[color=aba000][center][h1]King's Landing[/h1][/center][/color]

[i]'Keep the gods out of war, that's what I say, let the faith argue against, not my worry.'[/i] Jullon thought, rubbing a rag over his smallest knife. The early morning smog of King's Landing had been an affront to his nostrils, and the city looked less pretty than even he remembered, from back when he was with his family, lords to household knights, Jullon couldn't help but be bitter, and his resentment towards the Tyrells had nearly caused him to forsake his vows when they took King's Landing. 

Willas, the traitor he was, had probably slaughtered whatever remained of the Florents, Jullon had an uncle in the goldcloaks, where was he now? Probably among the corpses littering the streets and alleys. Willas had been a good man once, but now he was nothing but a traitorous wretch, not at all worthy of the cloak. 

Jullon flipped the blade in his hand, spinning it around in his fingers, he looked up, and saw Footly looking at the city, his hair significantly longer than when the trip had started, and a patchy beard was present on his face. Jullon stifled a chuckle, now he knew why the stoic had always been clean shaven before. It looked terrible, flecks of black and white hair on his thin face, burying themselves within the caverns that once were his cheeks. Jullon had grown quite a beard along the way actually, it reached his chest and was coarse and black, it served only to make his large ears stand out more, something that he loathed it for. Royce still had a full white beard as always, but his hair was kept, and he looked more like a noble than a wildman.

Aerys was starting to grow a little facial hair as well, like someone had dropped flour on his face and not cleaned it very well, though the sides of his face were covered in what Jullon had to admit were impressive mutton chops for a boy his age, though every hair was coarse, like his Baratheon cousins. Royce had made the child's squuirehood official, and he already was becoming a talented swordsman. Jullon could swear he grew an inch every night, and Jullon was soon looking up to speak to the lad, another Baratheon trait.

"We've docked lads! Tell Dayne to get off his sorry arse and join us!" Jullon looked up, frowning behind the curtain of black hair. Lyman was smiling as he climbed off of the boat and onto the dock skillfully, as easily as a man takes a piss. The guards had soon joined him, as did the king and his dragon, who roared fiercely at nothing, as usual, greatly scaring a few sailors who had taken anchor nearby.

A pair of goldcloaks who had arrived to hassle them ran as soon as they spotted the beast, yelping all the way. Lyman laughed, as did Dayne, the rest simply frowned, Jullon nearly joined the first camp, but bit his tongue to force himself not to.

The group entered town, walking down towards the red keep, they saw corpses laying in rivers of blood, horrified expressions and soiled yellow cloaks, they heard nothing except for the occasional footstep that echoed from some place they couldn't see. Aerys' mother covered his eyes, Royce held his head down, looking at his shoes, Lyman stopped smiling, instead his eyes and mouth rested open, Jullon had a similar reaction, he'd never fought a real battle, so he'd never seen this level of blood and bodies, the air smelled of rot, and the streets were empty, except for a few traders or lordlings who wandered the streets with guards and the such, but few peasants were present, probably for fear of being killed. Jullon looked over at Footly, wondering how the knight was keeping his composure. Jullon sped up the pace of his walk to look at the silent man's face, he saw Footly's frow furrowed, but still he could see the pain in his expression, and his hands slightly trembled every few seconds or so. This was more emotion than he's ever seen the man give off, and Jullon knew then how unready this group was for Westerosi politics.

"The kingsguard?"
"It's them!"
"They've returned!"
"We're safe!" The cries of smallfolk from their homes and businesses broke the bitter silence, and soon they began cheering, not leaving their homes, but simply yelling from the buildings.
"The King is home!"
"The King!"
"The King!" Eventually he heard Lyman joining in, chuckling as he did. Jullon felt a surge of... something in his heart, and he looked at the buildings, tired smiles, worn out faces, they'd hid for fear of the goldcloaks, and now the king was home, and they had nothing to fear.

The cheer rang out through the city, and immediately the disgusted faces of the group turned to ones of triumph, they had really done it, they had retaken the throne. Jullon was happier than he had been in years.

Then it was replaced with pain, a sharp pain in his knee. He doubled over, gripping it with both hands as his lifeblood leaked. The cheers devolved into shrieks, shrieks of fear. Jullon's eyes closed, as the pain became unbearable, and he buried his face into the dirt, aggressively biting into the bloodied road. When he did look up, he saw Lady Baratheon, gripping the new hole in her chest, and the arrow that had done it, before falling in front of him, her eyes empty.
"No... no!" He heard Dayne yelling.
"NO! N-" A sound of rock striking skull, as the arrow reached it's mark, burying itself in his skull. Jullon felt himself quickly jerked away, opening his eyes to see Footly gripping his ankles. Then he moved aside, and Jullon saw Aerys gripping his mother's corpse, staring into her eyes, not even crying, just completely broken.
"You're next, boy-king!" The voice yelled, lyrically drifting between each word.

Jullon heard a word shouted, a word he could barely comprehend as the pain took over.

"Dracarys." 

The sound of rushing flame, and the screams of a dying man. Jullon didn't understand, nor did he come to understand, and the world went dark, slowly closing like a crescent moon.

[h1][center][color=f7941d]Gerald Crakehall[/color][/center][/h1]

"The day is ours!" A cry rang through the army before him, banners of houses raised high over their heads, chief among them, the boar of Crakehall.

"We were lucky to have faced such a weak force, and now we've sent Garland crying back to his mother!" Another cheer. Gerald had to smile, inspiring respect in warriors was hard, but a well fought battle won them all over.

"No army may stand before us and live, for we are the chosen warriors, of the old gods and the new!" It hurt not to mention the great Lord of Light, but the men still found that quite queer indeed.

"Let us trample the flowers under our boots, let us take the crops and salt the land, let us ruin the home they live in! Let us show them what our words mean, for truly! There are none so fierce as us!" He screamed at the men as they screamed back, he screamed until his throat went dry and long after, he screamed until the rest stopped, and a little after. Sweat ran down his forehead, he never thought talking could be so exhilarating, and he was sure to have to do this many more times, a fact which he looked forwards to.

He swung his arms around, getting the crowd to yell loudly. He stepped back, holding his arms out to the sides as he walked back forwards. He only wished he could have killed Lord Tyrell himself, to have seen the fear in his eyes, oh well, there was always a next time.