened the uncertainty that pervaded the air. The balance of power in the Stepstones had shifted dramatically, and the other pirate captains were left in a state of disarray, their next moves unclear in the face of these unexpected turns of events.

    Amidst the swirling currents of uncertainty and shifting allegiances in the Stepstones, another seismic event sent shockwaves through the pirate-infested archipelago. Salladhor Saan, the charismatic and audacious Prince of the Narrow Sea, swiftly and decisively conquered Shame Isle. In a stunning turn of events, the Hidden King, whose rumored Volantene loyalties had raised suspicions, was swiftly dealt with, his severed head placed atop a pike at the very heart of the island. The audacity of Saan's move revealed a new player in the tumultuous power struggle, and it was evident that he was backed by his homeland, Lys. This support signaled a resounding rejection of both Braavos and Volantis in the Stepstones.

    Meanwhile, Myr and Tyrosh, the other two members of the former Three Daughters, entered the fray with their own calculated moves. Whispers circulated that secret negotiations were taking place among these powerful city-states, their involvement adding yet another layer of intrigue to an already intricate tapestry of alliances and rivalries. Representatives from Myr were spotted at The Skulls, while Tyroshi envoys were seen in Last Refuge, their intentions shrouded in mystery.

    As attention remained fixed on the Lord of Waters and his newfound Braavosi support, growing unease pervaded the Stepstones. Pirate captains, facing uncertain futures, made their own choices, pledging allegiance to the remaining four pirate lords. Among the uncertainty and shifting loyalties, one undeniable truth emerged: Aurane Waters was orchestrating a grand plan that harkened back to a time long past. The concept of a unified Kingdom of the Stepstones, a title not claimed for two hundred years, seemed to be the focal point of his ambitions.

    Rumors spread that Salladhor Saan found amusement in Waters' pretensions of kingship, finding himself the true embodiment of such a lofty title. With the drums of war beating in the distance, the Prince of the Narrow Sea readied himself to make his mark on the Stepstones, a realm embroiled in a maelstrom of power, rivalry, and the unrelenting pursuit of dominance.

    In the city of Braavos, the final chapters of the Essosi tale unfolded not through martial conflict, but within the corridors of power and intrigue. Representatives from various would-be monarchs gathered in the shadows of the great Titan, each seeking to sway the balance of influence in their favor or gain strategic advantage.

    Representing the Lion of King's Landing was Ser Harys Swyft, the Master of Coin and the goodfather of the late Ser Kevan Lannister, former Hand of the King. With desperation in his eyes, he had spent months attempting to negotiate with the Iron Bank of Braavos, striving to halt their support for the Winterfell pretender and to reopen credit for the beleaguered King's Landing. His appearance was marked by a visible air of paranoia and illness, worsened by the recent violent assassination of Ralf the Sweetling, which had swiftly become a matter of public knowledge.

    In the name of the Stag of Winterfell stood Ser Justin Massey of House Massey, recently appointed as the Master of Laws. Armed with a royal letter confirming the survival of the King, he held the key to a possible furtherance with the Iron Bank. The promise of a marital alliance with the Princess of the Iron Islands awaited him upon success.

    Rumors abounded of the impending arrival of emissaries from the two Dragons, both Westerosi and Essosi. Their goals were clear: one aimed to take control of the Iron Throne's debt as a symbolic assertion of legitimate rule, while the other sought to forge an alliance against the pervasive threat of slavery in Essos.

    Within the city's labyrinthine streets and grand halls, these representatives navigated the delicate dance of diplomacy, secrets, and manipulation. Their fates intertwined with the great Titan that watched over Braavos, as the decisions made in the shadows would have far-reaching consequences for the future of both Essos and Westeros.

    The meeting of the Master of Coin and the Master of Laws, representing rival kings, within the hallowed halls of the Iron Bank was indeed an awkward and uncomfortable affair. The Iron Bank, hoping to prevent such an encounter, had miscalculated, and their well-intentioned efforts led to a heated argument between the two delegates. The Bank's members likely found themselves caught in a situation they had not anticipated.

    In a matter of moments, the room that was meant for negotiations turned into a battleground of ideologies and accusations. Ser Harys Swyft, with staunch loyalty to the Lannister cause, vehemently denounced Stannis Baratheon as a heretical usurper. In retaliation, Ser Justin Massey did not hold back, condemning Tommen Baratheon as an abomination born of incest. The verbal sparring escalated, tempers flaring and insults exchanged, with both men challenging the legitimacy of each other's kings.

    The tension reached a point where the Iron Bank's hosts had to intervene swiftly to prevent a physical altercation. Both Swyft and Massey were discreetly removed from the premises, and the Iron Bank offered hushed apologies for the awkward encounter. However, the damage had been done, and the revelation of each other's presence left both men on edge.

    For Ser Harys Swyft, already plagued by paranoia, this incident only heightened his fears. His efforts to negotiate with the Iron Bank had yielded little progress over the course of several months. The Iron Bank's reluctance to reestablish credit with the Lannister regime was clear, and Swyft's anxiety grew as he realized that the Bank's Keyholders were looking beyond the Lannisters, anticipating a change in the ruling powers of the realm. The critical question remained: who would be the next to hold the Iron Throne, the proclaimed Targaryen in Storm's End or the enigmatic Stag in the cold North? Uncertainty and tension now loomed even larger in the halls of the Iron Bank, mirroring the instability of Westeros itself.

    Ser Justin Massey's negotiation skills proved invaluable in such regards as he interacted with the Keyholders of the Iron Bank. Presenting Stannis Baratheon's reaffirmation to assume all debts incurred by the Iron Throne, including those accumulated during the Lannister reign, was a shrewd move that garnered favorable attention from the Bank. His further act of safely escorting Tycho Nestoris back to Braavos, clutching a contract signed in blood by Stannis Baratheon, solidified the Iron Bank's inclination to align with the Stag's cause.

    While a few Keyholders were cautious, preferring to assess the unfolding events in King's Landing before making a decisive commitment, the majority saw reason to wholeheartedly support Stannis Baratheon. These significant moves did not trigger excessive surprise, for Braavos was accustomed to the pragmatic nature of the Iron Bank's dealings.

    In a strategic deviation from the typical approach of hiring sellswords, Ser Justin Massey demonstrated his practical vision for the North's impending challenges. Instead of recruiting fighters for the battlefield, he orchestrated contracts among Braavosi traders for the transportation of vital resources to White Harbor. The most crucial of these goods was grain, along with farming tools, carts, construction materials, and other essential supplies. Recognizing the looming threat of winter, artisans were also engaged, although not without reluctance due to the daunting prospect of facing the harsh northern climate.

    In this manner, Ser Justin Massey sought to secure the necessary foundation for the North's survival during the challenging times ahead. His thoughtful actions showcased his commitment to Stannis Baratheon's cause and demonstrated that he was willing to address the practical needs of the people he aimed to serve.

    Among the resources enlisted to fortify the North's defenses were skilled individuals of martial expertise, specifically drillmasters and instructors. Their task was to elevate the capabilities of the Northern levies to a higher level of proficiency, preparing them for the challenges that awaited. This strategic move aimed to strengthen the region's defensive capacity, recognizing that a well-trained and capable fighting force would be essential in the tumultuous times to come.

    Surprisingly, even the newly elected Sealord of Braavos extended subtle support to Ser Justin Massey's efforts. Permission was granted for the Third Sword, a renowned Braavosi fighter, to accompany the group. This gesture not only symbolized the Sealord's indirect backing but also showcased the interconnectedness of Massey's mission within the broader landscape of international relations.

    Throughout these efforts, Ser Justin Massey's presence at the renowned Arsenals of Braavos remained notable. There, he invested a substantial amount of both time and borrowed funds. Coincidentally, during his endeavors, he unknowingly crossed paths with agents connected to his former comrade, Aurane Waters. These agents, pursuing their own shipbuilding ambitions, sought to construct vessels within the famed Arsenals. Fortunately, the Arsenal's extensive capabilities allowed for simultaneous fulfillment of domestic and foreign demands, ensuring the construction of ships not only for Braavos but also for Ser Justin's own cause.

    As the first ships of a reestablished Royal navy were laid down in these foreign docks, Ser Justin Massey believed that his presence, combined with these vessels, would serve as a symbol, possibly reaching the hand of Lady Greyjoy. The intricate web of alliances, ambitions, and actions played out on this international stage, setting the foundation for what was to come in the complex political landscape of Westeros and beyond.

    ​

    The peaceful tranquility of a typical Braavosi morning would shatter in the wake of a great scandal. The city's upper echelons awoke to a horrifying spectacle: the lifeless body of Ser Harys Swyft, his neck brutally slashed open, blood pooling around him. The scene was a tableau of violence, a macabre puzzle with no apparent solution. In the same vein of brutality, Swyft's guards were discovered in similar states of distress, their bodies bearing deep, agonizing puncture wounds that spoke of a painful end.

    Amidst the confusion and shock, suspicion cast a shadow over the House of Black and White, the enigmatic sanctuary known for its association with death. Yet, the mystery surrounding the murder remained impenetrable, leaving the city's investigators baffled and Braavos's elite in a state of unease.

    In this turmoil, a sinister cloud of suspicion loomed over Ser Justin Massey. His public feud with Ser Harys Swyft, culminating in a tense confrontation averted only by the intervention of the City Guard, cast an eerie pall over their already strained relationship. The whispers of intrigue spread like wildfire, intertwining Ser Justin's name with the crime, even if no concrete evidence linked him to the grisly act.

    As the shockwaves of Ser Harys Swyft's brutal murder reverberated through the alleys and canals of Braavos, the city was thrown into a state of unease and uncertainty. The enigmatic nature of the crime, the absence of any clear leads, and the suspicion that clung to Ser Justin Massey created a palpable tension that seemed to suffuse the very air. In the midst of this turmoil, Ser Justin found himself in the custody of the Braavosi authorities, his every move scrutinized as the city's elite grappled with the diplomatic implications of the Lannister envoy's death.

    Behind the scenes, the Iron Bank began to quietly advocate for Ser Justin's release. Their vested interests in the political stability of Westeros and the debts owed to them prompted their intervention in the unfolding drama. Diplomatic efforts were subtly directed towards resolving the situation, as the Iron Bank recognized the potential consequences of a prolonged imprisonment of a high-ranking envoy.

    Outside the city walls, the Wolf Pack and the Company of the Rose set up camp, their presence a silent reminder of the stakes involved. Ser Justin Massey, acting on his own initiative and driven by the desire to enhance his position before his future wife and his King, had marshaled forces to reinforce his delegation. The practicality of a military escort and the symbolic weight of an accompanying army weren't lost on him.

    As the days turned into weeks and the city remained gripped by uncertainty, the world watched the developments in Braavos with keen interest. The city's reputation as a hub of intrigue and mystery was only further solidified by these events. And as the tension in Essos remained high, the fate of individuals and realms continued to hang in the balance, waiting for resolutions that would shape the course of their futures.
     
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    • The Crownlands, the Reach, Stormlands, and Dorne - 300 AC - First Three Moons
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    • The Mad Maid


    Essentially standard, special thanks to @Hyvelic for the POV section!

    In the dimly lit chamber of the Hightower, the air was thick with the musty scent of ancient tomes and arcane knowledge. Malora Hightower, known as the Mad Maid of the High Tower, sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, surrounded by scrolls and grimoires. Her eyes were fixed on the mysterious symbols that danced before her, her mind deeply engrossed in the secrets of magic.

    Unbeknownst to Malora, her father, Leyton Hightower, the Lord of the High Tower, had quietly entered the chamber, his footsteps barely audible. He cleared his throat, attempting to catch her attention. "Malora," he said in a hushed tone, "I implore you to consider the potential of your magical abilities in service to King Tommen and House Tyrell."

    Malora turned her head slowly, her expression calm yet resolute. "Using magic for such a petty reason is worth less than a loaf of bread in the market," she retorted, her voice laced with a hint of disdain. "I have devoted my life to the study of the arcane arts, not to meddle in the squabbles of petty lords."

    Leyton's face contorted with frustration. "Petty squabbles? The fate of House Tyrell and the Reach hangs in the balance," he argued, his voice tinged with desperation. "And what of the threat of the Ironborn and Euron Greyjoy, who seek to exploit our vulnerabilities? Your magic could turn the tide in our favor."

    Malora's eyes gleamed with an intensity that matched her father's desperation. "Euron Greyjoy and his ilk may pose a threat, but I will not be manipulated by fear," she replied firmly. "If House Tyrell cannot defend its own lands and people without resorting to my powers, then it deserves whatever fate befalls it."

    Leyton, realizing that his daughter's commitment to her path was unwavering, decided to make one final, desperate plea. He began to expand on the threats that faced them, explaining in detail why they were dangerous and why her magical abilities could make a difference.

    "Malora, please, you must understand the gravity of our situation," he implored. "Euron Greyjoy is reaving the Reach's coasts with a ferocity that we have never seen before. Our coastal holdings are under relentless attack, and our people are suffering. The Ironborn are ruthless and cunning, and they have already seized several of our important ports."

    Malora listened, but her expression remained unmoved.

    "Furthermore," Leyton continued, "many of our bannermen have defected to our enemies. The very foundations of our house's strength are crumbling. Our lands and people are in grave danger, and we are running out of options to defend them."

    He took a deep breath, his voice filled with desperation. "And Aegon Targaryen, claiming to be the true heir to the Iron Throne, has taken Storm's End. His forces are growing, and the realm is in turmoil. We cannot stand idly by while the chaos consumes us."

    Malora sighed, her gaze fixed on her magical studies. "It's still not my concern, Father. My focus is on magic and the boundless knowledge it offers."

    Leyton felt defeated, the weight of their dire circumstances crushing down on him. He knew he couldn't force his daughter to change her path. "Very well, Malora," he conceded, his voice heavy with resignation. "I only hope that your pursuit of knowledge does not lead to our downfall."

    With a heavy heart, Leyton turned and left the chamber. The fate of House Hightower and the Reach remained uncertain, and he could only pray that events beyond their control would not spell their doom.    ​

    The Crownlands, the Reach, Stormlands, and Dorne - 300 AC - First Three Moons
    Special thanks to @jankmaster98 for giving me the kick up the ass I needed.​

    For a King whose main rivals were either dead or far in the periphery, one would find it difficult to name a more challenging position for the King on the Iron Throne. The self-proclaimed Son of the Sea Wind had fallen off his rocky keep to his death in the waves, while the Young Wolf had been butchered at his uncle's wedding, his traitorous uncle, had been declared the King at Highgarden and had been assassinated by his other usurping uncle. That left only that kinslayer, who after his failure at the Blackwater, had fled his fortresses of Storm's End and Dragonstone, to freeze in the North.

    Yet all so quickly, each of these traitors, antagonists, and usurpers had been replaced or returned. Where the Son of the Sea Wind had struck the North, the Crow's Eye struck the Reach, where the Young Wolf had once ruled, now ruled the Fiery Stag, and now, most pressingly, Dragons had returned to their world, and one stood atop Storm's End, its scaled claws gripping firmly upon the ancient stoneworks, and it called the realm his.

    Such was the series of crises, that found the viper's nest that was King's Landing. Yet where there were crises outside its mighty walls, there were too crises within them. The young cub, Tommen of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, remained oblivious to the powerplays between experienced players. Barely a babe he would simply stamp whatever decrees were placed before him, far more concerned about cats, and naturally… being a child.

    None could blame him, yet he was far from the King they needed at the moment, and his enemies would exploit such weakness without restraint, but who could have guessed that his subjects, his kin, would too?

    King's Landing sat at a precipice, balancing the weight of five hundred thousand souls, as by one end sat the dark oblivion of the seas, while on the other the bright flames that would burn them all.

    The war was over.

    The war had just begun.

    ​

    So it was that to the surprise of all in the capital, at the beginning of the new year, there was good news for the Lannister-Tyrell regime. Be it due to the presence of the large Tyrell army outside the capital, some political arrangement made in dark and back alleyways, or perhaps simply a true sense of justice shining through the Shepherd of the Faithful, in a quick, public, and fair ecclesiastical trial, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Margaery Tyrell, was set free.

    It was a moment of great celebration in the capital, as the crowd which had only grown larger and larger by the day outside the Great Sept, upon seeing their Queen let out immense cries of joy. After all, these smallfolk had precious few things to celebrate in these dark days.

    Of course in this vein of righteous justice, those who had committed crimes would face the sword. Such it was, that though the High Sparrow was unable to cast his reach upon the Queen-Mother, who had been protected by the Seven, and of course her gigantic champion. Her lover, and confessor to the murder of the previous High Septon, was a fair prize, Ser Osney Kettleback was executed, and all the while Cersei Lannister became the very picture of piety and faith. Surrounding herself with septas for her handmaidens, and publicly praying for the safety of her gooddaughter and actual daughter, publicly elated as the former was returned to the Red Keep. The fact that the Queen Mother was freed by the sword, and the Queen by grace, was lost on no one.

    At the very least, for the Sparrows it seemed that the freeing of the Queen freed them from the sword that the Lord Paramount of the Mander had at their necks. Indeed, be it feigned or not, the nest of vipers that was the capital became rather suddenly… lacking hisses, as it seemed that the freeing of the Queen even brought a strange detente between the Lannister and Tyrell forces within the capital. There were many a Small Council position that remained unfilled, especially with the assassinations of the Regent and Grand Maester, but as the investigation continued to be fruitless, both the Hand of the King and the Queen Mother seemed to reach an agreement to much less cooperate with each other but rather not stand against each other.

    Thus as the Citadel between free moments of panicking would no doubt elect Gormon Tyrell as Grand Maester and voices close to Mace Tyrell called for Harys Swfyt off in far-off Braavos to be replaced with Garse Tyrell, and Mace himself ruled as Regent in all but name, it seemed that the Small Council would be entirely held by the Tyrells. For one as provably rambunctious as Cersei Lannister, it was a strange sight for the court to witness her so passive, as in front of her a Tyrell coup seemed imminent. Yet, she stayed the course, outwardly calm and serene, wearing plain and grey dresses, without the fiery red or vibrant golds for which she was known. Barely making herself seen in court as she spent most of her time either praying with her septas, in private with her son and silent bodyguard, or else speaking with Qyburn and the captain of the Redcloaks.

    ​

    Such did prove beneficial, either because it was of his nature, or because he showed appreciation for this lack of interference in his rule, Mace Tyrell made no attempted coup, made no action against Lannister influence or rule in general. Instead, he sent word for the Kingslayer to come to court, his focus turning upon the lands south of King's Landing, where for the first time in his life, it was the Reach that was in turmoil.

    The Reach up to the present had perhaps the simplest and least painful experience of the war yet. In the land of chivalry and song, this war had yet still remained simply the stories of gallant knights riding down traitors. The Reach had stood united at the beginning of the war, with few exceptions, and though those exceptions had risen as the war continued, they had all either been defeated or brought back to the fold. It was perhaps this serenity, this continual belief in unity, which made the next series of betrayals so unexpected.

    It began decades ago, with a cask of Arbor strongwine in Pentos.

    It ended with the Golden Company landing in the Stormlands, with the Redwyne Fleet having long since sailed away from Dragonstone.

    It took another for these two disparate forces to be linked, Orton Merryweather, Lord of Longtable, who had been but a child when his grandfather's loyal service had been thrown away, and they all exiled to Essos, their lands, their home, stolen. It would not be long before another Hand found themselves in Essos. They acquainted themselves well enough, two exile lords, exiled by a king who was now dead, but the new would be far from eager to accept their return, Orton would marry the love of his life, Taena, while Jon Connington would surround himself with golden men with their golden swords. It would be five years before they were told the most important news of their lives pledging themselves to the son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, and with that pledge, pledging themselves to new roles. Jon would flee the Golden Company in disgrace, and all believed he drunk himself to death in Lys, all the while Orton would be able to convince Robert Baratheon to allow his return, to restore Longtable to him, even if much diminished. Might that have been enough for him? He was not an ambitious man, the Targaryens had ruined his family, and the Baratheons had restored them. Why keep a secret pledge for the grandson of the Mad King?

    ​

    Blackfyre.

    Why would the supporters of Aegon Targaryen have the sword that was lost with Meleys the Monstrous?

    So kept his course, and maintained word with the Spider and the Magister, he was told that the babe whom he had sworn his sword too was growing up well, a born king, not just by right, but by act, raised by the noble Connington, a worldly maester, a martial knight, and a pious septa.

    He did not accomplish much in those early days, simply acting as the lord, being the father, as his precious Russel was born. He would learn of his co-conspirator in the Reach, a man who had spent his whole life cultivating a very specific image, where Tyrell led, Redwyne followed, no longer. Paxter Redwyne, Lord of the Arbor, proved far more ambitious than anyone could have expected, but with twins, perhaps it was no surprise, between a civil war between sons, and finding a prize that was equal to the Arbor, the Redwynes had certainly aimed high. High enough to dethrone their kin in Highgarden. Yet it was only when the War of the Five Kings began, that any action could come, but he knew before the raven had arrived, that it was to be his moment.

    However, as soon as the war started, it seemed their plans were to go up in smoke. The Redwyne twins were held captive by the Lannisters, and thus as the Reach rallied around Renly, the Redwyne fleet's conspicuous absence to the cause was noted by all. Even more worrying, the Spider's attempt to spirit them out from the capital with a Pentoshi galley was foiled. Yet, with Renly's death, the formation of the Lannister-Tyrell alliance, and the flight of Stannis Baratheon, the plotters were back on the same page.

    Still, it took until the death of Tywin Lannister for his plan to be executed. His wife, Taena, his love, the woman he could not keep a single secret from, made her way into the good graces of the Queen, he himself would be made Hand of the King. Together, they ruined the kingdoms.

    Ruined the kingdoms, and ruined the power of House Lannister, all to prepare open beaches, a Stormlands begging for a new king, for the Golden Company to land with Blackfyre.

    And as he fled with his wife, the Redwyne twins, and a Tyrell lady to be one of their wives, the Golden Company's friends in the Reach struck, organised and convinced through years of talks by him and Paxtor. Those who had supported the Black Dragon at Redgrass Field, those who had supported the Red Dragon at the Trident, and those who simply saw an opportunity in this time of chaos. They were all bound now, Redwyne, Merryweather, Oakheart, Ball, Costayne, Cuy, Beesbury, Bulwer, Meadows, Peake, and even Rowan, deserting the armies assembled at Highgarden and King's Landing, to instead assemble at Longtable to unveil the banner of Targaryen. Even more men of those banners marched, their army of ten thousand, to swell to further size, showing the power of the loyalist Reach, the true loyalists.

    Still, the lack of Redwyne banners, all bottled upon the Arbor made problems apparent immediately. They declared Paxter their Lord Paramount, but he had just gotten his strength wiped out on the Straits. While in the camps, it became apparent quickly, that lords were living some sort of shared delusion, black dragon or red? An open question for most, and seemingly one in which both sides were confident in their answer. It was not openly discussed, perhaps not even privately whispered, yet, as the Reachlords awaited the arrival of other lords and men, it was a question that seemed to sit as an invisible smoke in the air.

    Even Lord Peake's election as commander of the army held this silent tension, with it becoming immediately obvious that those who supported him were those who had served the Blackfyres in days past. While those who were ardent in their support for House Targaryen were quick to look for another candidate, settling upon Mathis Rowan, Lord of Goldengrove… though with his current command under the King himself at Storm's End, there was little to no chance he could accept the appointment. None of this was aided by the fact that Orton Merryweather had bowed out of the competition entirely, citing his lack of military experience, while the next compromise candidate in one of the Redwyne twins, could barely be considered candidates in the first place with their youth.

    ​

    So it was, as Lord Titus Peake arrived with his levies, that he took command of a host that was already rather split. Though with his arrival along with those of the Meadows, Varners, and Ambroses, the army swelled to nearly thirteen thousand, with a promise from other lords, that their men were on the way.

    It would be this host then that Peake would attempt to win victory for his new king. Marching out from Longtable to his first target, Bitterbridge.

    Bitterbridge in every significant tumult within the Reach proved a strategic location for anyone who wished to win the Game of Thrones. From Maegor the Cruel who scored his historic victory at Stonebridge on his way to bring Oldtown and the Faith to heel, to the Greens who sacked the castle on their march to King's Landing. Suffice to say, Bitterbridge and its crossing had always proven a vital artery on the roseroad, and for the Lannister-Tyrell regime, a vital link between Highgarden and King's Landing. Indeed, the arrival of the Targaryen army outside the walls had an almost immediate effect on the capital. As food stocks began to dry up, for those with short memories and empty stomachs, it was not difficult to remember when Renly marched upon the capital, with a hundred thousand men at his back, camping at Bitterbridge.

    Yet, Peake had no intention to march on the capital, not yet anyway. While of course, Bitterbridge had welcomed Renly with open arms, this time, Lorent Caswell, Lord of Bitterbridge had no such compulsions when it came to the army outside his gates. Already word had spread far and wide of the first member of the Dragon's Kingsguard, while Ser Rolly Duckfield may not have been outside his walls, Lorent remembered well, or at least his ribs and arms did, broken as they had been by the handiwork of the blacksmith's boy. Be it for his craven tendencies to hide, or perhaps finally showing some pride, most likely a bit of both, the young Lord Caswell refused overtures to surrender his castle, to bend the knee to House Targaryen. Instead, his response would only be that he was the Defender of the Fords, that he would hold the Mander from all and any rebels, and as was the first time in near 150 years that the title was proclaimed, it was enough to give all a moment of pause.

    ​

    For a moment, nothing more.

    Lord Peake perhaps realising that bringing the Caswells and Bitterbridge to heel so easily would have been a godsend indeed, instead did as was required of him. Surrounding the southern bank of the castle while constructing siege engines, mostly rams and ladders, quick to construct and effective enough against what was a relatively small castle. Titus was no fool either, whether it was Randyll Tarly or Mace Tyrell who led the army at King's Landing, no doubt they would be pushing to quash him and his fellows, there too was Garlan Tyrell's even larger host at Highgarden to consider. Lord Titus whatever confidence he had in his skills, knew he could not defeat either army, let alone both, such it was that he had to move quickly, rapid success would provide rapid momentum, which would turn the Reacher houses against the Tyrells and Lannisters, and give him the resources to win, then, and only then would the King restore House Peake to their greatness.

    So it was, with only a week under siege, that the siege engines were made, and assault made upon the castle. For Peake, he held several advantages, even as his men faced showers of arrows, faced walls of spears, and swords as they fought through the gateways, and atop walls, facing the hazards of burning oil and other defensive works. After all, at least half the Caswell host was either off with their Lord Paramount in King's Landing, or with his son in Highgarden, the other half still out in the fields, not yet raised by their feudal lords, for after all, though the Riverlands burned, the Stormlands invaded, apart from few matters on the coast, what need for the Reacherlords to raise all their banners? Well, this burgeoning civil war in the Reach would make certain no one but Lord Caswell would make such a mistake, caught off-guard as he was by Lord Peake's swift advance. It was left to the Caswell household guard, even if trickling reinforcements arrived from the countryside, north of the Mander, they were undermanned and expected to complete an impossible task. Still, they performed their task as well as they could, as their lord barricaded himself within his keep, they held firm and even threw back the first assault. They even threw back the second, and then the third, yet each bled from them the necessary strength to continue, and each time the Targaryen host would bleed less and less.

    ​

    It would be the fourth assault that would finally break them, though even then, as Lord Peake would enter past the castle walls, it would become quickly evident that he had unexpected assistance. The Golden tree of Rowan sat proudly atop the keep, as the men of Goldengrove finished off the remaining resistance within. Unbeknownst to Lord Peake, with a raven from their Lord Mathis at Storm's End, a host of three thousand had quickly assembled at Goldengrove and marched quickly to Bitterbridge, hoping to clandestinely trick Lord Caswell into allowing them to cross, and join up with Lord Peake's host as their lord had commanded them. Instead, as their scouts reached the titular Bitterbridge, it would be to the sight of Targaryen banners fluttering in the wind, alongside those of houses they knew had declared for the dragon. Ser Thaddeus Rowan, a distant cousin of Lord Mathis Rowan, leading the contingent, would thankfully be a man who could plan quickly, and implement those plans just as effectively. With news having not quite yet reached the Reach of the Rowan defection at Storm's End, it provided a rather unique opportunity.

    As the third assault concluded upon the walls, as the sun fell beneath the horizon, with servants carrying off wounded, the men took a brief respite to drink and eat, some praying, as others mentally prepared for the next attack in whatever way they could. It would be the lookouts on the northern walls crying out the alert, that brought some to their knees, the despair suddenly infectious across the lines. It would only be further news that the lookouts spotted the black stag of the King, the golden rose of Highgarden, and the golden tree of Goldengrove, that confidence and surprise in equal measure spread through them all. For the first time in days, hope.

    The banners hung low, beneath the shadow of the wall, hidden from view of any from the host surrounding the walls, the darkness clouded their march, as, by the gates, Lord Lorent was roused from his cravenry, rushing to the gates, and speaking furtively to Ser Thaddeus, the man who was to lead them to their salvation. Ser Thaddeus spoke with the nobility and honour which befitted one of his station, stating they were the vanguard of a relief army sent by Lord Garlan Tyrell to break the siege and crush the rebel army. Ser Thaddeus spoke of how behind him there were three thousand men, more than enough to hold off the rebel army, and even further behind them, enough supply to supplement the garrison's stores, until Lord Garlan arrived personally.

    It was elating news for all those who heard it, yet for the young Lord Caswell, his fear had left for consideration. Could he trust the words of this knight? There had been no news of Lord Rowan, only that Storm's End had fallen, did that mean Lord Mathis and the principal might of his House had already fallen? Or the more concerning possibility… banners meant little, and little else. Why did this supposed vanguard only comprise those of the Rowan standards? Not even the banners that followed the Rowans were here, where were the Ospreys, the Webbers, the Cockshaws, the Willums?

    All absent, why?

    It was these considerations, long taken, as Ser Thaddeus was right there, with all the tools which the garrison needed to survive hat in hand, that caused the dam to break. Lorent Caswell was not a popular man by any stretch of the imagination of the word, after all, those old enough to remember, would no doubt recall how the wispy youth had avoided any real challenge in the ring, on the virtue of being the late Lord Caswell's only son. It was due to his actions that their favoured blacksmith drank himself to an early grave, as his son was sent off to die in Essos. Those gathered today did not need to remember far to see how the cowardly lord had locked himself among the women and children within the keep, as they had fought hour after hour to keep Bitterbridge standing. Now he waited, looked as if he would reject the aid of those who would come to save them, when no doubt as dawn broke the horizon, in just the next assault, they would no doubt fall?

    It did not matter who the man was, for the rest did not stop him. Coming up behind their waif-like lord, a club to the back of his head had knocked him out, as soon others the rest were quick to carry him off to the keep, while others opened the gate, to a rather surprised Ser Thaddeus, who came on through, with his host in tow. The Caswell guardsmen had little reason for paranoia unlike their lord, and they were seemingly proven correct rather quickly, as the Rowan soldiers took up positions in the courtyard, most going off to get rest in the last hours of darkness, some even sleeping, recovering from their long march.

    It was only when dawn broke that all hell broke loose. As Lord Titus Peake launched what would be the final attack upon Bitterbridge, the Caswell guardsmen, once exhausted, once wavering, were reinvigorated in fighting back, joined on the walls by the men of Goldengrove. The rebels below would feel this renewed strength, would even see it as suddenly what was once partially covered walls, were filled to the brim by unknown armoured men. The men attacking the walls wavered, and the ram was set alight by arrows, but before reports of these new warriors could arrive to the attention of Lord Peake, the tides had turned back just as quickly. The gate suddenly opened, and Targaryen forces poured through, while atop the walls, it was as if they had been breached, as the unknown men turned upon the Caswell guardsmen, allowing the Targaryen forces up, as within minutes the walls were taken.

    The Targaryen army would find the courtyard open to them, any Caswell guardsmen cut down by those who flew the Rowan standard. Such was the sight that would greet Lord Peake as he emerged into the castle. That, and the broken gates of the keep, so unexpected had the Rowan betrayal been, that the Keep that might have attempted to hold out for another few days, had fallen in minutes, and Ser Thaddeus presented to Lord Titus, the extremely disorientated Lord Lorent Caswell, his wife, and two daughters, along with the entire Caswell household.

    Yet though Ser Thaddeus had delivered Lord Peake a great victory, with Bitterbridge now secured for the Targaryen cause, and swelling their host to above fifteen thousand, without counting the casualties of the siege, however, he too delivered news from the west, that was most disturbing.

    There would be no more reinforcement from the west.

    ​

    Lord Garlan Tyrell had made his presence felt.

    Breaking from all expectation, he had not done as his father had commanded to defend the mouth of the Mander from potential Ironborn incursions from the Shield Islands, nor had he marched to Brightwater Keep to seize the castle which was rightfully his, nor even had he marched to Oldtown to defend the city from the looming Kraken on the horizon.

    Instead, while beginning negotiations with Baelor Hightower, the current regent of Oldtown with the absence of his father, Lord Leyton Hightower, over the fate of the attainted Lord of Brightwater Keep, Alekyne Florent, Garlan reorganised his army. He also began surrounding himself with if not trusted subordinates, at the very least able ones. Such as Lord Lorence Roxton of the Ring who swore publicly to the Seven, in front of the army that he would not rest until he had taken back Orphan-Maker from Lord Titus Peake's cold dead corpse, or Lord Tanton Fossoway of Ciderhall, his and his cousin's lands saved by the fact his daughter was married to Garlan, and eager to prove his loyalty after his flirtation with the Stannis cause, or Ser Theodore Tyrell, an able knight and perhaps most importantly a distant cousin to Lord Garlan.

    Planning a lightning campaign he struck while the iron was hot. Of his host of twenty thousand, a quarter were left in Highgarden under the official command of the castellan of the castle, Willas Tyrell, but actually under Igon Vyrwel, the captain of the guard, while Ser Theodore was sent out with 3,000 southwards, to save Garlan's Hightower cousins.

    Setting off, Ser Theodore proved as able as promised, catching the mustering Cockshaw host unawares outside Bardshome, the remnants forced to flee southwards to their rebel allies, and soon after Ser Theodore would secure the castle's surrender from an interestingly aquaphobic castellan.

    This victory would come at a prodigious time as the news would come out from Longtable of the raising of a great Targaryen host, yet whether it be from genuine loyalty, or intimidation at the quick taking of Cockshaw, as Garlan had calculated, reinforcements began arriving. As soon as Ser Theodore had left Cockshaw and reached Middlebury, preparing to continue the march on the Roseroad to Oldtown, he would find a host marshalled and ready under the command of Ser Garth Oldflowers, Houses Middlebury, Sloane, and of course, Oldflowers, marshalling a host of a quaint near thousand reconfirmed their pledge of allegiance to House Tyrell and House Baratheon. The Middleburys would themselves apologise for not being able to pledge more than their hospitality in Castle Middlebury, citing that their liege lords in House Blackbar had already taken command of their men, in what a maester at the time records the castellan to have said "a suicide mission".

    Still, even if Ser Theodore could not be quite sure what the castellan meant, he was not one to scoff at a near-fourth increase in the size of one's host and he welcomed the allegiance of these houses with both warmth and politeness. He proved to have a good reputation for it, House Cockshaw as Bardshome fell had no harm come to them, and though Lord Cockshaw had evaded their capture, his proclamation that no harm would come to him if he should surrender himself, garnered him many an admirer.

    Still, Cockshaw would prove a minor hurdle to what would come next. Houses Dunn, Inchfield, and Beesbury, after failed attempts to convince the Florent garrison of Brightwater Keep to join them, had marshalled together at Castle Inchfield, hearing of the loss of Bardshome from the survivors of the battle, they made a host of near two thousand, smaller than that of Ser Theodore's host, but they had an ace up their sleeves. Houses Cuy, Costayne, and Bulwer, some of the most powerful of the Hightower bannermen had given them assurances that they would march north to throw back this host, before together turning on Oldtown.

    So it was that at Inchfield the Targaryen loyalists used what sparing few days they had to prepare for a siege, doing what they could to turn what was barely a noteworthy keep… into a noteworthy keep. Such was Castle Inchfield, Ser Theodore could confidently say when he reached its walls, preparing for a siege but already knowing with the men he had, an assault would be a bloody affair with little chance of success. He had little shame thus in writing to Highgarden requesting reinforcements, though by this point Lord Garlan had already long gone.

    Marching northward with a host of near twenty thousand, Ser Garlan the Gallant had but one objective, to save Castle Catswold, held by House Lowther, a shimmering isle, surrounded by a sea of traitors and rebels. Garlan had declared to immense acclaim that he would not allow such loyalty to go unrewarded. Sending off nearly five thousand men under the command of Lord Lorence Roxton, he proved very much the fireball, as Manderford fell to him, and the Balls, very much reduced from their days of killing Penroses, surrendered unceremoniously. All the while Lord Garlan took the main host, to Castle Westbrook, and so intimidated by the size of the enemy before them, another rebel fell back into line.

    Now it was not simply numbers which granted Garlan victories, for though a great benefit, if the Northmarch had united against him, he would have found himself facing a truly perilous foe. Instead, he made certain the Northmarch would not unite against him, calling upon the Risleys and Cranes to threaten the northern flank of the Oakhearts and Webbers, he kept them secluded in their great keeps, as he pressed northward. Other factors greatly aided him as well, his host had already been marshalled, while those houses like Ball, Westbrook, Willum, Stackhouse and Osgrey still needed time to call their banners, furthermore, lacking strong leadership, they floundered beyond rising in rebellion, with the natural leaders in some representatives of the Rowans being absent, apart from some directive to fortify their keeps if unable to march.

    It was a matter that would have been resolved in time, after all, once the shock of betrayal wore off the betrayers, then men of action would rise. Yet, it was that very concept, time, that the man who would come to be known as the Green Knight refused to grant.

    His swiftness in marching north attracted the support of loyalists across the Northmarch, by the time he had reached and secured the surrender of House Willum of Smallwood, the Lowther, Vyrwell, and Kidwell hosts had joined with him, bringing near two thousand men. By the time he had secured the surrender of the Stackhouses of Derring Downs, the Durwells, Shermers, Leygoods, and Wythers had brought another near two thousand. Yet, they also brought worrisome news, the Rowans had marched off in the direction of Bitterbridge, and most concerningly, it seemed Bitterbridge itself had fallen.

    Garlan perhaps could have marched east himself to deal with the rebel Peake and the rest, yet the news of the fall of Bitterbridge was accompanied by news of the fall of Standfast. The Cranes and Risleys, going above and beyond their orders, had actually captured the towered keep, to the great anger of the Osgrey's Webber cousins. For Garlan the decision was made, though the Risleys and Cranes had accomplished much, to ask them to hold off against both the Oakhearts, Webbers, and perhaps even the Rowans if they held any more men in their keep was inviting trouble. Thus marching north, he split his army in twain and besieged two of the three great citadels of the Northmarch, Old Oak, and Coldmoat, the castles which had once served to throw off invasions from the Lion, now turned against the Reach when the Lannisters were their friends. Garlan settled in for a siege, building siege engines of his own, preparing for an assault, he was uncertain he would call, even as legates of the Faith arrived commanding him to march southwards to deal with the Ironborn, rather than fight his fellow brother of the Faith, he was unmoved. He had done the royalists proud, from what looked like the Reach would fall to utter anarchy, he had at least brought most of the Northmarch back into the fold. Now it would be someone else's duty to bring peace, freedom, justice, and security to the rest of the rebelling lords.

    Such was essentially what Lord Peake would hear of as Ser Rowan finished his report. Lord Peake could confidently say at the end, that for such pertinent information, it perhaps should not have felt like it had taken four whole moons to convey. Of course, after that thought, there was the more concerning one. What men they had with them, was all the men they would ever have, until they linked up with their king in the Stormlands, for both the Whispering Sound and the Northmarch was cut off from them. They could not even march south for Starpike, even as a Legate of the Faith arrived, to order him south to defend Oldtown rather than feud, though Lord Peake would have rather used the passes in the Red Mountains to make for the Stormlands, as reports arrived that Tarly forces had besieged the castle, unbeknowsts to Lord Peake, ordered by Garlan and executed the castle's castellan. It was make or break for them all. Even Lord Lorent Caswell, who after recovering, was forced to bend the knee to the one true king.

    Thus Titus Peake went to prove himself, acting as if nothing was wrong at all, he rallied an army increasingly filled with unease even after their victory here at Bitterbridge, and the arrival of the Rowan host. Using all the ravens held at Bitterbridge, he sent out a message penned and signed by all the lords of the host, calling for the Reach to rise up against the Tyrell upstarts, against the Lannister bastard who sat upon the throne, to turn towards the Dragon at Storm's End, that would bring a golden age for the realm. Though victory had been gained here, he knew, with Garlan's actions to the west, they were facing defeat overall, and if they failed here in the Reach, his ambition to raise their new King, to correct a mistake of history, to return to him and his own, their rightful seats, would all go awry. With that small attempt at a propaganda campaign raised, Lord Titus did not adjust his plans either, Starpike would hold, he knew well, thus he would continue on to Tumbleton, and then to his king, and together they would take the capital, and the Reach would be set right.

    Thus the three black castles of Peake, and the golden tree of Rowan, with many more colourful banners behind them, marched off to face their destiny.

    ​

    In the Stormlands, one could only call it a cavalcade of Targaryen victories. Storm's End was theirs, one of the two great masters of war in the Reach, Lord Mathis Rowan theirs, and every day, more and more Stormlords, arrived with their hosts. What was once the hotbed of sedition against House Targaryen, the birthplace of the Stormkings, and House Baratheon, now became the utter pillar of Targaryen resurgence. Of a host of around fifteen thousand, consisting of the greatest sellswords the world had ever seen, knights, men-at-arms, and peasant levies, would balloon massively, as the host swelled by nearly ten thousand men, as the Houses of the Rainwood, the Marches, and the Wendwater gathered for their king, as the Tarths and Estermonts transported the stranded Golden Company from the Stepstones. As the lords gathered in Storm's End, the standard feasts and fanfare were on full display as there were some notables in their mids. The Hastys arrived, disregarding the demands of their liege lords in the Peaseburys, after all their lord had famously already declared Harrenhal for the Dragon. Lord Ralph Buckler, would find himself the target of lighthearted mockery when he made a toast to the betrothed King Aegon Targaryen and Princess Arianne Martell, all the lords gathered remembering his previous toast, less than a year ago to a different King, and his bride to be. Lord Eldon Estermont, a wily lord of seventy would find himself the special attention of the Princess, though for no controversial reason, for the Princess was far more focused upon his young Dornish wife, Lady Sylva Santagar, an old friend, she would distantly explain for the King's curiosity. Lord Hugh Grandison, Greybeard as most called him behind his back, had to be swiftly escorted out of the great hall, when in cups he japed about his near betrothal to the Princess, such words far from acceptable in the present company earned him quite the ire. Lady Mary Mertyns, an old woman with children fighting for Stannis Baratheon would remain in a chipper and sharp mood, continuing to be the entertainment for all, as she even chided the King of all people, Aegon would win much respect for how he handled that specific encounter, though he would lose some as he had a true heartfelt moment at Shipbreaker Bay as on a ship he sent off his first and only member of the Kingsguard with fifty men on an expedition to the Wall.

    Yet there were many absences among this motley band that brought a quiet sting to the proceedings. So many great houses had remained absent, Swann, Dondarrion, Peasebury, Fell, Trant, and though none apart from Fell had declared against the Dragon, it was a quiet sting nonetheless. Still, it needed not be a major concern, they had a vast host, and whatever Stormlords that had not declared for the one true king could be dealt with at a later date, all they needed to do now, was march upon the capital, and dethrone the cuckolded usuper's son. After that, all would be right in the world, those exiles of the Golden Company would be placed upon their rightful seats, the Stormlords would finally have peace, and the Reacherlords would have their just desserts.

    ​

    Thus it was to the confusion of many that they did not immediately march for King's Landing. It was not exactly a secret why Jon Connington delayed their march, after all the Princess had promised them that the Dornish spears were theres, yet even after waiting for the Golden Company stranded upon the Stepstones to be ferried over, there was no word of the hosts crossing the Prince's Pass or the Boneway. Had they been betrayed? Was this the price of working with the Dornish? It was lucky that no Marcherlords had come to Storm's End, their words for the Dornish might have been far harsher, no the newly made Lord Rolland Caron had already been sent off with Lord Arstan Selmy to secure his castle of Nightsong. Still, even without the Marcherlords, questions of Dornish fealty became an epidemic in the camps, and there was only so much the Princess could do to forestall those questions. The King was little help when it came to the matter, far more concerned with sticking near Jon Connington, learning all there was to know about organising a host of such scales, though many did note with some curiosity that Aegon was spending quite a bit of time with the Sand Snake who bore his mother's name. This development was clearly far from popular to the King's betrothed, though for the idle men at arms assembled outside of Storm's End, it was nothing more than gossip, so the King had taken a rumoured lover, so what? For those of Lord Mathis Rowan's contingent, they were far more busy resting aching bones, and sore muscles, as he had quickly negotiated an agreement for the Golden Company to provide his men drillmasters, to slowly, and perhaps impossibly, bring his soldiers up to scratch. Soon, such ideas spread to the Stormlords, through a conceited effort by Lord Rowan, and thus as the army waited for the war to come, they drilled and trained, more sore, than they ever would be in battle, after the Golden Company were done with them.

    Such matters of the King's potential… young… lover, or the training of these soft Westerosi mattered less to the Golden Company command. All wished to take action now, while the iron was still hot, Harry Strickland ever cautious proposed marching upon the disloyal Stormlands, bringing them to heel as they awaited for the Dornish to arrive, and then march on King's Landing, both Lysono Maar and Gorys Edoryen proposed marching on King's Landing without the Dornish, the former claiming the defences weak, the rest focused on paying for their currently stationary host. Franklyn Flowers, and the Peake brothers proposed marching for the Reach, to join up with the army gathered by Lord Merryweather and of course Lord Peake. Thankfully Lord Connington was not a man to be paralysed by indecision, and with the backing of the company commander in Strickland had indeed formulated a plan as they awaited for the Dornish.

    A host of two thousand, half Golden Company, half Stormlander, were sent southwards, led by one, Serjeant Dick Cole, their objective, to treat with the Swanns, and bring them into the war on their side. Or else, besiege Stonehelm, and make it clear to all the Stormlords, that neutrality was no longer an option. Of course this gross violation of the neutrality the Swanns had proclaimed would rather than convince them to join the Targaryen side, instead force them onto the Lannisters. As they shut their gates, reinforced their walls, flapping both the monochrome swans of Swann, and the stag of Baratheon as a sign of their defiance against tyranny. The Serjeant was quick to call for reinforcements, as the garrison of the strong fortress, designed and built to defend against much larger Dornish hosts, were quick to sally forth at opportune moments to pick off the incomplete siege lines.

    Such actions would prove to have wide, and unexpected results, as the Stormlords looked on.

    In the wider Crownlands, fear was beginning to seep through the cracks. Though not all places were like King's Landing, for the most part order still remained. No better was this seen than in Castle Stokeworth, recently under the new administration of Lady Lollys Stokeworth, and her husband, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. They were not a perfect couple by any definition of the word, but in this age of chaos, they proved a cheerful sight for any who saw them. It was so obvious to any who saw them that they were deeply in love, both affectionate in public, and Ser Bronn so careful for the rather… simple minded woman.

    ​

    His care was further seen in how quickly he came forth to assist the Lady Stokeworth in the managing of her demense, any petitioners would find their concerns being taken to Ser Bronn, who would act as the perfect arbiter of justice. He even made himself well known to the merchants, craftsmen, and other men of note within the Stokeworth demense, a simple enough task, he was a warhero after all, hero of the Blackwater and all that entailed. It was not a surprise to any then, when said hero called upon the banners of Stokeworth, his purpose was unknown, though many thought he was no doubt to ride to the aid of the capital, to throw back this forgery of a Targaryen boy, as he had helped throw back Stannis Baratheon.

    However, Ser Bronn proved as shrewd a tactician as he did an administrator, speaking to all of the necessity of training up these greenboys for war, before sending them off, and to prove his mettle, to the surprise of all, he himself would educate them on how to wage war. Thus all the courtiers of Stokeworth would awake everyday, to witness Ser Bronn, with the favour of Lollys tied around his wrist, drilling the host of House Stokeworth relentlessly for the war to come. All would agree that his instructions were far from… knightly or noble, but none could deny the results, in a few short weeks after their gathering, they were showing signs of being a marauding band of fighters, one who knew how to battle, to win. All would come to agree, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, despite a lowborn, despite an upjumped sellsword, had done a great deal of good for Stokeworth. His detractors, were quick to come to that agreement, very quickly in fact.

    Yet, not all would go in favour of the rapidly rising Ser Bronn, for his efforts to secure Rosby for his wife, quickly had went awry. He had made a promise publicly, to defend her rights, and soon, it seemed he would need to prove how committed he was to it, with force if necessary. For as he wrote a letter to the sick Gyles Rosby, the response he received was most concerning.

    The famed Ward of Rosby, would write back, stating that Lord Gyles had unfortunately been taken by the cough, and thus he, as the heir of Lord Gyles, had taken up his rightful seat, as Lord of Rosby. He would state, that though the crown had claimed his seat, he would defend it to the last, as was his right. The identity of this mysterious ward, which had for so long been the key to the Question of Rosby?

    A weasel, a veteran of war, the squire of a king.

    ​

    Olyvar Frey, or Olyvar Rosby now, son of Bethany Rosby, a cousin of Gyles, had grown up at Rosby before arriving to the Twins to be made squire to the Young Wolf.

    Now returned, and staking his claim upon his inheritance, one which all of Rosby respected.

    It left a hole, wide open in the Crownlands, as the Rosby levies began to be raised.

    Back to King's Landing, the city would receive a brief glimmer of hope, as Jaime Lannister, the man who ended the war in the Riverlands, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, the Kingslayer, the sisterfucker, returned, to lead the Lannister armies south. Of course, he would not keep the title of the man who ended the war in the Riverlands for long. Under his watch, Harrenhal had declared for the dragon, many a Frey had been murdered in what many called the Blue Wedding, and the Vale had joined the war against them, invading the Riverlands. It was clearly not a good few moons for Jaime Lannister.

    Still, he came to a King's Landing far from in good shape itself. Bitterbridge's fall had cut off food imports from the Reach, all the while the Sparrows preached daily of oncoming doom. The Faith Militant grew rapidly, hedge knights once lost found purpose in the Warrior's Sons, patrolling the Great Sept of Baelor, while those commonfolk of King's Landing, facing the imminent threat of starvation, would turn to the only ones who aided them still, the Poor Fellows swelled in numbers, as the promise of food, any food, was enough to gather the allegiance of the common man.

    He would even arrive right in time for the return of his daughter. Sweet Myrcella brought back to them from Dorne, accompanied by a Dornish escort, led by Lady Nymeria Sand, who had arrived to take up the Dornish seat on the Small Council. Another glimmer of hope for the people of the capital, their gentle princess returned to them. Though as the Dornish unveiled her from her carriage, stepping out behind Lady Sand, as all celebrated, pointedly ignoring her lack of an ear, and the hideous facial scar as a result, it was Cersei's cries that alerted them all to the wrongness of the situation.

    ​

    Shockingly, grabbing the girl, then slapping her, she would declare with utter confidence, that it was not her Myrcella. Jaime had moved without thinking, restraining the Queen Mother, as all looked at her as if she was deranged, yet the princess was hideously scarred, but to be so cruel? Yet. as Jaime looked at the golden haired, and green eyed girl, his daughter, the one he had guarded since birth, even he realised, a mother's eye had seen beyond all of them.

    'Myrcella' would burst into tears, whether from the pain of the slap, or all that had no doubt happened to her. It was cousin Rosamund, the girl whom had always been able to hide as Myrcella, and Myrcella as her. It was clear that Lady Nymeria was shocked by the proceedings, so shocked she could do nothing as Jaime confirmed Cersei's desperate and rageful orders that the Dornish be seized.

    It proved a fortuitous decision, only days later would news emerge that the Dornish had declared for the Dragon.

    Of course there was another Sand Snake which had found themselves in the capital as well, Lady Tyene Sand, acting as a septa had split off from the Dornish retinue as they entered the Red Keep, now hearing that her sister and the Dornish had been imprisoned, she worked desperately to get into the good graces of the High Sparrow, as she too would be shocked by news that her uncle, and her Dornish had declared for the Dragon.

    Of course for Jaime the reason he had been called for was due to Mace Tyrell. By the time he had arrived, the Reach looked to be a blackhole, the Roseroad was cut off from them, as the last news they had heard was Bitterbridge was lost to them, and that the rebel host was advancing to Tumbleton. Tumbleton could not fall, Mace Tyrell, Randyll Tarly, and Jaime Lannister knew, so it was that the first great battle of the war would begin. Mace Tyrell thus marched out of the capital with a host of near fifteen thousand, uncomfortably close to what Lord Peake reportedly fielded, yet a necessary sacrifice to make certain that the Golden Company at Storm's End could not take the capital with ease, though Lord Tarly would give his reservations, before being unceremoniously overruled.

    It was a gamble, yet not a gamble that was treacherous, after all Lord Peake's host held only one commander of renown, while Mace Tyrell's held three. Furthermore, another advantage presented itself for when they neared Tumbleton, and both host's scouts began skirmishing with each other. For Mace it was a clear sign, the rebel host was pinned, besieging Tumbleton, and thus with his army now upon the field, he could relieve the castle.

    ​

    Lord Peake had arrived some days before Lord Tyrell, establishing trench lines both against the walls, and behind his camp, as they dug in for a siege, and at worst, a relief attempt. Such concern proved accurate, when his scouts began skirmishing with a force to their north-east, just as his siege engines completed, Peake would reorientate his army, taking advantage of his defensive position to face Mace Tyrell.

    His outriders though unable to evaluate the oncoming host's true size, did provide him with immense confidence nonetheless, for estimations from multiple had provided him the exact knowledge he needed, to stand his ground. Mace had not come forth with his full host, could that mean his King was on the march to King's Landing? It meant that he would need to pin the Tyrell host here, and so he would.

    For Mace it was exactly what he wanted, he had caught the rebels, and just as in Ashford, he would smash the enemy, then he would turn and defeat the fake Targaryen. It mattered not if the numbers were close, indeed it mattered not that Peake's host actually outnumbered his, the valour of the true would prevail over the false.

    Thus battle began with two men of inflexible personalities, and all the belief they needed that blood would flow today.

    Archers marched forward, knocking their arrows, the wind seemed to stop, as if preparing for this momentous occasion, and the arrows flew, and men died. Screams, shouts, whimpers, even no sound at all, as the projectiles found their mark, blood flowed freely, as those still alive, just in abject pain, were taken to the rear.

    Such was the pattern of battle for the opening minutes, the drawing of arrows, the knocking of them on bowstrings, drawing them back, and firing them into the air. Most would miss their mark, yet such was not a helpful thought for those who were hit.

    It would be Mace who first attempted to take initiative, ordering a general advance across the line, while Lord Tarly kept the cavalry in place, watching carefully with his hawkish eyes for an opportunity. The Kingslayer would find himself in the midst of the advance, leading the Lannister contingent forward even without his hand.

    Peake held steadfast, the trench in front of him would prove a minor obstacle to the advance, but an obstacle nonetheless. Thus it was that the might of Reach arms clashed against each other in the first time since the Blackfyre Rebellion, axes, swords, shields, halberds, and all the other weapons of war clashed against each other or shields, men screamed, shouted, or were still, blood pooling around them. There was little mercy offered for those who yielded, for war made demons of men, and trust apart from those wearing your colours, was inviting a knife in the back. It was a grinding melee, those in their respective fronts, battling with all their vigour, and quickly exhausting themselves, falling upon the green grass floors, that were painted red, only to be replaced by another fool playing at war.

    Arrows continued to fly as the battle continued, as both host's horses stood… still. It was uncharacteristic for any battle in Westeros, especially for the Reach, yet both hosts, though engaged in battle, refused to make the first move when it came to their horse, as if paranoid that would be the mistake which would cost them the battle.

    Well it would hurt the Targaryens more than the Tyrells it would turn out, as the garrison of Tumbleton sallied out. Of course this was to be expected, and Lord Peake already had a contingency in place, Ser Thaddeus Rowan, standing behind the internal siege trenches faced ahead resolutely with a portion of the Rowan strength, to throw back this Footly folly.

    Yet even as the clash of melee broke out there, with the Targaryens forced to give miniscule ground, the grinding battle only promised death with no result.

    Indeed, that was very much the result, as near simultaneously, as seemingly an act of god, both commanders received news that brought them to pause. For Titus it was news that a host was approaching from his rear, not close, but if this grinding battle went on, there was a good chance his ability to escape would narrow considerably. Knowing the only host in that direction was that of the Tarlys, and being able to spot the huntsman of Tarly upon the battlefield against him, he was quick to put two and two together.

    All the while for Mace it was even more concerning news, the Golden Company was finally on the march, upon the Kingsroad and near to enter the Kingswood.

    It was almost comedic, how quickly the withdraw orders were given for both sides, yet Mace was not one to let the rebels escape his grasp so easily. Ordering Tarly to take the horse and chase the rebels, he would turn with the foot and march for King's Landing. Of course, Tarly had little way to actually commit to those orders, the Targaryen horse was as rested and uncommitted as ever, and would be able to counter any effort he would make to give chase.

    Yet he assented to the orders, and as both hosts withdrew from the field, leaving the horse as rearguard, still the horse did nothing. Until too, they withdrew as well. Tumbleton was saved, with Mace dispatching extra men to support the garrison before withdrawing as well.

    Who won the battle was hard to place, after all it was certainly a battle for the Targaryens to have lost, if they were defeated here, with Garlan's success to the west, the Targaryen cause in the Reach may have been finished.

    Yet Lord Peake had failed to take Tumbleton, which would only be harder to take now.

    Of course it would be quickly found out that at least for one of the commanders, their order to withdraw had been a mistake. The host that had been coming from the south, had not been the Tarly host that Lord Peake had so feared, indeed, the siege of Starpike had already been broken off, and the Tarly host making a rapid escape to the west towards Horn Hill. For out of the Prince's Pass, the blue bird of Fowler led the vanguard, Nightsong which may have stopped them had been in an act of subterfuge, been taken by Rolland Caron, and his Selmy allies, executing one Philip Foote, as he had decried them all as traitors, and the new Lord Caron already made waves, as he allowed the Dornish to pass by his castle as allies. A Dornish host of almost thirty thousand.

    The Dornish host which had attempted to cross the Boneway did not have similar luck. The Dondarrion castellan spooked by the Golden Company's attempt to break the neutrality of House Swann, had suddenly made an about face when it came to his agreement to allow the Yronwoods pass the castle. Though it would not take much for a Marcherlord to be distrustful of a Dornishmen's intentions. Thus Lord Anders Yronwood found himself settling for a siege of Blackhaven, as so many of his forefathers had, sending word for Lord Franklyn Fowler to proceed onto the Reach, and to Jon Connington to advance onto King's Landing without Dornish support.

    Though these words would cause great anger to erupt between both sides of the Red Mountains, it had perhaps incidentally saved Lord Peake's battered command, he now stood with Dornish allies, the Reach could now certainly be taken. All the while, Jon Connington's march had forced Mace Tyrell to withdraw, leaving now only the Green Knight to defend the Reach.

    The final events of the third moon would take place at perhaps the place of most momentous occasion. Oldtown for all these events still regularly fished out bodies of the Redwyne strait, some poor sop who had no idea what they were in for. It was the general mood that prevailed in Oldtown, one of anguish, one of fear, one of death. For the Hightowers of Oldtown, it had perhaps been the most alarming times to live since the Dance of the Dragons. The Kraken was at the gates, the Dragon at their flanks, and the Flower, within the gates. Their lord had secluded himself in the highest floor of the Hightower, with his mystic daughter, while it was left to his sons, his so disparate and lost sons, to organise the defence of Oldtown for what would come next. Baelor was quick to begin rebuilding ships again, while Garth was fast at work attempting to bring the Hightower levies to par, Gunthor built defences upon the Harbor, cover for archers, obstacles for attackers, all the while Humphrey with great danger would ride out of Oldtown's walls to call upon all for the city's defence.

    They would fortunately not be the only ones who would be putting their focus on the defence of Oldtown. The arrival of legates from the High Sparrow was a welcome sight for the commonfolk, and as they righteously with true anger preached against the sins of Robert, the fornicator, of Cersei, of Tywin the sacker, being the cause of their suffering, that they could only prevail if they stood together against the demonic Ironborn threat, it swayed a great deal many. The Hightower boys to both their disquiet and wordless thanks, would find the Faith Militant forming right beneath their brows, great scores of Hedge Knights pledging to defend the Starry Sept and Oldtown to the bitter end, even more commonfolk promising to make the demons bleed for every step they took out of their ships.

    Such religious fervour was not restricted to just Oldtown, as even far of Bandallon seemed to be entrenched in this religious war, as a smaller chapter of the Faith Militant formed there, as the Blackbars would go beyond most in their preparations to defend Bandallon.

    Of course it was not only the Reachers who were preparing for this inevitable attack upon Oldtown, the Ironborn were too.

    The most prepared proved to be Rodrik Harlaw, Rodrik the Reader as he was commonly mocked by his peers, took upon the most intense preparations for the attack upon Oldtown which he knew was coming. He would publicly declare that his cousin, Hotho Harlaw would command the principle Harlaw host in men and ships, and follow the Crows Eye in the taking of Oldtown. All the while another cousin would command another sizeable host to raid the Arbor. All the while he himself would take the reminder to secure the Citadel.

    ​

    The Crows Eye would simply laugh at such pretension, followed soon by every other captain.

    He had said it before, why would they settle for fruit, when they could have the Orchard?

    And at the end, Oldtown held its breath, anticipating an attack from the sea. The tension was palpable, and the city's defenses were readied for a siege, as its inhabitants braced for the inevitable assault.

    But it never came.

    To the astonishment of all, the Ironborn, led by the enigmatic Euron Greyjoy, chose a different path. They bypassed Oldtown entirely and descended upon the unsuspecting castles of Blackcrown and Three Towers. In an instant, the southern Reach, which had looked as if it would fall under Targaryen control, was thrown into chaos, and ironically, Oldtown was spared from the ravages of war.

    However, the surprise did not end there. Even more shocking was the swift and brutal fall of Blackcrown and Three Towers. These formidable fortresses, believed to withstand sieges for weeks if not months, succumbed almost immediately. It was as though they had crumbled from within, and just as news of the attacks reached Oldtown, so did a flood of refugees from the beleaguered castles.

    These refugees brought with them harrowing tales of horror and carnage. They spoke of butchery and wanton bloodlust, of Blackcrown being utterly broken and Three Towers torn down to their foundations. It was as if the Ironborn had left no stone unturned, no soul unscarred.

    Yet the most chilling revelation came last. Among the refugees' tales, one name struck terror into the hearts of all who heard it—the Crow's Eye. They described Euron Greyjoy riding a colossal, emerald-green dragon, a creature of unimaginable power and dread. The mere mention of such a sight sent shivers down the spines of Oldtown's residents.

    The news left Oldtown in a state of bewildered unease. Most could only scoff, a dragon? No, no, the refugees must have been seeing things, a longship in the shadows, yet for others, it was enough for hysteria to take control. In a day, various quarters of Oldtown were aflame, as chaos gripped the city. The believers shouted, the end of Oldtown was near, the Hightower would fall!

    Euron could only smirk as he witnessed the destruction he had heaved. Despite rumours of resistance upon the Shield Islands from monsters of all things, he had promised them an orchard, and he would deliver, he had given them a taste, and now they were his.

    Even as half the Iron Fleet returned to him, with news of events in Essos, his smirk remained firmly upon his face.
     
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  • Threadmarks
    • To: Lord Robin Peasebury of House Peasebury (@The_Red_Baron)
    From: Regent of Lord Duram Bar Emmon, Maekar Waters (OOC: Lord Bar Emmon was a teen at the beginning of his books, so I decided to create a fictional Regent for him, as we have little information about Bar Emmons)

    Dear Lord Peasebury,
    You know that my duties as the regent for my grandnephew are coming to an end, as he will be sixteen of age in a few moons. You also know that he is unmarried, nor betrothed, and you must know that a lord without a marriage can not produce heirs of his own to inherit his lands.
    So, I propose a marriage between Lord Duram Bar Emmon, and your cousin, and the lady-in-waiting for our Queen Selyse Baratheon, Elenei Peasebury (OOC: I mean, there is no to little information on Stannis supporting lords, so she is created too). They are similar in age, and my grandnephew, quite frankly, is smitten with your cousin's beauty.
    I propose a marriage to be held in as soon as possible, in the light of the Rhhlor to see and approve it.
    What do you say?
     
    Red Robyn said:


    A message bearing the seals of House Stark as well as Jon's own personal coat of arms, to be delivered to Lord Howland Reed by a trusted courier @Pax Americana @The_Red_Baron

    Lord Reed,

    Father always spoke highly of you as one of his most trusted and esteemed friends and companions. Hoping that this friendship may continue well into the future, I hereby summon you to swear fealty to the new Lord of Winterfell, Rickon Stark. Your advice and care will matter a lot for him.

    Signed,
    Jon Stark, Warden of North.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    From: Howland of House Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch'
    To: Jon of House Stark, Warden of the North @Red Robyn

    Greetings to you, Jon Stark.

    I am glad you have a trueborn name, it is no doubt what you deserve.

    You must know, though no doubt those who you have met will have told you, that Ned loved you as a son, despite your name, you must never doubt that.

    He spoke of you fondly in our letters, I... it is deeply tragic, and I still cannot believe we lost him, he was truly my best friend.

    I have heard of matters in the North, and those beyond it, I have also read the will of our King. Truly we live in strange times.

    I shall come north to swear fealty, but I also come with Hollis Mollen, I believe you would know of him, he has held onto Ned's bones as Lady Catelyn had asked, and he is eager to place them where they rightfully belong.

    Jon, I believe we will have much to discuss when we meet.

    SultanArda said:
    To: Lord Robin Peasebury of House Peasebury (@The_Red_Baron)
    From: Regent of Lord Duram Bar Emmon, Maekar Waters (OOC: Lord Bar Emmon was a teen at the beginning of his books, so I decided to create a fictional Regent for him, as we have little information about Bar Emmons)

    Dear Lord Peasebury,
    You know that my duties as the regent for my grandnephew are coming to an end, as he will be sixteen of age in a few moons. You also know that he is unmarried, nor betrothed, and you must know that a lord without a marriage can not produce heirs of his own to inherit his lands.
    So, I propose a marriage between Lord Duram Bar Emmon, and your cousin, and the lady-in-waiting for our Queen Selyse Baratheon, Elenei Peasebury (OOC: I mean, there is no to little information on Stannis supporting lords, so she is created too). They are similar in age, and my grandnephew, quite frankly, is smitten with your cousin's beauty.
    I propose a marriage to be held in as soon as possible, in the light of the Rhhlor to see and approve it.
    What do you say?
    Click to expand...
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    From: Robin of Peasebury, Lord of Poddingfield
    To: Maekar Waters, Regent of Duram of House Bar Emmon, Lord of Sharp Point. @SultanArda

    Poddingfield and Sharp Point are far, though I imagine it will be a long time before we retake our seats, if ever.

    My cousin would be honoured to marry a lord of such stature.

    Though must forgive us for the rather... miserly dowry, after all, this war has made beggars of us all.
     
    The_Red_Baron said:
    From: Robin of Peasebury, Lord of Poddingfield
    To: Maekar Waters, Regent of Duram of House Bar Emmon, Lord of Sharp Point. @SultanArda

    Poddingfield and Sharp Point are far, though I imagine it will be a long time before we retake our seats, if ever.

    My cousin would be honoured to marry a lord of such stature.

    Though must forgive us for the rather... miserly dowry, after all, this war has made beggars of us all.
    Click to expand...
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    To: Lord Robin Peasebury of House Peasebury (@The_Red_Baron)
    From: Regent of Lord Duram Bar Emmon, Maekar Waters

    No problem, my lord!
    We are living in strange times, my lord, in which lords become beggars because they are loyal, and beggars become lords because they are disloyal.
    As long as dowry pays for the expenses of the wedding festival, it is a great one!
    Though, I would like to ask for your soldiers for a limited amount of time, for… reasons.
     
    Emissaries are sent bearing the word of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen of Mereen, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains, She Who Burns the Seas.

    ................

    To: Coalition Army at Yunkai @The_Red_Baron

    Know that whilst you did battle with my loyal warriors I descended upon the Volantene fleet with fire and blood, and smashed or captured it in its entirety. No reinforcments are coming to you, and should you continue to stand against me I shall come against you with all my armies and my dragons.

    Lay down your arms and set free those you have held in bondage, or I shall burn you all.

    ...............

    To: Gylo Rhegan of the Long Lances @The_Red_Baron
    Secret

    I have some experience with sellswords, captain. I suggest you may find more lasting profit in siding with the inevitable victor of this war.

    ................

    To:     Qarth @The_Red_Baron

    The siege of Meereen is broken. The fleet of Volantis driftwood and ashes.

    Does Qarth still believe its best interests lie in being my enemy?

    .................

    To:     New Ghis @The_Red_Baron

    Your Iron Legions fought well at Yunkai, but now they are cut off from all hope of aid. The Ghiscari learned long ago that discipline cannot stand against dragonfire.

    But I am not a Dragonlord of Old Valyria. I do not want your lands, or your thrones. You may make a peace with me and keep both. All you need do is free your slaves and agree to fight for me when I call.

    .................

    To:     Volantis @The_Red_Baron

    Your great armada is broken and burned, tens of thousands dead as testament to the cost of standing against me. Volantis has lost this war at almost the very moment of its first involvement.

    Defeat seems inevitable, but I would sooner not see the eldest daughter of Valyria burned and broken. No, I would see it become greater than it ever was, unshackled from the decaying rot of slavery, the shining jewel in a new order.

    I formally announce my candidacy for Triarch of Volantis.

    I believe you will find I meet the necessary requirements. Let all who which to support my candidacy grant their slaves the gift of freedom, and prepare the city for my arrival.
     
    Thus Titus Peake went to prove himself, acting as if nothing was wrong at all, he rallied an army increasingly filled with unease even after their victory here at Bitterbridge, and the arrival of the Rowan host. Using all the ravens held at Bitterbridge, he sent out a message penned and signed by all the lords of the host, calling for the Reach to rise up against the Tyrell upstarts, against the Lannister bastard who sat upon the throne, to turn towards the Dragon at Storm's End, that would bring a golden age for the realm.
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    @Orange Boy

    Hail and well met, Titus, son of Starpeake!

    I count myself doubly honored, to have word from your princeling AND from the Lord of Starpike himself. Some might call that arrogance, to think your words could move me where your dragon's could not, but I will lay no such charge against you. You are a Peake of Starpike, shaped by your House as surely as I am shaped by mine, as were our fathers and our father's fathers before us. And so you will act as the Lords of Starpike have always done, and men may call it arrogant or call it boldness as it pleases them.

    And what they say of my House, of the Lords of Bandallon, ghouls, they call us. Night creatures. Flesh eaters, blood drinkers, raisers of devils and binders of ghosts. I shall not say if we are called so falsely or in truth, no more than I will if you Peakes are bold beyond the courage of the Warrior or so arrogant that to sit on Father's throne could not sate your pride.

    I will content myself with these words alone: killer, liar, sorcerer, carrion eater, sinners of all stripes we may have been, but no scion of the Black Barred House has ever yet been fool enough to follow where a Peake of Starpike led.

    Kedrick Blackbar, Lord of Bandallon, Bearer of The Sin Forgotten and Keeper of the Coast
     
    SultanArda said:
    To: Lord Robin Peasebury of House Peasebury (@The_Red_Baron)
    From: Regent of Lord Duram Bar Emmon, Maekar Waters

    No problem, my lord!
    We are living in strange times, my lord, in which lords become beggars because they are loyal, and beggars become lords because they are disloyal.
    As long as dowry pays for the expenses of the wedding festival, it is a great one!
    Though, I would like to ask for your soldiers for a limited amount of time, for… reasons.
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    From: Robin of House Peasebury, Lord of Poddingfield
    To: Maekar Waters, Regent of Duram of House Bar Emmon, Lord of Sharp Point @SultanArda

    I would ask for your reasons, yet they would matter little, my men are under the command of His Grace, you would need to seek his permission for their command.

    As for the dowry covering wedding costs... while perhaps possible, perhaps we might petition His Grace for the necessary funding, would be better for us both I imagine.

    Cambyses said:
    Emissaries are sent bearing the word of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen of Mereen, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains, She Who Burns the Seas.

    ................

    To: Coalition Army at Yunkai @The_Red_Baron

    Know that whilst you did battle with my loyal warriors I descended upon the Volantene fleet with fire and blood, and smashed or captured it in its entirety. No reinforcments are coming to you, and should you continue to stand against me I shall come against you with all my armies and my dragons.

    Lay down your arms and set free those you have held in bondage, or I shall burn you all.

    ...............
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    From: Grazdan zo Loraq, Supreme Commander of the Slavers' Alliance
    To: Daenerys of House Targaryen @Cambyses

    We have heard news of your victory on the seas, yet you no doubt have heard of our victory on land. The countryside is lost to you, and it shall only be more so if we march upon Meereen once again. Another Dothraki Khalassar shall not come to save you.

    Yet we now see no more use in fighting in this stalemate, I have been given leave to negotiate, and so I shall.

    You shall be recognised as Queen of Meereen, with my cousin, King Hizdahr zo Loraq at your side. Meereen shall be allowed to be freed from slavery, as long as you pledge to end your campaign of emancipation in the rest of Slaver's Bay. We shall too provide you wish the ships for you to leave these lands and go west as you desire.

    Cambyses said:
    To: Gylo Rhegan of the Long Lances @The_Red_Baron
    Secret

    I have some experience with sellswords, captain. I suggest you may find more lasting profit in siding with the inevitable victor of this war.

    ................
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    From: Gylo Rhegan, Commander of the Long Lances
    To: Daenerys of House Targaryen @Cambyses

    Ah yes, Tatters, Brown Ben Plumm, and Daario Naharis, quite the cadaver of sellswords you have at your side. Should I make myself one of them? Well frankly the slavers have only cost me more and more of my men with every battle, and I would rather not face your Dothraki, Stormcrows, or Windblown again.

    Thus provide my company with a bonus, and the officers a large one, and a continued contract for our services for as long as you would need us, and we shall dip our banners to you when the time would come.

    Oh, and you are a Queen, we would want lands and titles, either here in Meereen, or if you do plan to go west as the rumours say, then there.

    Cambyses said:
    To: Qarth @The_Red_Baron

    The siege of Meereen is broken. The fleet of Volantis driftwood and ashes.

    Does Qarth still believe its best interests lie in being my enemy?

    .................
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    From: The Thirteen, Tourmaline Brotherhood, Ancient Guild of Spicers, and Pureborn, of the Qarth, the greatest city that was or will be.
    To: Daenerys of House Targaryen @Cambyses

    The great city of Qarth only desires peace, and prosperity.

    We have no doubt that shall be accomplished.

    Cambyses said:
    To: New Ghis @The_Red_Baron

    Your Iron Legions fought well at Yunkai, but now they are cut off from all hope of aid. The Ghiscari learned long ago that discipline cannot stand against dragonfire.

    But I am not a Dragonlord of Old Valyria. I do not want your lands, or your thrones. You may make a peace with me and keep both. All you need do is free your slaves and agree to fight for me when I call.

    .................
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    From: New Ghis
    To: Daenerys of House Targaryen @Cambyses

    We appoint Grazdan zo Loraq as the official negotiator of New Ghis and the Slavers' Alliance, New Ghis is amenable to peace, however, we will not free our slaves.

    Cambyses said:
    To: Volantis @The_Red_Baron

    Your great armada is broken and burned, tens of thousands dead as testament to the cost of standing against me. Volantis has lost this war at almost the very moment of its first involvement.

    Defeat seems inevitable, but I would sooner not see the eldest daughter of Valyria burned and broken. No, I would see it become greater than it ever was, unshackled from the decaying rot of slavery, the shining jewel in a new order.

    I formally announce my candidacy for Triarch of Volantis.

    I believe you will find I meet the necessary requirements. Let all who which to support my candidacy grant their slaves the gift of freedom, and prepare the city for my arrival.
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    From: The Triarchs of Volantis
    To: Daenerys of House Targaryen @Cambyses

    For one who proclaims freedom for the slaves, you have killed far more than we might have even dreamed of, upon the Straits of Yaros.

    For one who calls herself a Daughter of Valyria, you are certainly far unlike any of our great mother. Slavery shall be the way of the world, it has been the way of the world, as the Freehold demanded, we shall do what we must.

    Volantis has faced crises far beyond you, girl.

    Volantis has faced off against dragonriders before you.

    We shall not allow one such as you to filthy our city with your presence, our fleet shall be rebuilt, stronger than before, and if you do not have the good sense to make peace with the alliance, then... we will avenge all the good sons of the city who died for your insanity.
     
    To the castellan of the Dondarrion Castle @The_Red_Baron

    We know that you feel your neutrality has been breached, or that you feel it would be breached. Yet, We, are ready to continue to observe your neutrality with one condition. That you let the troops seeking to pass the Pass pass. We are ready to speak with you further if it needs be.
     
    Last edited:
    The_Red_Baron said:
    From: Grazdan zo Loraq, Supreme Commander of the Slavers' Alliance
    To: Daenerys of House Targaryen @Cambyses

    We have heard news of your victory on the seas, yet you no doubt have heard of our victory on land. The countryside is lost to you, and it shall only be more so if we march upon Meereen once again. Another Dothraki Khalassar shall not come to save you.

    Yet we now see no more use in fighting in this stalemate, I have been given leave to negotiate, and so I shall.

    You shall be recognised as Queen of Meereen, with my cousin, King Hizdahr zo Loraq at your side. Meereen shall be allowed to be freed from slavery, as long as you pledge to end your campaign of emancipation in the rest of Slaver's Bay. We shall too provide you wish the ships for you to leave these lands and go west as you desire.
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    From: Daenerys Targaryen

    You won a victory? Was this the same battle where you barely resisted my forces and lost all your vaunted elephants? You offer your ships? I have taken them. I offer your lives, but I shall take them too if I must.

    We shall speak again, I think, but only if you survive.

    From: Gylo Rhegan, Commander of the Long Lances
    To: Daenerys of House Targaryen @Cambyses

    Ah yes, Tatters, Brown Ben Plumm, and Daario Naharis, quite the cadaver of sellswords you have at your side. Should I make myself one of them? Well frankly the slavers have only cost me more and more of my men with every battle, and I would rather not face your Dothraki, Stormcrows, or Windblown again.

    Thus provide my company with a bonus, and the officers a large one, and a continued contract for our services for as long as you would need us, and we shall dip our banners to you when the time would come.

    Oh, and you are a Queen, we would want lands and titles, either here in Meereen, or if you do plan to go west as the rumours say, then there.
    Click to expand...
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    From: Daenerys Targaryen

    Agreed.

    From: The Thirteen, Tourmaline Brotherhood, Ancient Guild of Spicers, and Pureborn, of the Qarth, the greatest city that was or will be.
    To: Daenerys of House Targaryen @Cambyses

    The great city of Qarth only desires peace, and prosperity.

    We have no doubt that shall be accomplished.
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    From: Daenerys Targaryen

    Very well. Withdraw your support from the coalition that stands against me and you shall have peace, in recognition of the sanctuary you once provided me.

    From: New Ghis
    To: Daenerys of House Targaryen @Cambyses

    We appoint Grazdan zo Loraq as the official negotiator of New Ghis and the Slavers' Alliance, New Ghis is amenable to peace, however, we will not free our slaves.
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    From: Daenerys Targaryen

    Then I fear I must free them for you.

    From: The Triarchs of Volantis
    To: Daenerys of House Targaryen @Cambyses

    For one who proclaims freedom for the slaves, you have killed far more than we might have even dreamed of, upon the Straits of Yaros.

    For one who calls herself a Daughter of Valyria, you are certainly far unlike any of our great mother. Slavery shall be the way of the world, it has been the way of the world, as the Freehold demanded, we shall do what we must.

    Volantis has faced crises far beyond you, girl.

    Volantis has faced off against dragonriders before you.

    We shall not allow one such as you to filthy our city with your presence, our fleet shall be rebuilt, stronger than before, and if you do not have the good sense to make peace with the alliance, then... we will avenge all the good sons of the city who died for your insanity.
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    From: Daenerys Targareyn, Triarchal Candidate

    I would hardly expect the incumbents to endorse my candidacy. There is plenty of time yet before the next election cycle. We shall see what the people decide.
     
    Last edited:
    @Carol

    A raven makes its way across the narrow sea, arriving at last to your hands. You recognise it at once, one of the ravens sent with the Iron Fleet in order to pass along updates on their odyssey. The message is as follows:

    To King Euron Greyjoy, the Third of His Name Since the Grey King, King of the Iron Islands and the North, King of Salt and Rock, Son of the Sea Wind, and Lord Reaper of Pyke, captain of the Silence, called Crow's Eye

    Oh king most glorious, whose name is in the sea wind and whose glories fly with the sea foam, grievous times have come to pass. I write to you no longer as a sailor within the Iron Fleet, that glorious fist of your desires, but as a man who walks alone, and sails no ship but his feet. The Iron Fleet is sunk, and Lord Victarion with it.

    My name, as little as it is worth, is Daqon, former third oresman of the Ravenfeeder, and as far as can be said last flotsam of the Iron Fleet. All else is lost, taken by the drowned god into his domain. We are lost.

    When we sailed into Mereen we found it a city burning on itself, flames rising like the wave that sweeps away the world at the end of days. Lord Victarion, fearless and bold as ever, ordered a landing, to try and change the tide and bring back your long-dreamed dragon bride. But t'was a trap most sickly. When the Iron Victory swept into the bay of that most wretched city, fleet in tow, three great winged beasts, Dragons in truth, rose from the pyramids and descended upon us.

    From the Iron Victory a great bellow resounded, the horn sounded at last, and I saw one of the drakes winging away. I can only hope it has found its way to you, so that we might not have come to nothing in all.

    As the flames poured over the fleet I saw Victarion leap towards his doom. I know not how his last voyage ended in truth, for it was at that moment I seized the messenger ravens and flew from that place. As I write to you even now I am searching for a crew, for some ships of the Fleet still lay in the ports of Mereen, seized by greenmen who paid a price in flame. I know not whether this message will reach you. If it is willed so, I beg of you to send reply, send word, of the state of your kingdom, which so many of my brothers have now died in the service of. I would whisper these words into the waves where the fleet lies sunken, so that they might go to the drowned gods halls in pride knowing their deaths were not in vain. More than that, if I can raise in truth a crew to sail the Ravenfeeder back to you once more, I would know to where I sail, and whom I must avoid in the long journey home.

    Your last and most loyal oarsman, Daqon, last man of the Iron Fleet.
     
    jolou said:
    To the castellan of the Dondarrion Castle @The_Red_Baron

    We know that you feel your neutrality has been breached, or that you feel it would be breached. Yet, We, are ready to continue to observe your neutrality with one condition. That you let the troops seeking to pass the Pass pass. We are ready to speak with you further if it needs be.
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    From: Galladon of House Cole, Castellan of Blackhaven
    To: Aegon of House Targaryen,     King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm

    We have seen what neutrality seems to mean to you, yet we know that if Blackhaven stands alone against the Dornish, though it may take months, we shall fall.

    Thus we would be willing to allow the Dornish to pass, as long as they do not molest our lands, as long as you provide us with assurances, sworn by your honour.

    Also if captured members of House Connington, and my supposed cousins in Dick and Will Cole are transfered to my custody.
     
    Cambyses said:
    From: Daenerys Targaryen

    Very well. Withdraw your support from the coalition that stands against me and you shall have peace, in recognition of the sanctuary you once provided me.
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    From: The Thirteen, Tourmaline Brotherhood, Ancient Guild of Spicers, and Pureborn, of the Qarth, the greatest city that was or will be.
    To: Daenerys of House Targaryen @Cambyses

    You misunderstand our words, we believe the offer that the Slaver's Alliance made if accepted should create peace and prosperity.
     
    The_Red_Baron said:
    From: Robin of House Peasebury, Lord of Poddingfield
    To: Maekar Waters, Regent of Duram of House Bar Emmon, Lord of Sharp Point @SultanArda

    I would ask for your reasons, yet they would matter little, my men are under the command of His Grace, you would need to seek his permission for their command.

    As for the dowry covering wedding costs... while perhaps possible, perhaps we might petition His Grace for the necessary funding, would be better for us both I imagine.
    Click to expand...
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    To: Lord Robin Peasebury of House Peasebury (@The_Red_Baron)
    From: Regent of Lord Duram Bar Emmon, Maekar Waters
    Ask His Grace the reason and he will tell you the reason. But, let's say going to the North.
    Very North!
    For the dowry, that is great to hear that you will pay up the wedding expenses as the dowry!
    May the Lord of Light Protect You!
    (Or the Seven in case of you being a King's Men)
     
    MaironHWH said:
    As the flames poured over the fleet I saw Victarion leap towards his doom.
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    ​
    Euron's dark blue lips curled with delight as he read on.

    "My dearest brother has learned a new trick," the Crow's Eye said. "He commits treason and lies about it."

    Left-handed Lucas Codd burst out laughing. His chain mail was dyed red.

    "He's always been as cold as those cunts in Essos. Figured he'd also become a liar like them."

    "And as pretty, no doubt," Euron said. "For I expect nothing less from my wife when she is done housebreaking him. The joy will be all the greater when they both fall into my hands."    ​
     
    The_Red_Baron said:
    From: The Thirteen, Tourmaline Brotherhood, Ancient Guild of Spicers, and Pureborn, of the Qarth, the greatest city that was or will be.
    To: Daenerys of House Targaryen @Cambyses

    You misunderstand our words, we believe the offer that the Slaver's Alliance made if accepted should create peace and prosperity.
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    From: Daenerys Targaryen

    When last I visited Qarth I was told that to reach the west I would need to go east.

    I had almost forgotten. My thanks for the reminder.
     
    From: Gyloro of House Otherys, Representative of the Sealord of Braavos, Tormo of House Fregar
    To: Stannis of House Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, King of Westeros, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Lord of Storm's End, Lord of Dragonstone @jankmaster98

    Greetings, Your Grace,

    I have been sent across the Narrow Sea by my master, to serve as the permanent ambassador of Braavos of the Hundred Isles, to your court. Should you have any business or need of the Secret City, you should only need to come to me.

    Regarding your representative to Braavos, the Sealord wishes no conflict over the matter, he would be allowed to leave the city with his ships, with his sellswords, with any more ships produced from the Arsenal to follow after...

    ...If you were willing to consider some terms. The Sealord wishes for more integration between Westeros and the Free Cities, more profit for us all, as he would put it. He wishes for a Braavosi quarter to be opened in each major Westerosi city, White Harbour, Gulltown, King's Landing, Oldtown, Lannisport, though as His Grace only holds the first, he shall accept only one, for now.

    As soon as this is granted, then will Ser Justin of House Massey be freed.
     
    The_Red_Baron said:
    From: Gyloro of House Otherys, Representative of the Sealord of Braavos, Tormo of House Fregar
    To: Stannis of House Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, King of Westeros, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Lord of Storm's End, Lord of Dragonstone @jankmaster98

    Greetings, Your Grace,

    I have been sent across the Narrow Sea by my master, to serve as the permanent ambassador of Braavos of the Hundred Isles, to your court. Should you have any business or need of the Secret City, you should only need to come to me.

    Regarding your representative to Braavos, the Sealord wishes no conflict over the matter, he would be allowed to leave the city with his ships, with his sellswords, with any more ships produced from the Arsenal to follow after...

    ...If you were willing to consider some terms. The Sealord wishes for more integration between Westeros and the Free Cities, more profit for us all, as he would put it. He wishes for a Braavosi quarter to be opened in each major Westerosi city, White Harbour, Gulltown, King's Landing, Oldtown, Lannisport, though as His Grace only holds the first, he shall accept only one, for now.

    As soon as this is granted, then will Ser Justin of House Massey be freed.
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    From: King Stannis Baratheon (Edited for eloquence by members of the court)
    To: Gyloro of Braavos

    The establishment of trade quarters separate from the collections and tolls of the Royal Family would represent a direct reduction in the incomes and revenues of the Iron Throne. Revenues directly responsible for the payment and maintinence of the kingdom's expenses and debts.

    As to the matter of legal status of Braavosi citizens trading in Westeros, if a man is charged with a crime he is held by the laws of the country. The special status of international relations does demand extra considerations. Instead of a quarter of the city, the Iron Throne would be amenable to the openning of a building within the capital or major cities wherein representatives of Sea Lord may continuously communicate with the throne and concerned Braavosi citizens seek shelter and legal counsel while their case is being examined by the requisite authorities.

    Special legal posting would be given of course to the representatives, compared to standard citizens. Such as yourself as the Permanent ambassador.

    onto the matter of our diplomat, Ser Justin Massey, a man of rank and diplomatic standing has been detained despite not being charged for crimes. He is being held on suspicion of crime for which there is no evidence of his involvement. I am willing to fund and prevail upon the legal structure of the Free City of Braavos to see he is exhonorated of any potential charges. You may send word that the Iron Throne is willing to leverage a portion of our funds to hire the best legal representatives willing to take on this case.


    This is our current offer on the matter.
     
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