GoT game IC a little tourny for a little king (to be)

[drack]

To the commanders of the wall and all the lords and ladies:

*fancy personalized intro bit*

His Grace the King invites you to spectator and join in a tournament hosted in the honor of his new grandson. The tournament will be held at the start of next year and will consist of a melee, a joust, archery, a tournament by single combat, as well as a mock-war game inspired by the games of war to the east. The prize for each tournament will be a sum of 100,000gold dragons
********
-The Royal Scribe

At the bottom of the letter the royal scribe made sure to include a personal bit wishing good health to a sick family member or congratulating or condoning some potentially scandalous actions… Reminding all The King’s followers that he even knew when little Suzie took ill for a day regardless of how word hadn’t spread of it or of how none might have thought even to comment on it in idle gossip. Furthermore it strikes you that the war games to the east were a grizzly affair at best with armies of slaves butchered against each other. Clearly the king was hungry for blood, but to deny a royal invitation… That bore its own risks.
You may work birthday gifts for his majesty son of the much beloved prince from whichever pool of starting wealth you choose.

Three weeks prior in kings landing (to those who were there)

It was not all at once, but slowly the illumination crept across the night sky as the rising of the sun. Growing brighter and brighter the light shone not the joyous yellow-white of the sun, but a deep blood red that seemed to trickle across the whole of the city until it shone brighter then the sun ever did, even in the heat of summer. Up in the sky however was no sun, but rather what appeared as a deep red gash in the sky, that was until one noticed it was moving. A commit flew slowly through the sky appearing almost as if it were a hot iron, or perhaps a dragon's tear. A sight one could not help but marvel at. Up in the castle beneath this truly magnificent sight a child was born young and fresh to the world. His father, The Dragon Prince, smiled down upon the boy. "Oh my beautiful boy... how now can I doubt that you truly are the prince that was promised when your birth is heralded by such a sign. You will be Aegon, and you will drown even the conqueror's triumphs with those of your own when you save the world with your song of ice and fire, and you will be my beautiful little boy for as long as you live." Tenderly the crowned prince bent down and kissed his son on the forehead before taking a seat to resume his studies of ancient texts with his beautiful son and wife in plain sight, and as he did the brilliance of the commit slowly began to pass from the skies returning the land to the quiet of darkness.

And there you were, entering the royal great hall where a pitiful dog-like dragon skull stood to great you in the solemn stone room, and it seemed as a line of pitiful dog skulls, but as you walked the length of the hall, as those skulls came closer into sight they seemed to grow as one in magnitude. Not even halfway down the hall the skulls were more then large enough to take the upper half off a man, then large enough to swallow a man whole, and soon to swallow his horse with him. Finally approaching the forefront of the hall where the fangs were as large as swords and an eerie darkness filled them. Chandlers of candles were hung giving the illusion of flames streaming from them, but nobody was fooled. Still it added a queerly dark air to the room, especially with all the tapestries in shades of red with an alchemist standing beside a vacant throne at the fore of the room. Noting the empty throne the other nobles took this opportunity to socialize and greet their fellow lords knowing well that nothing of import would happen without their king. For that matter there wasn't a Targarian to be seen, not that it was too uncommon. What was odd was the absence of Grand Measter Chivenson who also seemed to be missing from the festivities.

[BelGareth]

Lord Hame received the messenger before noon, with his stomach grumbling and his patience tiring at the incessant drablings of the poor, sqaubling over every last inch of dirt.

The message would be a respite from his daily duties, and he eagerly dismissed everyone so he could accept the messenger and read what it had to say.

Both his sons where in the room, from urging of his Maester, and a final word from him, both looked sullen, and it was obvious they both wanted to be somewhere else.

Reading the letter, his eyes grew wide, vast sums of money were promised for the winner, and he was sure his sons would be interested in going, if not joining to pit their mettle against that of every other knight worth his salt.

It was an interesting event, not only would it be one of the largest events of this age, but lots of things could happen, and he wasn't about to miss out on such a chance. And what would people say if house Casterly were not present, what would the king say?


~~~

The Casterly baggage train was still arriving as Lord Hame watched from the Gate of the Gods, his sons were flanking him, Egric and Caellin, and a grip of other knights, squires, and men-at-arms.

He had bought a veritable host to the gates, determined to give a show of strength, and display the wealth of the family to all who would look. The squires were already setting up camp for the men just outside of the walls, so as not to burst the already disease ridden capital. They were safer there, guards of his own colors, and less spies.

And it was closer to the tourney grounds.

Frowning, he reigning his horse to enter the gate, motioning for his sons and their entourage to follow, he would need to visit the Red keep, and make his stay close by in the castle. A wonderful enjoyment that was required of his station. Sometimes he hated how fate had played out, but he shook that particular known thought from his mind, knowing it led down a dark road. He loved his brother, and would do anything for him.

People moved away from him, some pointed in awe at the majesty that his armor, gilded in sparkling gold, others merely ignored them, not wanting to be reminded again that they were dirt poor, and no one cared about them. Not even their king.

His frown had grown on the way to the red keep, and he wasn't in a great mood when he was dismounting, his horse snorted in displeasure as it noticed its owner's mood. Which bought a wry smile to his face, patting the great animals neck, he led the horse to the stables, telling the stable boy to take care of him, and flipping a gold crown to him for insurance.

The rest of his train had moved to his families house in the city, while his sons, and their squires had come with him to the red keep. Turning to Caellin, he spoke "Do you have it?", his son nodded and patted a bulge under his cloak below on his thigh, where a square box was tethered to him. What was inside was extremely valuable, and he had taken precautions to ensure its safe arrival. "Aye father, tis safe and sound with me." he said smiling to his father. his usual candor gone and replaced by a quiet reserve, for he knew, much like most aristocrats of the seven kingdoms, Kings landing was a dangerous place.

"Very well then, lets go", he stepped off and his sons followed suit, taking up positions both behind him, forming a wedge with him in the lead. The man was the head of House Casterly, and Lord Paramount of the westerlands, and he knew it. He entered the throne room and was greeted by the dog sized dragon skull.

Dragonsbane, the sickly misshapen skull always looked like a bull mastiffs to him, much less like some flying scourge of death.

Moving further he saw the other skulls staring at him with empty eye sockets, Meraxes, Vhagar, and the last one, Balerion, the Black Dread. His eyes didn't linger long on the skulls, he had seen them a thousand times, but even yet, the larger ones always impressed him, but in a court such as this, you cannot stay too long on any one thing. He immediately saw the absence of several key figures, most of all the King, his hand, and his Maester.

Frowning, he signaled for his sons to follow him off to the side, where the other high Lords and Ladies were gossiping. At this moment in time, he didn't see anyone he cared to talk to. He would wait for the interesting people, like Svar Ironfang, Vardis Bolton Hand of the King, and Lord Arynn. Hopefully he could avoid the annoyance of the Tekar's and their insipid socialism....

[Legionary]

There was a brief silence as six iron clad juggernauts entered the room. Both the long black plumes that flowed from their face concealing helmets and their leather cloaks of questionable origin easily identified these unspeaking brutes as Bolton honour guardsmen. Though not real knights in the truest sense, as there were few actual nobles left unflayed in the North after the purge, these men were never the less inseparable from their masters. Following closely behind their silent protectors was a young lady, a middle aged man and a small entourage of lesser Northern aristocrats and knights.

If the unsettling bodyguards did not betray his identity, then the Hand of the King’s golden broche displayed proudly on his chest certainly would. Lord Vardis Bolton. He was a familiar face to those that called Kings Landing home, but for Lords and Ladies abroad he was a far cry from the man that they once knew. His time in the Capital, in the Mad King’s service, seemed to have aged Vardis beyond his years. He looked gaunt and weary bags hung under his ice blue eyes. Not that it made him look weak. In fact to the contrary, Vardis only seemed more unnerving, more bestial, like a true predator. The whole realm was here to celebrate the birth of his grandson, a Targaryen, a future king, and yet the grim Northerner wouldn’t even crack a smile. At least the demeanour made him less approachable to lesser lords looking to make idle small talk, he thought bitterly to himself.

Flanking her father and in seeming much higher spirits was none other than Vardis’ eldest daughter, the infamous Lady Lyra Bolton. The young woman was truly a striking sight to behold, gliding unnaturally across the room in a stunning crimson dress. Her blood red lips matched her elaborate attire but presented a stark contrast to her pale white skin. Lyra’s inquisitive eyes scanned the crowd before her, before she casually threw dangerous smile across the throne room to the unwitting Caellin Casterly.

Upon first inspection it may haves seemed odd for only two of the Bolton to be present at such a prestigious event. However, one could safely assume that Jeyne Bolton was either with her husband, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, or tending to her newborn child. She would undoubtedly make her introductions later with the rest of the Targaryen family. Vardis’s only son, Vargo, most likely was still in Winterfell and acting as Warden of the North in place of his father. Whilst the man was by no means an extraordinary knight he was definitely disappointed to miss his nephew’s tournament, if only for the jovial atmosphere and alcohol.

As for Letho Bolton, Vardis’ ill-natured brother, there probably wasn’t a soul in the Throne Room that didn’t breathe a sigh of relief at his absence. His count manner is deplorable, and whilst he may not have been guaranteed victory at the upcoming tournament, there was no way his participation was going to result in anything less than some unfortunate noble getting maimed. For most it didn’t matter where that brute was, so long as it was not here.

[Dunkoro]

Lady Ria isn't an intimidating figure, she didn't even bring that much of an impressive guard with her. Additionally, she's one of the very few women present. And yet... there is some kind of an aura about her; one of strength and pride. One look at her face told you immediately she's not one to be dismissed easily.

She didn't try for an impressive entrance either, she simply entered, exchanged welcomes with whomever it was appropriate and then moved aside, evidently not enjoying the social chit-chat. If it wasn't obvious she had to be here, she wouldn't even leave her home.

Lack of either of her brothers was easily noticeable and just as easily explainable; she was the sole ruler of the family and the only one responsible for its' social well-being.
Additionally, it was well-known she was the only one of the three that could manage politeness and well-behavior, because that was what she was taught to do.

Why would anyone care about impressing one another with empty games of words I wonder... It's not like you could convince anyone your intentions were sincere, since nobody is sincere in here, everyone just doing whatever they can to further their position. Disgusting...

If anyone approached her, she would of course invite him for a chat and even appear as if she was enjoying his or hers company, because that was only polite. She wouldn't though initiate any social contact herself. She didn't feel any need to.

[Raunchel]

Visenya Baratheon enters the throne room for the first time in her life. Her appearance is that of a stern modesty, as always. She wears a black dress with as its only decoration a high, stiff white collar that almost seems to hold up her head by itself. Her hair is covered, as it should, by a black cloth. The only visible luxury is the quality of the fabric, which shows that this is a highborn lady. By her side walks a medium-sized man with slightly feminine features. He wears black like the lady, but at his side he wears one of the most precious things in the seven kingdoms, the sword Stormslayer, identifying him as ser Arn Baratheon, consort of the young lady Visenya.

It is the first time that Visenya is in the throne room, and she is slightly disappointed when she sees the dragon skulls, she had imagined something more impressive. But then, as she heads further into the room, she is impressed by the sight of the larger skulls. Her childhood dreams of having a dragon reawaken instantly, she wants one. She needs one. But of course that's impossible and she knows it.

Some of the faces she knows, others she doesn't. She doesn't smile, it doesn't fit with her. All these decadents, living for joy and entertainment while there are things like duty and work. No wonder that the kingdoms are in such a terrible state. All of them care only for their own power, and not for their duty. She wonders what the king is like, she did hear stories, and they make sense, when seeing this lot. She immediately notices Lyra Bolton, the sight makes her heart race. Such a beauty. And such a waste. The lack of moderation hurts as much as the red lips.

She waits for now, hoping for introductions in this chaos.

[drack]

Torm, and Julis Tully sat alongside Wolf in the great hall surrounded by the last remaining Riverlands men, all courageous knights, all sworn to protect the land, and all sworn to serve their good lord and lady. Wolf sat amidst all this unphased as he bit into a crispy stick of bacon. Lord Haverlay Whentley, a noble lord of a house that existed as an offshoot of house Whent read the letter aloud. As he read Torm rolled his eyes and Julis played with her doll. Only Wolf seemed to pay the invitation any mind waving over a servant to summon some lords to attend, instructing the lad through a mouth full of half-chewed honey-tart.

--------

Accompanied by what looked to be a mob of brutes and thugs a small contingency of knights escorted young Torm to Kings Landing. At the tail end of the column thick armed thugs could be seen dragging corpses, common folk by the look of it. Rumor had it that many of the -er- mercenaries of the Riverlands made soup of even human flesh.

The procession proceeded through the city, breaking up as it did so with the mercinaries heading off to the whore houses and to meet with old friends in Fea bottom over a bowl of brown. By the time they reached the inner castle only a handful of mercinaries remained with the contingent of knights, and all but two of those too stayed beside the door. And so it was that Young Torm entered with Krina, Harris, and Grotty Blackwood with perhaps some ten other knights forming a tight ring about Torm merrily intercepting any who might be seeking a word with young Torm.

Torm himself seemed not to even notice the skulls at first, though as he approached the throne he began to gaze upon them in wonder, mouthing the names under his breath, his elegant blue and red robe flowing with him across the floor as he walked the length of the hall to stand at the fore. Krina, Harris, and Grotty looked much more out of place however. They woe elegant yet simple garbs of animal furs. Fashionable perhaps, but far from the modest and civil attire about the court. Grotty laughed heartily, and somewhat nasally, at the dragon skulls as he entered, nudging his sisters and nodding his head towards them. As they proceeded down the hall however their unease grew, and worse stood open for any in the hall to see. Hesitantly they felt for concealed weapons as they came to their place, glaring back at Balerian's skull as if they expected the dragon to come to live, leaping into the air to plunge down upon them.

--------

From a side entrance Jake Snow entered, white cloak billowing behind him, yet everyone knew that Jack Crisp must be there as well. Royal bastards the both of them. Jake Snow was a towering giant of a man, always wrapped in his heavy plate with his swords Dragon's Cry and Sevens Bane strapped securely to his waste, two heavy tower shields slung across his back, never once showing any fatigue. Jack Crisp on the other hand was a very different sort of man. Jack Crisp, it was said, never left his brother Jake's shadow, and never in it was he seen. Still, everyone had heard the stories. Everyone knew Jack Crisp was there because he never went elsewhere, because the stories told of how he'd dart forth to silence any threats to his towering giant of a brother. Together they made quite a team, and together they'd earned a name as "Jake the Dread", or "Jack the Dread" depending on who you spoke with.

[Deadlykire]

Lord Kire, the name still fit him uneasily, read the letter delivered by raven. He set it on his sister's workbench for the rest of the family to read. He glided around the table his movements incredibly smooth for someone so large. He gently rested his hands on the edge of the table as he leaned in towards his siblings. "Thoughts?" he whispered. His sister, Kyra, read the paper carefully and was the first to break the silence. "We must send someone. Perhaps you brother? Can you fight in both the melee and the single combat? I think it..." she paused carefully considering her next words, "unwise for us to send too many forces. They just burnt mother and father alive. Someone clearly wishes us harm, weakening our position would not be prudent. On the other hand we also cannot ignore the invitation. To do so would incur the wrath of King Aerys." Gendry shifted in his seat as he read the message. He waited patiently as his sister spoke. "Perhaps I should attend the tourney? If we truly don't wish to risk too much sending brother would be a mistake." Their gazes all met as they continued to discuss the proper course of action. Eventually a decision was made. A small host of men and women were gathered from the army camps and set out on the long journey to King's Landing. They traveled by land, the journey took longer this way but...other matters needed attention to on the way.

[Deadlykire]

He entered the hall in simple garbs, after much debate deciding to leave the armor off. His pants were a blend of fine cotton and silk fitting him snugly but not overly tight. He wore a simple leather jacket fastened across his body. It worked well enough as improvised armor, but was no match for a truly committed strike. The vest had been dyed white, with the Tekar family emblem etched into the right breast and painted. The bloody black spear and purple ankh were a sharp contrast to the white. Kire made his way to the back of the hall, still uneasy being around the Mad King after the death of his parents. Truth be told, he didn't want to be in this hall at all but the risk of spurning Aerys was too great of a risk. He was joined shortly by his paramour and a few of his personal guards, the latter wearing full gear. His paramour wrapped her arm around his waist and leaned in close whispering in his ear. He looked down at her equally tanned olive skin and smiled, her amethyst eyes glimmering back into his sapphire ones. He returned his gaze back to the hall and took in the grand sight. He'd seen it only a few times, traveling to visit his father when he was younger. Each viewing of the great hall had always left him in awe. Now he couldn't help but to imagine his father and mother kneeling on the floor in front of the throne screaming as they were burned alive. He could feel the flash of rage and struggled to quell it. He would eventually have his revenge, but today was not the day.

Kire, Lord of Sunspear and Dorne, put on his face for the other guest. He hated the politics of THE GAME, but knew he couldn't avoid them. He knew many of the others hated his family, they'd been smart enough to consolidate their power by installing family at the head of every house. They made sure none wanted or felt mistreated under their rule. It was a great strain on his house to support the common folk, but his father believed it worth the sacrifice to have the common folk care for house Tekar. He'd always told them it made them more loyal. Kire was unsure of this truth, but he couldn't deny he felt safer in Dorne than here. At home he didn't fear walking the city without a guard, though now that he was leader he was forced to travel with a small compliment. He thought of his sister Kyra, home at Sunspear busy working away in her workshop. He thought of her grand map...and the gift she'd made for the prince and his new son. It was admittedly perhaps her finest work, and had cost his house a great deal to build.

[Legionary]

Upon observing Kire Tekar enter the great hall, Lyra breaks off from her father's entourage with two of her father's steel clad juggernauts in tow. The Lady Bolton eerily glides over to the Dornish noble, her movement so refined it's almost supernatural.

"Lord Kire," she smiled, her haunting grin more unsettling then the imposing bodyguards flanking her. "What pleasure it is to see a lord of Dorne once again grace Kings Landing with their presence." Lyra was by no means ignorant as to the fate of the previous Dornish lords that visited the capital. However the remark, whilst perhaps cold, seemed like more of a formality than a malicious jab at the orphaned lord.

"And who is this jewel that you have kept hidden from us down in Sunspear? Surely introductions are in order." Lyra briefly glances to the young lady hanging from the nobleman, momentarily biting her bottom lip as she apparently examined her foreign attire. After which she pauses tactfully, waiting for the proper exchange of pleasantries before continuing on to the more serious business at hand.

[drack]

Varys enters the room quietly, his large form ungainly yet not awkward, never awkward, as if every stumble and teetering step was planned. Dimly he glides his way over to Jake Snow, Lord Commander of the kingsguard. "Oh, Jake, you have my most sincere sympathies, but the crowned prince would like a word with you if you would."
"No Tournament then?" Jake asked, somewhat disappointed. It was widely known that Jake Snow spent very little time in Kings Landing, often as not out on business for the Tyrgarians.
"No, I'm afraid not...." Varys replies in a dramatically solemn tone.
"Shame." Jake replies, lifting his massive shoulders in a slight shrug. "Darry's in charge." It was a bad habit of the commander of the kingsguard. He'd appoint a stand in to attend small council meetings and to direct the other movements of the kingsguard. It wouldn't be a bad habit of course except that it seemed at times he'd appoint anyone in the kingsguard. With that Jake made his way to the door.
Varys on the other hand made his way to the front of the room. "Why hello there Lord Hand, isn't it a truly magnificent day today? Why I can already imagine the prince's young face smiling in still comfort, can't you?"

[Deadlykire]

Kire turned his attention to Lady Bolton as she approached. His sapphire eyes gazing through her. He gave a slight bow as his companion curtsied. "My Lady Bolton." He gave her a small smile. There was a quiet cheer to his voice, whether forced or true not readily apparent. "I was honored to be invited by the King." His voice remained steady and constant, almost emotionless.

He turned towards his paramour. Before he could introduce her the woman spoke her eyes locking on to the Lady Bolton's,"I'm Talisa my lady." Talisa's hand returned to Kire's doublet as she smiled. Unlike her lord's, her smile was darker, hiding a malice behind the gentle features of her face. Her wavy, dark hair cascading down her shoulders and back. It was loose, yet well kept extraordinary care clearly having been put into the woman's appearance.

[drack]

A young pasty little man in the trappings of an alchemist emerges from the crowd, bowing awkwardly to Visenya. "My Lady Baratheon, it is an honer indeed. How fare the stormlands in these times of peace and prosperity?" A deviant light burns in his eyes, a feverish light, lust, but not the lust for flesh, a lust much more profound and one not so uncommon among alchemists. In his eyes burns the lust for that dancing flame, the sense of life it seems to exude, for it's flickering weaving form that gives it ever changing beauty in those eyes. Beneath that dangerous gaze a symbol stood on his red robes, a green and golden flame marking him as Rossart, Grand Master of the Alchemist's Guild and alchemist to the king himself.

[Raunchel]

An alchemist? Here, at the court. It fits with what she heard, but still. Visenya looks dour as always as she answers: "The Stormlands are well, and rejoice for the birth of the prince's son. We are delighted that our royal line remains strong and vital. And how fares the noble work of your guild?"

[drack]

"Oooh, Ooooooh." The old man coos eagerly, clearly much more interested in the works of his guild then in any petty matters of state. "Things are progressing wonderfully, just marvelously. I was quite overjoyed at our gracious king's support in the past but this. Oooh, I can hardly wait with all the excitement in the air. Why we're working as hard as we can to earn our great king's patronage." The dangerous flare in his eyes burns with fervorous heat and passion, but then something clicks and the alchemist seems suddenly more guarded, some of the eagerness gone from his voice.
Allowing a smooth if not somewhat malicious smile to worm it's way onto his lips the alchemist asks "...and what of the stormlands, surely a flame that can burn upon even the water in the worst of storms would be of value there. We are, of course, always open to expanding our little guild. Perhaps even taking up a secondary location."

[Raunchel]

"Flames are such an expression of beauty, or purity. No distractions, only the fire itself.", Visenya answers, intrigued. "There are those who call themselves alchemists who reside in my lands, but they lack the learning of your honoured guild. If it would not detract from your important work for our king we would be honoured to receive representatives of your distinguished order at Storm's End."

[drack]

"Yess, Yessss! Some fail to accept the beauty of our art looking down on it as scams and trickery. Some even think they can imitate our great craft!" Rossart gives the lady Visenya a measured look before adding "Yes, an envoy will be arranged, though of course it will not be I for someone must ever tend the flame... of course our craft can prove expensive... All in the pursuit of perfection."

[Raunchel]

"When it comes to purity and perfection expense is no great issue. Ýour envoy would be a most welcome guest. I am certain that we can come to an agreement on the financial side, with our beloved sovereign's permission of course.", Visenya answers, slightly worried about the king's reaction.

[drack]

Exxccellent. The alchemist coos gently as he walks away. Quietly approaching the vacant throne he kneels before it, and from his robe he draws four small pots which he puts in a small pile just to the left of the royal throne before slipping once more into the assembled mass of noblemen with that uncanny smile of his.

_________________________________________

Four members of the kingsguard file in taking up ceremonial positions about the throne. Ser Barristan Selmy known as Barristan the Bold, Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning, Ser Gerold Hightower known as the White Bull, and Ser Oswell Whent. Together they stood upon the stair on the off chance there would be need of them to defend their king from enemies unseen.

[Raunchel]

Visenya turns to look around, wondering where the king is and what he would look like. She hadn't yet had the pleasure of meeting him. Or displeasure, she had heard one or two things about her most illustrous king. All the other grandees seem to already be in conversation, so she watches, just to see what she can discern.

[drack]

Finally a thin old man in oversize robes and thinning grey hair walked out. He was a spry man for such age, taking one step after the next as if that grey hair were instead still the silvery white that it once was. Eagerly his eyes darted about the crowd, staring into each and every person as if to find any hint of betrayal, and sign of disloyalty. Atop his head a golden circuit filled with gemstones marked him king, but what truly marked him and told him from all others was that sense of longing in his eyes, and that calm familiar smile when his gaze passed over the floor before his throne. It was one small space, the like of which few would ever have noticed. The floor seemed... warped, deformed, like a candle top, no longer smooth, but cupped. There was only one thing that melted stone like wax, and only one man who was so familiar with every act that so involved it in the castle. Slowly the old man lowered himself into the iron thrown from which he had the perfect view of that one spot where the floor had twisted and writhed, sputtered and cooled once more. He grinned, enjoying the memories all over again.

"Ouch!" He exclaimed, bringing his hand up sharply from the throne where a sliver of blood was already beginning to show. Sucking the cut for a moment he gazes down at his subjects. Behind him a young man and woman follow, a babe cradled closely in the man's arms, and a young girl clinging shyly to her mother's dress. Removing the hand from his mouth the king begins his speech. "Everyone, come and honor with me the birth of my new grandson." Grinning, clearly enjoying himself he waves his hand dismissing all his many vassals before licking a new line of blood forming on his cut.

that was it? All this time waiting and already it's over?
All calm composure the crowned prince steps forward gathering the attention of the hall. Beside his father Rhaegar Tyrgarian appeared as a paragon on youth and beauty, his silver-white hair flowing free over his mighty shoulders, his warm indigo eyes openly acknowledging and respecting everyone in the hall. Sad eyes you can't help but think. Raising his arms in greeting he addresses the hall. "Ladies, Lords, honored knights of the land, I welcome you to King's Landing. I know some of you have traveled far and many of you have had to pass some great responsibility to another in order to attend this celebration at all. It is for celebration however that you all appear before me today as you do, so let us lay matters of state to rest for these next seven days as we celebrate the birth of my son, may he be a shining beacon of hope to all of the seven kingdoms, and may his coming herald an age of great things to come.

Now I know many of you must yet be tired and so I offer you welcome to these halls that you might partake of bread and salt, and rest your travel-worn bones at your leisure. Any gifts for our young prince may be presented in this great hall throughout the day, so please take what time you may need. On the morrow the tournament will begin out in the fields, and the feasting halls will be open to all throughout the week at every hour of the day. The servants will see to your needs so let us take this blessing of life for what it is and enjoy it to its fullest. Thank you." Stepping back so as not to seem more important then his father Prince Rhaegar looks down upon his people, his contentment plain to see on his face.

[Legionary]

"It's a pleasure to meet you Lady Talisa. I sure we'll be seeing much of each other over these coming days. A fresh face will do much to break the monotony of Kings Landing's court." Noticing the king's grand entrance into the Throne Room, Lyra turns back to Kire to quickly wrap up the conversation before their liege makes his announcement.

"Pity, I'll just have be brief for now. Father requests an audience with you after the King's address. In private," Lyra places emphasis on her last word, her piecing blue eyes locked with the Dornish noble's. "He will be in his office in the Red Keep. If I were you I wouldn't keep him waiting..." With that said, the eerie Bolton lady takes her leave to rejoin her her father before Kire can even respond. It seemed that the players in the King's court had not lost their flare for the dramatics.


~~~~~

"Truly wonderful," utters Vardis in his typical dry tone. He held no particular grudge against Varys, however the over worked Hand of the King had no time for social graces and small talk. In fact there were only two men left in the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms that the grizzled Northerner even pretended to be civil with, and Vardis loathed one of them. "So what is it now?" asks the stoic man, cutting completely to the point. "Good news? Bad news?" From the deadliest of rumours to the grandest of announcements, all news was the business of the Master of Whispers. And as everyone knew, unless you were there to talk business, it was not worth even approaching Lord Vardis Bolton.

Unless Varys also spoke with haste, his response would have fallen upon deaf ears as Vardis, along with the rest of the court, turned his attention to Aerys' awaited arrival. The Master of Whispers would have to otherwise wait until after the address to continue the conversation.


~~~~~

Jeyne ran her fingers through Rhaenys' white hair, though truth be told she was just as much a scared young girl as her daughter. Despite their similar appearance, the two Bolton women could not be more different. Her sister would have loved all the attention, all the eyes of Westeros on her. She should have been standing here, Jeyne thought solemnly to herself. Perhaps Lyra would have, if not for her unflattering reputation and poor track record with husbands. Despite her nerves, the princess presented herself alongside Rhaegar with noble poise as the prince made his address to the small crowd before them. In a way the royal couple were rather suited to each other, both melancholy and sombre.

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Varys however was rarely ever straight to the point. As he opens his mouth as if to feign offense the king enters the chamber forcing him to fall silent. As the chamber once more fills with commotion though he frowns. "I just fear for what conflict may bring to our sweet young prince. I trust you'll keep it far from his door? I hear it said, after all, that a little bird has been passing about notes, perhaps even dangerous notes."

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(Double post for subscribers)

The first to approach was the young Tully boy, flanked by his noble escorts the boy's knights carried in a large object covered by a sheet of white silk. When at last it was set before the throne the sheet was removed to reveal a throne of weirwood with heartwood arm rests. The whole of it however was covered in intricate golden designs that warped gently about handfuls of gem stones. Carefully the boy pressed a panel, pulled at an amethyst gem and pushed one of the thrones arms ever so gently. Slowly but surely a section of the arm slid free revealed to be a box. "This..." The young lord began, gesturing at the throne "...is called a Throne of Games, a giant puzzle box designed with hundreds of hidden compartments. I confess I've managed only to find five of them, but I feel it only right to gift it to our young prince that he might explore the endless puzzles of this throne as he grows up. I hope that the prince will accept my humble little gift to commemorate this wonderful occasion."

Certainly the prince himself looked humble as he bowed awaiting the royal family's approval of his gift, but the brilliant if not slightly gaudy throne beside him was anything but humble probably costing a king's ransom. Grimly the king nodded. "A toy for a child, fitting." From his tone it was apparent the king was not impressed, but rarely was he ever. Rhaegar however smiled, nodding gently, a motion that caused his long white hair to sway about him. "It is a wonderful gift which we joyously accept. Isn't that right?" He asks the little bundle in his arms. With that he motioned for the throne to be taken away to make room for the other gifts.

The young lord did not wait to see the other gifts himself however, leaving the hall to accept the crown prince's offers of food and respite.

[Raunchel]

Visenya looks on as the Riverlands make their gift. It seems expensive, but to her that is meaningless, she looks down on such overt displays of wealth, it simply betrays a lack of taste. Her preference is simplicity, but she knows that it is a taste not widely shared.

She approaches the Iron Throne, followed by two attendants carrying a black cloth-covered plate.Before the throne she bows: "Your grace", she speaks as the cloth is carefully removed, revealing a three headed dragon worked from red obsidian. All three heads are roaring, and the material gives them an unnatural shine. "My miners discovered this piece of red dragonglass just when news reached us of the princess being with child. It was subsequently worked into this shape to honour our new prince and future sovereign. It is our hope that it will please the eye of the prince and his forebears to see in frozen fire the sigil of his illustrous house."

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"Frozen fire." The king snorts incredulously. Glancing again at the molten cobblestones he adds "Dragonglass is no real fire." Hastily the prince steps in. "It is a lovely gift showing the thought and devotion of your people which we joyously accept." Again the prince waves for the gift to be taken to make room once more.