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[h2]King's Landing, The Baratheon Manse[/h2]

The air was thick with the stench of smoke and the sounds of shouting and clashes filled the narrow alleys. Barricades made from overturned carts and debris blocked thoroughfares, while fires raged unchecked, casting an eerie glow upon the faces of the rioters and the stone walls of the city. 

Amidst the chaos, the cries of the downtrodden could be heard, their anger and desperation fueling their revolt. They were armed with whatever makeshift weapons they could find, from clubs and pitchforks to scavenged swords and axes. The symbols of authority were torn down and defiled, as the angry mob sought retribution against those they held responsible for their suffering. Just who that was varied from district to district, mob to mob and person to person. Many who had flooded the city since the rise of the Poor Fellow’s struck out against those had spoken well of the King, or even Targaryens of the past. The longer standing residents, those who had more loyalty to their overlords than the past, assailed the inflammatory members of the faith, often catching any Septon in the crossfire.

In that moment, King's Landing was a city on the brink, its streets teeming with violence and rebellion, its future uncertain as the fires of revolt burned bright.

Rhoelle had decided she’d had more than enough of fire and blood for a few lifetimes. Their mark was stamped everywhere, both as the words and deeds of the royal house, and in their more literal sense. She could hear, and smell, it even now, within the fortified walls of the Baratheon manse. They had managed to reach the manse before the chaos following the King’s [i]’repose’[/i] truly started, with the body of her father, but had not yet been able to progress further, so penned in was the noble district by the rioting beyond.

The elements of the city watch still loyal to the Royal House, as well as the men-at-arms of House Targaryen were stretched thin as it were securing the Keep, Hills and harbour, such that the life blood of the city didn’t entirely die out, nor could the King, vulnerable in his lack of waking, be threatened. Rhoelle felt the later was the far greater part of their calculations, but in that she did not blame the Dowager-Queen, for that was whom all knew was making those orders. If she could have abandoned the city and all its people, to have her father returned to her, she would have gladly done so.

Instead, the body of Durran Baratheon lay in their cellar. Their maester, or at least, the only one they could find to bring with them, tended to him that the rot might not take hold before he could be brought home. The tall, broad frame of her father, whom had seemed so steadfast yet full of vitality her whole life, was rendered unto an ever reducing statue.

She had cried for the first day, inconsolable in her grief. Then the first raven had come. Her bother was missing. Then the second, her uncle and his bethrothed were missing in the riots of Oldtown. Her grief had hardened beyond tears, she had simply ceased to be. Rhoelle wasn’t sure how much time had passed, it felt like an eternity, or a day. She might have hidden away for years or it could have been the blink of an eye.

Standing at her dresser, she forced her vision up to view her own reflection. For as long as she could remember her long black hair had fallen in smooth waves, carefully maintained for the needs of court, both at home or in King’s Landing. Now, said waves had gone to wild curves, a halo of errant blackness around the paleness of her skin. It reminded her of the artwork of her grandmother, cast in her wild fury as she had spat fury at the question of her marrying her grandsire. Those histories had always confused her as a girl, and humoured her as she grew older. She had known both her grandparents to be wrathful people, but never with each other, by the time of her birth only gentle love passed between them.

The closest she remembered to a fight had been when she had wished to learn to fight and ride like her brother, Orys had refused at first, until Argella had reminded him from whose blood the storm in their veins had come. But even then, she suspected it was a whisper of her former wroth, tempered by decades of loving marriage.

She would have to channel more than the hair stylings of the younger Argella, she thought, if she was to make it through the coming days and weeks.

Rhoelle had called for a servant directly for the first time since she had collapsed in her room. She had eaten, and been bathed, since then, but only by the wordless routine of someone moving through the motions. This had been deliberate.

“My Lady?” A quiet voice, but not a stammer, as a young maid pressed the doorway to her chambers open.

“I wish to dress, prepare one of my gowns, suitable for riding. I’ll need the necklace given to me by the late King, as well.” When the Maid approached her following the commands, brush in hand, Rhoelle waved her away. “Leave the hair.”

[hr]
Chaos has spread across the city, but nowhere was it more prevalent than Flea Bottom, a name that had stuck only coloquially but had already wormed its way into the lexicon of most who had chance to live within, or visit, the Westerosi capital.

Rolling conflicts between Poor Fellows, locals and Royal Partisans had kept many of the small fires burning for days, and the already filthy streaks slick with befouled blood. It was into this quagmire and inferno, that the Baratheon party marched. The majority of the retainers the house commanded within the city were what many knew as ‘Stag Knights,’ men of keen loyalty to House Baratheon, who fought in the heavily armed and armoured style of Valyrian retainers but now in the stylings of Westeros knights. Silvered plate gleamed next to tabards and cloth of black and yellow. Only three of the party were mounted, and they took the head of the column.

Rhoelle rode beside two able knights of her household, who seem to strain testily at the bit, ready to cast aside caution to ensure her safety, but for the moment, she had refused them. The young woman rode forward in the saddle, her gown adjusted to allow it, and despite the stench and ruin about her, kept her features fierce and forwards as they moved, halting only as they encountered the first true signs of rioting. The din was brought, momentarily, under control by the sonerous blast of a Baratheon hunting horn.

“People of King’s Landing, you have been left in the dark and fallen to predations.”The young woman began, the almost ludicrous nature of the scene before them keeping the rioting still even after the blare of the horn had subsided. “These are trying times for all, but we will not allow further damage and harm to be done to each other.” Her words were echoed by the sudden collective flash of drawing steel, as the Stag Knights drew their blades in salute to her words, and in threat to those around them. “Disperse now, peace will reign.” She avoided mention of the King’s peace, even as she wore a necklace gifted to her from House Targaryen, a sure sign of her loyalty to those with courtly knowledge or might perceive this as a power play from her own great house. She wasn’t not here to crush rebellion, or win a war, but to bring an end to the riotous violence.

The Stag Knights were not many, and she had not the time to attempt to gather a wider force from the City Watch or any who might aid the cause, she was hoping instead that the first act might bring those who wished to help from out of the shadows, but in the confined spaces of the street, the armoured bulk of fifty men meant more than hundreds more of rabble. They menaced with a threat most were not willing to risk.

A few did, perhaps distracted from the threat of the men by the perception of an easier target of the young noble woman, rushing forwards with foul cries on their lips. A slight nod from the noblewomen spurred her riding companions to action, and those who tried had barely stepped forwards before maces had caved in their skulls.

“You may have peace, or fury.”

For one night, on one street, King’s Landing chose peace.