Siege of Storm's End

[Oznerol]

Few days after the battle of the Stepstones the victorious Blackfyre host landed on the Stormlands. Maelys' army included the powerful Golden Company, whose ranks had swelled with many recruits from all the Disputed Lands; Tyroshi, Lysene and Myrish prominent among them, marching in thick ranks, with swords, spears and crossbows. The exiled Westerosi lords and knights comprised a knightly retinue, a force of heavy shock cavalry. The exotic army was stunning: Tyroshi swordsmen with dyed beards, bronze-armoured Myrish crossbowmen carrying pavises, a handful bright-coloured and fork-bearded Pentoshi spearmen and silver-haired Lyseni horsemen clad in silk and steel. The Blackfyre elite troops, the experienced men from the Golden Company, wore elaborate chesplates, mail and leather, carried golden bronze shields and large spears, twice as large as a common man. The noble-born exiles, oddly clad in a mix of Essosi and Westerosi armor rode large warhorses and wielded long spears, whose shafts were painted red and black; their surcoats were all embroidered with their houses’ heraldry, including black castles, feathers, wavy green and white, golden crowns on muddy fields and many more, belonging to all those who once swore fealty to the first Blackfyre or the many pretenders that followed. Towering over them all there were several elephants, carrying towers maned by both crossbowmen and javalineers.

Maelys Blackfyre rides an immense black warhorse, covered with red drappings embroidered with dancing black dragons. The phenomenal size of the beast was matched by the rider, all clad in a shining black armor, polished like a mirror. His hair, silver and crossed by white streaks, falls freely towards his broad shoulders; fierce whiskers framed chiselled, hard features, including a crooked nose and prominent cheekbones. The vestigial twin sprouting from his neck was covered by an ample mantle, dark red as spilled blood. The mailed hand, heavy and large, rested with ease on a sword’s pommel made of a large ruby; Blackfyre, the sword of Kings. The Pretender’s breath was heavy as the sight of Storm’s End had excited him. He spat on the ground as his forces circled the fortress. The would-be King was surrounded by a flock of retainers, some of them the so-called Ninepenny Kings, bright like feathered birds from the Summer Islands. Above his head wavered an immense red banner with a roaring three-headed dragon and a pole carrying the heads of every captain that once led the Golden Company, the first of them the golden skull of Bittersteel. The sound of the tinkling skulls was ominous, but Maelys liked it. Grinning, Blackfyre slowly approached the Baratheon’s seat.

Blackfyre Army

3,000 Elite Infantry (the remnants of the Golden Company's veterans) 5,200 Heavy Infantry 13,000 Light Infantry 6,900 Polearms 7,800 Archers 5,200 Light Cavalry 1,800 Heavy Cavalry = 42,900 men

Hostages (WIP)

-Tywin Lannister -Steffon Baratheon -Raymun Lefford

[Poach]

Raymar was sat on the simple bed that comprised the sleeping space in his sparse tent, his arms and legs chained to his neck by way of a fetter: a length of gold coloured chain linking the restraints on his ankles, wrists and neck together. From the march on Storm's End he knew Tywin Lannister and Steffon Baratheon were also prisoners of the Blackfyre, having sighted them being escorted into tents similar to his own. Indeed, Raymar's tent seemed to be one of a number of such tents in a sectioned and guarded section of the camp, housing the prisoners of more noble rank. Where the lesser prisoners, if there were any, were held Raymar did not know.

His leg still ached from the spear that had dealt the finishing blow to his resistance back on the Stepstones, the final of a dozen wounds he sustained trying desperately to link back up with the breakout attempt. Thoughts of attempting escape were little more than forlorn fantasies for as long as his leg remained as stiff and painful as it currently was. Any strenuous movement risked reopening the wound, and attempting to survive on the run with a wound that serious was akin to suicide. No, Raymar was well and truly a prisoner here.

[OOC: Just establishing Raymar as being present here. Any RP with him would need to go through Oz as Raymar is a prisoner, access to him is controlled by the Blackfyre army.]

Edit: To clarify, the individual tents and the chains on the ankles, wrists and neck were Oz's decision. I asked on Steam. As such other prisoners will be kept in the same condition as I've posted.

[Gandalfus]

Sullen and brooding, Steffon lay quietly on the uncomfortably lumpy bed that had been provided for him as a mere prisoner. The chains were much more extravagant, undoubtedly some pompous display of vanity from the pretender who now marched before the gates of his home. At first, he had been enraged, roaring and bellowing at his captors. But that had earned him nothing but a black eye. Instead the subdued stag lay down placidly in the accommodation provided for him, eyes puffy and red from tiredness, limbs aching from exhaustion, grief and guilt gnawing away at him mercilessly. He appeared stoically silent, content to listen to the cracking of the thunder that gave Shipbreaker's bay its name whilst he retreated into his private thoughts. Escape was impossible, for now, so he and the other captives were forced to wait at the mercy of Maelys to discover their exact fate.

From the battlements of Storm's End, where the banners of the black stag fluttered rapidly in the fierce wind, the ageing Harbert Baratheon squinted down at the party that now approached the seat of House Baratheon. A feeling of dread welled up within the experienced soldier as he gazed once more at the sheer size of the impressive force that had gathered outside Storm's End. Wisely, the forces of the pretender had subverted Dorne and landed in the Stormlands, giving the defenders little time to prepare for an invasion. Noise came from below the battlements, and Harbert frowned as he saw the host of ants move forward as one, surrounding the fortress. It was a motley army that Blackfyre had assembled; golden clad exiles, richly feathered sellswords, and even formidably armoured elephants had gathered below the walls of Storm's End. The Black Dragon paraded forward, with the golden standard of Bittersteel's sons coming into view. With a nod from Harbert, a horn was sounded, and it was made clear that the castellan wished to parlay, and awaited the raising of the white standard by the opposing forces.


OOC; what kind of soldiers would I have here? Just the garrison, or some kind of levy as well?

[Oznerol]

Maelys grunted and a squire, quite terrified handed him a circlet of steel, that he placed on his temples. Like him the crown was hard, unforgiving and fearsome. He turned towards his retainers:

"I bet whoever is holed there has just ruined his pants, fellows"

A roar of laughs arose around the pretender, including the affected laugh of Alequo Adarys, who wore a golden armor and a red silken cloak, he was attended by a myriad slaves and protected by a squad of Unsullied. Ser Derrick Fossoway, an apple rotten from the inside out, was a fleshy, red-haired man, who wore full plate. Xhobar Quoqa was on foot, clad in a feathered cloak and surrounded by tall and impossing Summer Islanders, all of them carrying the fearsome bows of their people. Old Mother and Samarro Saan where with the fleet, looking for safe haven and patroling the waves. The ruthless Nine Eyes guarded the prisoners. Liomond Lashare led the elephants from the back of his enormous beast, clad in gold and steel. Spotted Tom sat in a rock, staring at the fortress quizzically. Maelys looked at the Summer Islander:

"Take your bows and be watchful, just in case these Stormlanders are playful today, Prince!"

Prince Xhobar nodded and took positions with his bowmen, all of whom had sufficient range to outfire the Stormlander bows.

"Send word to the castellan I wanna speak with him. And bring the Baratheon"

He smiled with malice. A rider was dispatched to where the prisoners where held and Nine Eyes send for the chained Baratheon inmediately.

Maelys growls as the horn sounded and raising his mailed hand another banner, this time white and with a seven-pointed star, wavers over his head.

"Let's see"

[Gandalfus]

Lord Steffon was dragged from his tent by golden-clad mercenaries, who laughed and japed at his expense as he the captured stag was brought before Maelys. Though his pride and body were both wounded, he retained an air of importance, keeping his held held silently high as he walked towards the false king, his face betraying nothing.

Slowly, the gates of Storm's End groaned open, and out rode an armoured Ser Harbert Baratheon, accompanied by a few household knights who had either recently returned or did not depart for the Stepstones in the first place. As he approached the much larger man, Harbert removed his plain steel helmet. Harbert's steel grey eyes twitched slightly as he caught Steffon's gaze, but other than that, gave no hint as to what the experienced Baratheon was thinking. Opening his mouth, he spoke in his characteristically gravelly voice;

"So, the latest Blackfyre now parades himself before the gates of Storm's End, accompanied by his crew of motley fools." As he grumbled this, his eyes flickered to the richly feathered Essosi warriors.

"What is it that you have come to petition the house Baratheon for, Blackfyre?" He asked, his gaze fixed onto the disfigured giant that called himself a king.

[Oznerol]

Maelys smiled; yellow, sharp teeth. His hand rested on Blackfyre's pommel. He looked from above at the elderly Baratheon. He was big and strong enough to break a horse in half with a single swing of the greatsword.

"I am the last, yet I am here as a victor"

He grinned wolfishly.

"I demand your total surrender: Storm's End shall be delivered to me and your forces shall march under my own banner"

He turned to Steffon.

"My dear Lord Baratheon, if you yield your life will be graciously spared"

Looked back to Herbert.

"In case you do not comply to the terms of your surrender I shall return you Lord Steffon here... in pieces. Seven as there are Seven gods and Seven hells. Do not take me for someone who makes void threats, Ser"

He looked at the fortress. Clearly a hell was reserved for the Baratheon in case the old castellan refused.

"Shall you swear fealty to me I will be... merciful"

The word sounds like mockery on his lips. The pink tongue licks his sharp teeth.

"I come to rule over this realm, not to burn it"

At least not all of it.

[Jokern]

Tywin Lannister sat in the tent that was to be his prison cell, silently listening to the buzzing noises of the camp outside. The golden fetters around his neck and arms limited his movement greatly, but the symbolism of it weighed more on him than their actual weight. A lion of House Lannister, chained with gold. Perhaps the gods, in their benevolent cruelty, was trying to teach him something. As if he had not learned enough from his lord father's "kindness" and "forgiveness". Foolishness that had only led to the descent of their house into nothingness. Tywin had done everything to be what his was not, and now he was a prisoner of a monster without any knowledge of his own fate. At least Kevan and Tygett had made it to safety, he thought contently. If he were to die, it would be up to his brothers to carry on the Lannister legacy. They were bright and motivated and would do well in his absence. Leaving his thoughts for another day, Tywin concentrated on the sounds once again.

It was lively and had been so ever since they had arrived at Storm's End. Blackfyre was obviously in a hurry to score some early victories on mainland Westeros before the Iron Throne could rally enough loyalist troops to swiftly crush the pretender's host. Even with the massive force that this would-be king had mustered, the first nut he had picked from the bowl was certainly the toughest one to crack. However, that one nut could very well be the one to make the rest fall. A risky gamble, Tywin thought, and one he could respect. The Stepstones would be the first argument in Blackfyre's favor for many lords all over Westeros to reconsider their loyalties, especially houses like Osgrey, Peake, Bracken and... Reyne, he thought with anger rising in his blood. Should Storm's End fall, one of the mightiest castles in the Seven Kingdoms, only one word would describe the political map afterwards: chaos. Would his lord father be able to handle such tumultuous times? Tywin doubted it greatly, considering how the Laughing Lion had handled the Westerlands during times of peace.

Escape was the only option to save both his house and the Westerlands, Tywin determined. The sooner, the better. No one had been prepared for this turn of events and he needed to be home so his family could ride out the dark tides of chaos. The fetters were mighty and strong however, and the prisoners were guarded closely as well. He had noticed Raymund Lefford, one of his father's bannermen, as well as Lord Steffon Baratheon. Seven take the pretender for this, he had too much power in the palm of his hand as long as he held these prisoners to let them out of his sight for too long. With a grim visage on his face, Tywin Lannister lay down on his bed and went deep into thought.

[Gandalfus]

Harbert frowned as the demands were listed, looking at his young, chained nephew with sympathy in his eyes. Steffon and he were the last of the House Baratheon, and it was his sworn duty, first and foremost, to protect and safeguard the house. That is what his brother had told him, the day he sailed to the Stepstones to fight this monstrous usurper. Should the battle go ill, House Baratheon must survive. And Steffon Baratheon was all that was left. The young Baratheon stared mournfully at his uncle as the elder Baratheon unbuckled his sword belt, tossing it disparagingly before the feet of the Blackfyre pretender.

"Storm's End is yours, my liege." Harbert grunted, before falling into a resigned silence. Steffon looked on, grim faced. House Baratheon was damned in the eyes of both Kings, now.

[Oznerol]

Harbert frowned as the demands were listed, looking at his young, chained nephew with sympathy in his eyes. Steffon and he were the last of the House Baratheon, and it was his sworn duty, first and foremost, to protect and safeguard the house. That is what his brother had told him, the day he sailed to the Stepstones to fight this monstrous usurper. Should the battle go ill, House Baratheon must survive. And Steffon Baratheon was all that was left. The young Baratheon stared mournfully at his uncle as the elder Baratheon unbuckled his sword belt, tossing it disparagingly before the feet of the Blackfyre pretender.

"Storm's End is yours, my liege." Harbert grunted, before falling into a resigned silence. Steffon looked on, grim faced. House Baratheon was damned in the eyes of both Kings, now.

The massive pretender didn't say a word, he just unmounted and grabbed the sword with firm hand, he then returned it to Herbert with a wolfish smile.

"Raise, faithful castellan"

He unsheathed Blackfyre, which glittered under the morning's sun. The sword cuts the air as it leaves the scabbard. He raised the blade towards his chest and then pointed to Steffon.

"Steffon Baratheon, do you here and now yield and admit that I am your true and only liege? I proved to be the strongest"

He looked sideways at the Baratheon, still chained in golden fetters. The Pretender pointed at Steffon with his blade; the greatsword was commanding, as austere and fearsome as its wielder. The Blackfyre retainers looked in awe.

[Gandalfus]

"​​Vows at sword-point are not valid in the eyes of Gods and Men." Maester Cressen's words lingered at the back of Steffon's mind as he stared at the razor-sharp royal sword, wide-eyed in a mixture of fear and awe. The pretender cut an impressive figure, but Jaehaerys Targaryen, his uncle, was the true king - and his cousin, Aerys, the heir. But with his life hanging in the balance, Steffon Baratheon chose to live rather than die upon Blackfyre and condemn house Baratheon to extinction.

"Aye-" He began, hoarse from dehydration and anxiety, before beginning again, sweat pouring profusely from his forehead.
"I do yield and swear that you are my only true king and liege, Your Grace." Steffon murmured, his wild eyes fixed on the sword that was levelled at him.

[Oznerol]

"​​Vows at sword-point are not valid in the eyes of Gods and Men." Maester Cressen's words lingered at the back of Steffon's mind as he stared at the razor-sharp royal sword, wide-eyed in a mixture of fear and awe. The pretender cut an impressive figure, but Jaehaerys Targaryen, his uncle, was the true king - and his cousin, Aerys, the heir. But with his life hanging in the balance, Steffon Baratheon chose to live rather than die upon Blackfyre and condemn house Baratheon to extinction.

"Aye-" He began, hoarse from dehydration and anxiety, before beginning again, sweat pouring profusely from his forehead.
"I do yield and swear that you are my only true king and liege, Your Grace." Steffon murmured, his wild eyes fixed on the sword that was levelled at him.

With a single swing the valyrian steel cuts gold and the iron underneath easily. The fetters crumble to the ground.

"You have taken the right decision"

He looks around, he looked somewhat happy, but it was hard to guess.

"Now I acknowledge your dignity as Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and as my lordly cousin you, and your sons after you and their sons after them, shall rule this kingdom until the end of time, unmolested"

He pointed the sword towards the fortress. He looked at his retainers, midly excited.

"Storm's End is our first step towards the Iron Throne, take possession of it!"

Fossoway hurried a squad of well armored knights and a batallion of spearmen, who waited nearby the outcome of the parlay. The Summer Islander bowmen took positions quickly, swift-footed and clad in feathers. Maelys looked silently as his troops flooded the Baratheon's ancestral home, he then turned towards Baratheon:

"You shall remain as my privileged host and companion, Lord Steffon. Show me the way to the great hall, castellan"

Columns and columns of Blackfyre troops entered the castle. Maelys mounted again and towering over every men there gathered advanced towards the iron gates.

Soon thereafter an immense banner wavered over the gatehouse. Black over red. Blackfyre.

[Pericles of Athens]

Robb Reyne sat in his tent, a prison by any other means is just as confining - just as cold. His hair fell in gentle crimson locks, red as the fur of the Lion's adorning his father's banners at the battle on the Stepstones. His bed was covered in piled furs and his wrists and ankles bound by golden fetters. Gilded bindings but bindings all the same, like an exotic bird trapped in a shining cage or a cage of cold hard iron. He wore no armor, he wore no sword at his hip, had no horse or lady between his legs.. he covered himself with nothing but a simple tunic with a brilliant red lion embroidered upon the front. A red hot rage burned within him, he wanted to smash his fists into solid rock, to dull his blade against a tree trunk, he had no hatred for the Monster, but the creature's minions had bested him.

[Lucius Malfoy]

Maegor had left the comfort of his campsite at Summerhall and made his way for Storms End. Stormlander peasants along the way spoke of pirate ships and a vast army that was situated to the south of Storms End, the black dragon banners of House Blackfyre numbering so immensely that they were said to be seen for leagues upon leagues. The wayward Targaryen doubted that even the Monstrous claimant could easily take the impregnable fortress that was Storms End, the bastion built by Durran Godsgrief to repel the wrath of the sea god and, his wife, the goddess of wind. Storms battered against the seventh construction of Durran and defied the wrath of those immortal beings. Its high battlements and thick walls made her a mighty structure and hard nut to crack. He wondered if the Blackfyre possibly left an army to besiege the fortress before heading north or took his whole army with him. After all, word was that the Stormland forces were in disarray after the battles of the Stepstones.

As the Targaryen's horse exited the mountainous passes and woods to the west of Storm's End, he would witness something that was entirely unexpected... the Blackfyre host was still present. And, despite not having the eyes of an eagle, Maegor noticed columns of sellswords, all from exotic origins, marching through the open gates of the Baratheon's ancestral halls. Here he had hoped to arrive at Storm's End and possibly buy some supplies with the hopeful prospect that the Blackfyre armies had moved North, but that proved to be nothing but a hopeless dream. Before he could even turn his horse, his ears caught the yells of soldiers. He looks around for a moment, trying to find the source, only to see a cadre of gold-armored Westerosi exiles, mounted soldiers of Golden Company. Maegor thought of fleeing into the mountains, but his escape route was cut off as another group of horsemen appeared, blocking the route back the way the Targaryen came. Without hesitation, he raised his hands, offering surrender. He had no choice at this point, it was surrender or die. Immediately, the male spoke clearly to the approaching horsemen.

I request noble's treatment as a prisoner of war! I request that I be treated as a noble captive and not be shackled as a common prisoner!

[Oznerol]

Maegor had left the comfort of his campsite at Summerhall and made his way for Storms End. Stormlander peasants along the way spoke of pirate ships and a vast army that was situated to the south of Storms End, the black dragon banners of House Blackfyre numbering so immensely that they were said to be seen for leagues upon leagues. The wayward Targaryen doubted that even the Monstrous claimant could easily take the impregnable fortress that was Storms End, the bastion built by Durran Godsgrief to repel the wrath of the sea god and, his wife, the goddess of wind. Storms battered against the seventh construction of Durran and defied the wrath of those immortal beings. Its high battlements and thick walls made her a mighty structure and hard nut to crack. He wondered if the Blackfyre possibly left an army to besiege the fortress before heading north or took his whole army with him. After all, word was that the Stormland forces were in disarray after the battles of the Stepstones.

As the Targaryen's horse exited the mountainous passes and woods to the west of Storm's End, he would witness something that was entirely unexpected... the Blackfyre host was still present. And, despite not having the eyes of an eagle, Maegor noticed columns of sellswords, all from exotic origins, marching through the open gates of the Baratheon's ancestral halls. Here he had hoped to arrive at Storm's End and possibly buy some supplies with the hopeful prospect that the Blackfyre armies had moved North, but that proved to be nothing but a hopeless dream. Before he could even turn his horse, his ears caught the yells of soldiers. He looks around for a moment, trying to find the source, only to see a cadre of gold-armored Westerosi exiles, mounted soldiers of Golden Company. Maegor thought of fleeing into the mountains, but his escape route was cut off as another group of horsemen appeared, blocking the route back the way the Targaryen came. Without hesitation, he raised his hands, offering surrender. He had no choice at this point, it was surrender or die. Immediately, the male spoke clearly to the approaching horsemen.

I request noble's treatment as a prisoner of war! I request that I be treated as a noble captive and not be shackled as a common prisoner!

A man, wearing a tabard with a crown on a muddy field answers. His accent is awful, clearly plagued by a dozen Essosi dialects. The knight pointed at him with his long lance.

"A noble treatment? An' who ar' ya', little lord? Why shall we take ya' as prisoner? We can make you run and... bleed"

The horsemen laughed, some spoke to each other in the Valyrian spoken in the Free Cities. Sellsword chatting.

[Lucius Malfoy]

A man, wearing a tabard with a crown on a muddy field answers. His accent is awful, clearly plagued by a dozen Essosi dialects. The knight pointed at him with his long lance.

"A noble treatment? An' who ar' ya', little lord? Why shall we take ya' as prisoner? We can make you run and... bleed"

The horsemen laughed, some spoke to each other in the Valyrian spoken in the Free Cities. Sellsword chatting.

Maegor grits his teeth slightly. Even his Valyrian appearance seemed to have gone unnoticed. He had hoped to keep his identity a secret, but at this point, if he didn't use that as leverage, Brightfyre would surely be dead. He recalled the lessons in High Valyrian, overseen and taught by his mother when he was younger. It had rarely been used, but it was still the mother tongue of his ancestry. Valyrian needed to be learned as a language especially for the dragon riders of old in order to command their mounts. It was a risk to speak openly though before the Blackfyre's soldiers, but it was what had to be done. He looks at the sellswords, taking a deep breath before speaking in Valyrian to them.

I am Maegor of the House Targaryen, son of Aerion Brightflame and grandson of Maekar, the First of His Name.

With that said, Maegor extends his arms forward, indicating his willingness to surrender, keeping a sharp eye upon the sellswords.

Now, once more, I request noble's treatment as a prisoner of war. After all, His Grace would like to see a live Targaryen more so than a dead one I would think.

[Honors Bastion]

A small party of eleven riders approached the massive Blackfyre host from the southwest having traveled from the Reach to seek an audience with the Blackfyre King. It was not obvious where from the Reach these men were from as there were no obvious tabards and only four banners, Tyrell, Hightower, Rowan, and Tarly on display.

[Gandalfus]

The gates of Storm's End groan open, and the knights are admitted to the castle by the Baratheon watchmen. Their horses are taken to the stables, and they are taken before the Keep itself, where they wait on the word of Maelys to be admitted.


Steffon Baratheon stood forlornly in the great hall of Storm's End, surrounded by celebrating soldiers and all the camaraderie of victory. It did not feel like a victory to him. Guilt and anger twisted inside the young Baratheon, now a traitor in the eyes of the law. Next to him was his uncle, Harbert, who looked subdued and weary. The two stags were greeted by a sentry, who claimed a party of Reachmen had come to Storm's End. Clenching his fists in white-hot fury at the situation, the Baratheon approached Maelys, who sat on the central throne.

"Your Grace." Steffon said blandly, offering a curt bow to the Blackfyre pretender.
"A group of knights flying colours of the Reach have come to request an audience..." He finished tentatively, careful not to incur the wroth of the warlord.

[Pericles of Athens]

Spotted Tom returned from a scouting run, he found his place amongst the numerous colorful tents of the Essosi warriors. He dismounted his horse and made his way toward the camp of his men, The Spotted Fellows. He spat at the ground. Maelys had led them across the Narrow Sea with promises of gold, and glory, and blood.. he'd only succeeded in giving the Band of Nine two of those three, Tom hoped the last would be coming soon. A flagon of wine awaited him in his crimson tent, alongside a terrified young woman. He smiled at the girl, a horrid toothy thing - exposing his numerous replacement teeth of gold and silver. Westeros was a cesspit like any other, luckily Butcher enjoyed the filth.

[Oznerol]

Maegor grits his teeth slightly. Even his Valyrian appearance seemed to have gone unnoticed. He had hoped to keep his identity a secret, but at this point, if he didn't use that as leverage, Brightfyre would surely be dead. He recalled the lessons in High Valyrian, overseen and taught by his mother when he was younger. It had rarely been used, but it was still the mother tongue of his ancestry. Valyrian needed to be learned as a language especially for the dragon riders of old in order to command their mounts. It was a risk to speak openly though before the Blackfyre's soldiers, but it was what had to be done. He looks at the sellswords, taking a deep breath before speaking in Valyrian to them.

I am Maegor of the House Targaryen, son of Aerion Brightflame and grandson of Maekar, the First of His Name.

With that said, Maegor extends his arms forward, indicating his willingness to surrender, keeping a sharp eye upon the sellswords.

Now, once more, I request noble's treatment as a prisoner of war. After all, His Grace would like to see a live Targaryen more so than a dead one I would think.

The riders laughed once more. The one with the muddied crown smiled with crooked teeth:

"A dragon clad in rags? Are you sure you don't come from Lys?"

A second man, with freckles and reddish hair spoke:

"Certainly I would give him a good tumble! He'd scream like a damsel in distress!"

More laughs. The captain raised a hand.

"Well, well. Guys, wanna see how his Grace treats beggars?"

"I heard the last one is now having a nice chat... with the Stranger!"

More laughs. The captain looked at the Valyrian quizzicaly.

"You shall follow us to His Grace's presence"

Among more jokes, jests and mockery the prince was led to Storm's End.

A small party of eleven riders approached the massive Blackfyre host from the southwest having traveled from the Reach to seek an audience with the Blackfyre King. It was not obvious where from the Reach these men were from as there were no obvious tabards and only four banners, Tyrell, Hightower, Rowan, and Tarly on display.

The gates of Storm's End groan open, and the knights are admitted to the castle by the Baratheon watchmen. Their horses are taken to the stables, and they are taken before the Keep itself, where they wait on the word of Maelys to be admitted.

Steffon Baratheon stood forlornly in the great hall of Storm's End, surrounded by celebrating soldiers and all the camaraderie of victory. It did not feel like a victory to him. Guilt and anger twisted inside the young Baratheon, now a traitor in the eyes of the law. Next to him was his uncle, Harbert, who looked subdued and weary. The two stags were greeted by a sentry, who claimed a party of Reachmen had come to Storm's End. Clenching his fists in white-hot fury at the situation, the Baratheon approached Maelys, who sat on the central throne.

"Your Grace." Steffon said blandly, offering a curt bow to the Blackfyre pretender.
"A group of knights flying colours of the Reach have come to request an audience..." He finished tentatively, careful not to incur the wroth of the warlord.

The King sat on the throne majestically, leaning on his armored elbow. Blackfyre grunted, half-amused by the Baratheon's servilism, it clearly pleased him.

"Thanks, Lord Baratheon. Let them pass, I shall grant them an audience inmediately"

The Reachmen were hastily led to the great hall, where Maelys was waiting for his men to take possession of the fortress. The immense pretender was clad in black armor, his figure is as tall sitting as most of those men standing next to him; many of them were exotic sellswords, including some of the so-called Ninepenny Kings. However, many others were clad in Westerosi armors and dress. The pretender spoke with raspy, deep and loud voice, the vestigial twin covered by the mantle and Blackfyre resting on his lap:

"Knights of the Reach, speak freely"

The retainers looked at the newcomers with awe. The walls were lined by soldiers of the Golden Company, tall, proud and armored.

[Honors Bastion]

The King sat on the throne majestically, leaning on his armored elbow. Blackfyre grunted, half-amused by the Baratheon's servilism, it clearly pleased him.

"Thanks, Lord Baratheon. Let them pass, I shall grant them an audience inmediately"

The Reachmen were hastily led to the great hall, where Maelys was waiting for his men to take possession of the fortress. The immense pretender was clad in black armor, his figure is as tall sitting as most of those men standing next to him; many of them were exotic sellswords, including some of the so-called Ninepenny Kings. However, many others were clad in Westerosi armors and dress. The pretender spoke with raspy, deep and loud voice, the vestigial twin covered by the mantle and Blackfyre resting on his lap:

"Knights of the Reach, speak freely"

The retainers looked at the newcomers with awe. The walls were lined by soldiers of the Golden Company, tall, proud and armored.

As he was led into the room, Ser Edwynd Hightower took a few moments ti look around the room at the Pretender's Host and the Blackfyre himself. He had to admit, the men of the Golden Company did inspire some dread and awe. These men looked to be true warriors that you didn't want to meet in battle. As for the Pretender himself, he was large man whose face was unnerving at best and nauseating at worse. Ser Edwynd did his best to hide his facial expressions, maintaining a calm stoic look as he stood before this newest claimant to Westeros' throne. "King Maelys Blackfyre I presume. I am Ser Edwynd Hightower, an envoy of sorts sent out by several Lords of the Reach on a probing mission to see for own eyes the strength of your host. I must say that it is quite an impressive one at that but one that does not have the strength to conquer Westeros alone."Edwynd stopped speaking there waiting for a reaction.