King Viserys of House Targaryen, the first of his name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, is dead. 
His Grace passed peaceably abed with his good wife, Queen Alicent and his first trueborn son at his side. In accordance with the decree of the Great Council of 101AC and the laws of Gods and Men, his crown has passed to Crown Prince Aegon Targaryen, the Second of his name, Rightful King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm.
Crowned in the Dragonpit, anointed in the oils of the Seven alongside his good wife Queen Helaena. May their reign be long and peaceful.

Grandmaester Orwyle

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[u][b]Ralf Crakehall[/b][/u]

The sun shined like a golden orb of magical creation, illuminating the vast forests and grounds surrounding the Crakehall Castle. Small folk had gathered within the courtyard to hear the local Crier bellow out the recent news, news that most oft would not affect the common-folk. But Lord Ralf knew more than they did, his gut told him something was on its way. He observed the crowds from his balcony, centered close enough for him to hear the gasps and talk of the gathered once the Crier had finished his bellowing. The Lord knew of the ill relationship between the new King and of the royals at Dragonstone. Blood would be shed, much or little remained to be seen. 

His desk had been placed out at the balcony, allowing the Lord to work with matters that he would normally leave his steward to attend. But as of late, the usual matters had turned more serious with the coming of a new King. Plans had to be made for his departure to King's Landing, where he would personally swear fealty to King Aegon. Then there was other matters, of course. His sole daughter, a beauty among a pack of ugly pigs, was soon of age to be married off, and King's Landing was just the spot to find a worthy match for his 'Sweet Apple'. Then there was his two sons. The heir and his little brother. The heir, named Roderick after his grandfather, was to accompany Ralf to King's Landing. 'tis was an opportune time to teach the boy some politics. Ralf hated politics. He had no doubt his son would feel the same. The youngest of the pack was Albert, a boy with an eye of a hawk and smell of a boar. He would take regency, alongside the Steward of course, over Crakehall. Conduct normal matters like solving farmer's feuds or funding to some project.

Knock knock came from the door leading to the balcony."Enter." Grunted Ralf loudly as he overlooked some scrolls. A familiar face came forth, not a welcome sight however. His wife, Marin, was the definition of Seven -living- hells for Ralf in this life. They didn't love eachother, but both did what was expected of them. Make children to further the line. And occasional drunken love. Love hadn't existed between the two since Ralf fathered a bastard, Randall. He served Ralf as a sworn sword. 

"Why haven't you packed your things yet?! You're less a day from traveling to King's Landing!"  

A loud sigh escaped Ralf as she began speaking, only worsening the mood. "I don't have much to pack, I shan't be there a forth-night even. You should focus on preparing your daughter for the journey, she need some 'Motherly Guidance' on how to present herself to potential matches." Follwing quietly with; "Seven hells."

She was easily agitated, Ralf was sure the crowds below could hear the two arguing. "And what will you do then in King's Landing, hm? Father some useless bastard again to carry on your disgusting, ugly seed?! You know what? Take the first bastard with you and sell him off to an older version of you, maybe he'd like an ugly pig?!" 

The sound of a slap and a following set of wailing emits from the balcony, loudly enough for some commoners to briefly gaze up towards the tower. 

"I am kind to you, and ALL whom I consider as family. I did a mistake to sleep with Albert's mother, aye. But I corrected that by giving him and his mother a life beyond poverty, WOMAN! Now leave me before I throw both you and me down to the yard, even if the idea of me being crushed moists your womanhood." Ralf breaths heavily, staring with a dangerous look upon his 'beloved' wife. 

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"My lord! The horses and guards are ready for departure at your will!" The yelling came from Ralf's childhood friend, Gregory, the Master At Arms of Crakehall. Ralf offered the yard before the portcullis leading out of the castle a final look. His eyes inspecting and his mind double-checking what matters that needed tending before his departure. 

Someone tucked Ralf's arm while his mind was at another place. "Hurh, what?" It was his son, the heir, that tucked him. "We should leave, father, lest mother finds something to stop us with!" The Lord chuckled at that, using his left hand to massage the other hand that had slapped the Lord-Mother before. "You're right, Roderick. Let's make haste, I want to arrive King's Landing before snow entraps us within that horrid city! Hyah!" As of that, the Lord's band departed Crakehall, making haste to King's Landing.