Knights rode in a column bearing flags of the golden rose of Tyrell, eight-hundred of them.
At their head was the High Steward, and beside him were his oldest son, and one Ser Footly.
They rode on the old road beside the shore of the Mander, coming from the south.
The ruin before them hearkened a suit of memories to Osmund Tyrell, his brow squinting slightly into the summer winds blowing their way.
The fields they rode alongside, opposite the river, still held the remnants of what once was a valley of grapevines, orchards, and wheat fields.
Occasionally they came across the small hamlets that were embedded into the old fields. Most were uninhabited, or obviously just re-inhabited by new dwellers.
Tyrell figured them for vagrants, simply stealing old shelters.
He halted the column as they came across a stone bridge leading over the Mander, leading to an old barbican which had had its gate ripped down by the Dprnish.
The High Steward could imagine the scene of fire as he looked upon it, the crash of wooden doors and the sounds of men screaming fairly easy to remember.
Osmund pointed, "There, we'll set up just inside the old outer walls, if there is not rubble covering the first courtyard."
He scanned those "walls" as he spoke; they were broken down in so many places, so many spots to repair.
"Those will have to be filled with temporary palisades," he nearly mumbled passingly, as they continued onwards, beginning to cross the bridge.
Last edited by Dirty Chai; December 07, 2015 at 06:16 PM.
Following the arrival of Tyrell's message hastily was arranged the departure of Mern towards his seat. Soon enough a column of riders appeared, riding under banners depicting the hand of the Gardeners and the sly Florents foxes. Mern rode his stallion, tall as he was, and clad in armor from head to toe, as always a crown of iron thorns rested on his bascinet, his face framed by the mail coif covering his shoulders and neck. The stallion wore drappings, embroidered with foxes and hands. Trumpets proclaimed the arrival of the King, acompanied by the sounds of the horseshoues on the paved way leading to the gateway. Mern had made the smiths at Brightwater Keep to cover his armor with golden paint. He looked like a god, encassed in gold and shining under the sun like a polished mirror. He held the reins firmly in his right hand, while the left hold the scepter topped by the hand of the Gardeners. Webber followed his lover, riding his black horse and wearing his black armor, like an ominous shadow.
Last edited by Oznerol; December 08, 2015 at 01:36 PM.
Highgarden was still a mess to the eyes as it appeared before them, but as the High Steward had claimed in writing, the walls were now a mix of both old stonework and new woodwork. The gate to which the royal column approached had a new set of doors on it, though the portcullis had been removed and not yet replaced.
A few men manned the walls, and already Gardener flags flew from a few places. A thin trail of smoke rose from what was a repaired hall, just beyond the first wall.
But towers stood high above still in ruins, and all around, the fields were empty and dead.
Mern crossed the gates followed by his retainers and soldiery. He looked around with approval, for the Stewart had begun the works. He ordered swift raiders to send word across the countryside of Gardener's return to his seat. Also, Highgarden direct vassals were summoned to the capital in order to pledge fealty to their new liege. Mern and his bodyguard rode to the repaired hall, where he expected to find Tyrell himself.
As the Mern rode passed under the southern gate and into the open courtyard, he could see all the horses and tents filling this first part of Highgarden.
Once here stood a large garden, and the cobbles pathways could be still seen curving around and in between the old garden tracts.
The knights and men-at-arms knelt as he passed.
The hall to which Mern approached, was the first hall of Highgarden, the first repaired. Others were farther within, particularly in the keep itself which shadowed above like an old buttress. It had served as an entry hall this, and often as a mess hall for the garrison and such. Barracks quarters had been attached to it.
Entering this repaired hall, Mern would pass through the doors to find three hearths lit in the swept room.
The floorboards were still rot it seemed underneath, but rugs and carpets remained in tact.
A simple stone dais sat at the far back, with a campaigning throne sat upon it, the kind that could be folded and moved around.
The High Steward himself stood with his back to the doors as they opened, his eldest son Robert beside him, giving orders to a few armored men.
Those soldiers gaped when the doors opened, and Osmund balked in mid-sentence to turn and look.
He smiled at Mern as he entered and offered a bow of his head, Robert doing the same. The knights backed off, bowing and disappearing into a rear hallway.
"Welcome to Highgarden, your majesty."
Mern unmounted and entered the hall. He then removed his gauntlet and offered Tyrell his signal ring to kiss, a ring with the Gardener heraldry carved on an emerald.
"I thank thou, High Stewart"
He looked around calmly, his regular and beautiful features lit by the fire. Webber, his shadow, looked like carved in stone.
"Thou hast pleased us, Stewart. Thy actions have been wise and shall be rewarded. Finally we could return to our rightful and blessed seat"
Osmund kissed the ring on Mern's hands as required, and then stood back upright gracefully.
"To the point though, your majesty, there is naught much we could do with our personal coffers," he said, gesturing around,
".. and the treasury is... obviously, nonexistent." He coughed as a sort of punctuation.
A pause.
"Hm." Tyrell frowned contemplatively.
Robert Tyrell, his fifteen-year-old son gave an old glance to his father, his brow furrowing at his father's strange pause.
The youth himself was a brightly-skinned man, cleanshaven or lacking in facial hair, with pronounced cheekbones, green eyes, and black hair like his Manderly mother.
He wore a mail coif around his head, and a leathered brigandine - a soldier dressed for battle.
Mern then walked towards the throne on the dais, and sat, erect and calm like a statue.
"We have much to work on, Steward"
Mern hold the scepter in one hand and the globet in the other. His pale hand was crossed by blue veins, a chiseled, marble-like hand, thin and elegant.
"But we shall summon our direct vassals here. I have already sent word to the surrounding lands, so peasant shall come to work here and serve in our armies. Whoever survived this ordeal"
"Squire of the Palace and Royal Clerk, your majesty.. my son and heir, Robert."
The youth introduced gracefully bowed, his right arm stretching out to side as he did so, open palm faced upwards. "Your majesty."
He was long-legged, long-armed, though not necessarily tall. He seemed agile, well-footed.
"He will serve you when I am gone one day, Seven willing, your majesty."
"We have brought our own men from farther down the Mander, Mern, to join the banners here.
There is also a garrison we have reassembled for you, besides our own banners.
That numbers to at least.. three thousand, here presently."
The High Steward gestured to his son, putting his hand behind his back to push him forward.
"With your permission, my liege, I would send my son to assemble the fighting men of these lands along the Mander, including your vassals, and marshal them here, in my place. I can then stay here, your majesty, to aid you in other matters."
Last edited by Dirty Chai; December 08, 2015 at 03:47 PM.
"Permission granted, we shall see how he performs in such an important task"
He looked at Robert quizzicaly.
"Thou shall remain here, with us and help us rebuilding our seat. Also, we need to contact those lords who haven't still declared for a side or another, or those prone to join our cause. Who better qualified for that task than yourself, I might ask. No-one, thou hast gained our trust"
He said, calmly. The scepter erect on his left hand. Webber stood by his side, hands resting on the sword hilt.
"We sent word to Hewett and Merryweather, marriage propositions. If they accept my daughter shall marry Hewett's heir and I shall marry Merryweather's sister"
Robert bowed silently, and turned abruptly to stride out of the hall, his boots striking against the cobbled floor.
He paused to wave his right arm at a hall doorway before leaving, out of which came five mailed men who followed Robert out of the hall, bearing rose sigils on their arms.
Osmund listened to the kinglet carefully, his expression revealing nothing but a patient temperance.
His eyes glanced at Webber for a split-moment before looking back at Mern.
"Fine ideas, my liege," he answered to the statements of marriage proposals, hiding his inner disappointment at such lowly houses.
"Is there a particular task you have eyed for me now, might I ask? Your grace sounds as if he has something in mind."
The idea of marrying her daughter to a Hewett was disgusting, like marrying a Merryweather wench. But the throne was worth such humilliation.
"Thou shall send a raven to Strickland, Oakheart, Osgrey, Tarly and every other High Lord in the Reach who has not declared their allegiance. My cousin Florent has already been sent to Oldtown, in order to struck an alliance with them, probably involving the marriage of my son with Hightower's sister"
That was a worthy match.
"Also, what thou you think we shall do in the following month, Lord Steward? We think it is better to let the claimants bleed each other while we remain unscathed. However, an early victory could be benefitial"
He called a servant with a gesture and handed him the scepter. Webber was handed the helmet, uncovering the King's sweaty head and hair, he demanded a silken cloth and water to be brought.
"Yes, my liege, it will be done. Shall I offer these houses negotiation on behalf of your throne, rather than demanding their allegiance?"
He paused, glancing at one of the flaming hearths. A Hightower was a fine a match for a prince. Though, at the end of the day, none of this affected him.
All was needed was kings with sanity. And for he, the High Steward, and his heirs to continue to be able to govern and serve for them ably.
"The stronger foe should be crushed first, I would imagine, your grace."
"Negotiation. Soft, silken words might succeed where swords would not"
Mern stared at Tyrell.
"Peake looks like a more dangerous foe, we must admit that, however we do not forget that viper of Manderly. Still, we have to assemble our allies and forces. We shall also be watchful over the enemies' movements and evolutions. We fear for Osgrey's and Roxton's loyalties, they might support the usurper"
ooc: I have +6 to Charisma, that might be useful in negotiations with NPC's. +3 from traits, +1 from fruits, +1 from retainers and +1 from regional bonuses.
OOC: Tyrell has +5. But these are all players if I'm not mistaken, except for Meadows.
Tyrell nodded. "The letters will be written shortly, your grace."
He then gestured.
"Manderly is closer, Peake is farther. If one defeats the other though, that victor could gain the allegiance of houses who have not yet announced for you or them."
The water and the cloth arrived and Mern started cleaning his hands and forehead, standing on the dais. Webber helped him removed the chestplate with skilled hands.
"We need a victory to prove the Reach lords the we are not feeble or weak. I shall not hi--hi--de he--re..."
He frowned, visibly disgusted of his own stammering. Webber grabs his arm to comfort him.
"Once we know for certain the total amount of our troops we shall march and punish those who dare to oppose us and our rightful claim. We shall punish those High Lords who declare for the traitors, rather than supporting us"
He had regained self-control, his speech again calm and dignified. The chestplate removed, Webber and a servant started removing the leg armor. Mern cleans his temples with the linen cloth.
Osmund blinked as his new liege began to stutter, seeing how the image could shatter so easily.
But Tyrell took this to be affirmation of his choice - a king that could be guided - and did not reveal any expression, as if he had noticed nothing.
"My liege, if I may make a blunt suggestion... If my memory serves us correctly, the Lady Mistress of Horn Hill is married to a man of the House of Peake.
We will write to them, as you have ordered, but when they do not respond after some time, your grace, I would suggest we send the banners to Horn Hill, to ensure they do not support Lord Peake."
Vicarius Provinciae
Highgarden: A throne of ashes
Dux Limitis
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