Game of Trolls/Game of Thrones RP

A young woman looked out on her new kingdom from the pyramids of Meereen, a small white dragon on her shoulder. Her hair was blowing in the light breeze, gold chain shining in the light. The presumably last dragon, Vrelun Travia, newly found Queen of Meereen. She was lost in thought, until a violent roar broke the silence, causing the young queen to lift her head. Ah, just Evlion. Her larger dragon perching on top of the pyramid, just above Vrelun. It'd lower its head, allowing her to stroke its smooth and sharp scales. "Good boy, Evlion.." She'd purr, scratching the other dragon, Isriez's head. "You both will have much more luxurious perches soon, I promise you that. The very top of King's Landing, with plenty of room to fly. Doesn't that sound nice?" Her two dragons responding with only grunts, Vrelun continuing to pet them both. She continued her daydream of when she took back her throne. The sounds of freedom everywhere in Westeros.. Her return would be nothing less than glorious. Of course, not for that bear of an usurper. She had much bigger plans for that man. Not execution, no. That was far too nice. Isriez nudged her face gently, taking notice to her eyes narrowing and breathing becoming shallow. Vrelun lifted her head again, giving her smaller dragon a gentle smile.

Meanwhile, a raven arrived to King's Landing. A note addressed to the king himself, Ozeath Cyroos. What he was to find inside would definitely not please his majesty.

A crown was never more heavy than when it was worn.

These words were spoken to Ozeath, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men you never deserved to be king did they die for this? father and brother and mother and-
Lord of the Seven Kingdoms their fault they will burn you will kill them all and wear their skin
Protector of the Realm, upon his coronation by one lord or another, an ancient troll who had recently passed away. He had laughed it off at first, drunk on victory, but after months of sitting on his ass and doing nothing but train and listen to fat fools whine, he realized just how true that troll's words were.

And now this. Unfortunately, the letter had arrived while the King was holding court, in front of near a hundred trolls of various stations.


"THE AUDACITY" He roared, voice ringing through the Red Keep and disturbing a flock of crows. He had sent dozens of assassins, fucking dozens! They all failed, and he was about fucking ready to go over and kill her himself if he had to cut through every horsefucker on that gods forsaken continent.

But no, he had listened to his fucking useless they didn't bleed for this throne they're weak they know nothing of revenge she was no girl she was a demon, they all were. council and focused on letting the realm grow and other domestic matters.

And look where that got him? She was apparently NOT some Dothraki sex slave like he had been led to believe and instead had the nerve to send him a letter. "I swear by the OLD GODS if you don't come here and read this to me I will SET SAIL FOR THAT THRICE DAMNED BAY RIGHT NOW AND BASH HER INCESTUOUS SKULL MYSELF!" He roared, deciding to just do it himself on a whim, and ripping the wrapping open, enraged eyes looking over the words as if his glare alone was enough to kill her.

The letter read; Thank you for the wedding gifts, Your Grace. Your kindness will be long unforgotten. My most sincere apologies for not being able to respond to you sooner, for I have been far too busy conquering Meereen. I look forward to speaking with you again, Usurper. Ending with her signature. Vrelun was cocky when it came to this sort of thing, a smirk creeping across her lips. Soon he'll be calling her "Your Grace." He'll get what he deserves in time. Justice will be served, and it will be magnificent. It'll all be hers again soon, she thought, letting out an exhale of relief. All of it.

She'd look back slightly. "Zaldrizes." Evlion taking flight, moving to the front of the pyramid to land where Vrelun was. The larger dragon bent down its wing for her to climb onto its back, Vre happily sliding on. "Syz." She'd stretch, getting comfortable on Evlion's rough scales, before speaking again. "Sovegon." As soon as she did speak, the beast turned on a dime and took off, soaring high over Meereen. She had taught both of her dragons well already, and both nearly responded right away, but this hardly prepared them for the battle ahead. Nothing would prepare them enough, but Vrelun might as well try.

This day would be known as the Sundering of the Iron Throne. The moment Kingif she wants you to be a monster you'll show her what a fucking monster was Ozeath finished reading the letter he picked up his ancestral maul, Warrior's Will, got up, and cleanly smashed it against the Iron Throne, frothing at the mouth. By the time his rage had passed, the top half of the throne was warped and ruined.

He felt a lot better now.

Sitting back down into his throne, he took a deep breath. He wasn't an animal. He was the first of the royal branch of House Cyroos. He was the crowned giant. He was not going to fall into a berserk rage at this incessant woman's weak threats.

No. What he would do is calmly gather his armies. Calmly reinforce every coastal castle and city. Then calmly gather the fleets of the Iron Islands, Arbor, and Kings Landing, and then calmly go and murder her and wear the skins of her dragons.

Like a real king.

Now...where was his quill? He had been forced to learn writing by his fatherburned alive he was a good man he didn't deserve it would he be proud of you and now it would finally come in handy. "Maester. Prepare ravens bound for every major house and every city in Westeros. We will begin preparations for an invasion." He finished, sighing, "And summon my Hand, I require her council..." He thought for a moment, a ferocious grin beginning to form. He wondered how well dragons stood up to ballistas? Wildfire?

"Keep the raven that monster sent us fed, I'll need it to carry a retort."

The crown weighed heavy upon his head, this was true. But the heaviest things were often the most destructive weapons.

A crown was no different.

But he didn't know in a week's time, her entire army would be sailing across the narrow sea to King's Landing. Preparations had already been made. She didn't plan to stay in Meereen for long. Vrelun had waited all her life for this, and didn't want to wait any longer. The quicker they got in, the better. She just wanted this to be over. Her thoughts were wandering, Evlion flying steadily. She loved the alone time with her dragons, but they loved it more. Evlion and Isriez could hardly go without her for a day without whining about it, and Vre couldn't go without them for a day without having an anxiety attack. They were probably one of the only things this world had to offer that could calm her down so quickly. She didn't want war, she wanted her home back. But how else was she to get it? Sail in there and ask nicely? Well, she could, but that wouldn't work one bit. She knew what she had to do, and she hated it. .. But at least she didn't have to do it alone. Vrelun had freed slaves, Dothraki, and plenty of other forces behind her. They were all following her. Supporting her. Believing in her. She guessed that was all she ever needed.

Vrelun thought for a few moments, exhaling. She could spare his life. She didn't have to kill Ozeath. Maybe if she could just reason with him.. No. She already had him enraged. But there was always still a chance.  Or.. So she hoped. She should write to him when she arrived back. Maybe it didn't have to be this way.

A single female troll stood on a balcony looking out towards the harsh sands of the land she called home her dress flowing in the wind.  She turned around and walked back into her palace. She loved calling it that "Her Palace". It hasn't gotten old, well not yet at least. She has been ruling this kingdom, the Kingdom of Dorne, for only a matter of months now. After she got tired of waiting and cut Murata's  throat with her own blade. Claiming Dorne as her own, and declaring its sovereignty from the King in the North. Almost the entire population of Dorne adores her now because of this political move. And the best part is, Ozeath hasn't paid any attention to her, since he has the heiress to the throne to worry about. " Hmmm. " She stops fantasizing about her power and sits at a  desk in her room. " Should I write to her? Or should I wait for her to come to me? Or maybe I should write to that behemoth on the iron throne?" She sat there a minute longer and then finally addressed her letter to the last of house Travia.

After an hour of composing the letter she sent the raven holding it off. Now should she send a letter to him? She might need to remind him of Dorne's sovereignty and that her people follow her, and not him for when the invasion begins. But she decided against it and stood up, walking out of her room, and into her palace's courtyard. Then she sat in one of the many chairs in her courtyard. " May I get a glass of wine, and none of the cheap wines that northerners drink. I want a glass of Dorneish wine." She smiled at the green blood who attended to her, and the green blood nodded and went to where they store the wine. She was going to enjoy this game of thrones and who knows, she might be the last one standing and she can claim it as her own.

Evlion landed back on the pyramid with a thud, letting Vrelun off gently. She'd immediately head inside, having made up her mind. Sitting quietly at a large table with a quill and paper, beginning to write. She'd do so until her hand ached, luckily finishing the two letters addressed to Lady Fillis Hurona and Lord Aquila Vulpec, her only two known allies. Both letters contained her plans and orders for either house. House Vulpec and all of it's vassals were to march downwards to King's Landing, and House Hurona was to march upwards and do the same, both met by Vrelun's army. They'd invade The Crownlands as one, and weren't expected to lose many men. Well, she didn't expect to lose many at least. Fillis was promised land and more power, Aquila a spot as hand. He was one of her closest acquaintances, after all. She'd even go so far as to say he was a friend.

Her own hand was now killing her, sending the letters with two of her fastest ravens before laying down quietly in her luxurious bed. She'd wait a few days, just incase a certain someone had sent a reply. Isriez flew up onto the bed, curling up beside her like some sort of scaly feline. Vrelun gave him a gentle pat on the head, before closing her eyes and beginning to drift off to sleep. This might be the last good sleep she has before plunging directly into hell.

High above the Vale, looking out over the mountainside and  the land that lay below, stood a lone figure. Though if you were unfamiliar with him, you might wonder if he actually saw anything, with his eyes covered as they were by the bandage he wore almost constantly. But he saw. Yes, he saw many that others thought they could hide, and he knew that the winds were changing. He had received word that his Queen was at long last returning home. She would finally claim the throne that was hers by right, and cast out the traitors and usurpers that had taken it from her. And of course he would stand beside her, her loyal servant, his men at her command. They were already preparing, supplies being gathered at the Gates of the Moon. "Has the order been given for the Bloody Gate to close?" Turning he walks back inside, where  a servant awaits him. "Yes, my Lord. The Gate is closed, and opens only at your command.""Good. And the letter for Her Majesty?" "Went out on the swiftest hawk." "If there's so much as a whisper that the Usurper suspects us, I want to be informed immediately. We're no use to our Queen dead or imprisoned." With a gesture he dismisses the servant, and makes his way to dinner.

The King in the North, lord of the Iron Throne, sat in his study doing what he hated most - plotting. He knew he could count on every region of Westeros to answer the call to arms against an invading army of pillaging horse enthusiasts and freed slaves - about the only thing he'd heard the monster that he approved of was her war on the disgusting practice of slavery. He briefly remembered the one lord he had been set to execute for selling slaves - the coward had run east and he hadn't heard of them sense.

But Kings Landing would not fall as easily as some weak eastern slave pit. King Ozeath was, before anything else, a general. One of the bloody best. He had seen and taken advantage of many weaknesses in Kings Landing's defenses during his ascendancy, and upon his coronation fixed them and made various improvements - obtaining a council of maesters with many links for war knowledge and engineering. He knew he was hardly an educated man, but he knew how to pick the right trolls for the job. He liked to think he was good at that. One was an ironborn with a penchant for ship construction, and they had helped him reforge the Blackwater Fleet. Of course it was still inferior to the fleets of the Arbor or Iron Isl-

Ah right, them. He had lost his train of thought and begun sketching out siege plans when he shod be thinking about the nomadic raiders. They, quite frankly, were the least endangered of all the westerosi. What threat were pure cavalrymen and Unsullied on the open sea? The former were unexceptional though savage soldiers off their steeds, the latter weighed down by their armor. Honestly, it seemed to him that they would benefit more from joining the Dragon rather than the Giant.

Unless he made it worth their while.

He had been looking through the records of past rulers, and by that he of course meant he had a maester do it, and what he had found was quite interesting. An ironborn had never been married into the royal family. Now that was something he could rectify. If he married their leader or her sister, he could very easily secure their alliance in the war to come! With that, the Seven Kingdoms would stand wholly united against these foreign invaders.

Marriage had always seemed a bit odd to Ozeath. While it could lead to any of the four quadrants in time, that was not its purpose. It was merely the political and literal joining of two houses, and that was what worried him. What if he didn't like his partner? What if they didn't like him? Sweet Old Gods that was a stressful topic and frankly the least of his concerns. He was a Cyroos - he would take what he needed and shit on the consequences. The realm could not fall to these raiders.

He, of course, could not write it himself. He wasn't exactly a skilled writer, after all. His solution was one of his favorites; have a maester do it!

Heh, letters. By this time now his retort should have made it to that bitch queen. She was going to be so enraged, it was going to be great.

Speaking of that, he also had to rouse the North to war, it'd take time before they were fully mobilized and ready to kill, and without his assistance likely longer, given the current Lord Paramount was his two sweep old brother, further more Dorne would need to be ralli-

Suddenly, one of his Kingsguard, Ser Ranack, stuck his helmeted head into his King's room, "My King, a letter from the Master of Whisperers. It is urgent." The Reach knight said, a walking legend many called him, Ozeath was glad he still served faithfully. Ozeath nodded, taking the letter and reading it slowly to himself.

...he was too angry to yell, too angry to breath. He just wanted to let the red in and break everything and everyone in sight.

He managed to breath out a simple command. "Call the Grand Maester. Tell them to deal with Dorne. I will be in the Yard." He then grabbed his maul and went to beat up some knights.

"Grand Maester! The K-King... it's about Dorne, they..."

Oh great. Just... great. The young troll's voice gave more away than any of his stumbling words ever could. The King is angry, Dorne is involved, War's on the horizon. Even the biggest idiot in the Seven Kingdoms could figure it out. After listening to a moment more of his drivel Ahmard shooed the young lad off. Scraping the shit out of a Raven's cage was more bearable than listening to some dullard scared stuttering by the big, frightening Giant. The message was received, Dorne has declared Sovereignty from the Throne. The Southern Sands weren't a people to shy away from a fight, the copper link around his neck would be unearned if he didn't know that. They were up to something. Still, it was not his role make a move based on this. It was to advise and go through the motions. A letter would need to be sent.

Ahmard stood up from his chair, sighing gently at the stiffness in his legs. He may have been sitting down for a while but even so a troll his age should be as spry as a Furbeast. Maybe Maesters are just destined to become rigid, decrypted, grey arses regardless of age. Or maybe the stupid weight of chain was to blame, who knows? Well, he probably knew, it was his role to know things. Gods forbid the King ever be plagued with the unthinkable task of reading a book, Ahmard doubts a single page in all the Seven Kingdoms would go without Mace shaped dents if his King ever took to literature.

He searched around his untidy quarters, returning to the desk when a quill and parchment could be found. Along with a Raven tailored to fly Dorne-wards. He gazes down at his Black Iron link, a seemingly simple task to the simple troll yet all who master it understand how utterly important Ravenry is the continued communication of everywhere across the world. His letter was simply wrote, many lines borrowed from the standard routines and examples of independence of the past. He states how displeased the Crown is from this act, how it is a betrayal in a time of great importance. Promises of vague 'punishments' if the action is not reversed and offers to come to the Crownlands as guests to discuss the issue. All very standard really and overall not terribly convincing. Bureaucracy exists for a reason and the amount of times a simple letter like this has resolved a dire misunderstanding between Kingdoms is enough to continue the rather dull practice. However, Ahmard doubts it will really achieve much, it will be up to the King (Or more so the Hand) to decide how to handle this delicate political matter.

After letting the Raven go off on it's task Ahmard takes to the halls, shuffling along in a slouch. He knew were the King would be, any troll who has had to heal some poor cunt caught in a duel with His Majesty remembers. He stands at the top of the staircase leading to the courtyard, leaning against the railing as he watches the King and his men spar.

Vrelun awoke to her smaller dragon chasing a raven around the room, quickly sitting up. "Daor, daor!" Quickly allowing the raven to land on her hand, taking the letter gently, opening it. A grin spread across her lips, choking back laughter. Oh my, he'd kill her dragons. How absolutely terrifying. This was going to be FUN. She could almost guarantee he wouldn't expect Lord Vulpec at her side when she arrived, as well as him and House Hurona's armies at his gates. He'll kneel before her. Ozeath had might as well just call off his dogs right now and surrender. Either way, he'll be crushed completely, along with his allies. She didn't need blue blood running through her veins to be queen. She just needed to take it by force. But.. She wouldn't kill Ozeath. He didn't know her motives, and wouldn't until she arrived. She knew she would in a matter of weeks, taking everything he had from underneath him. The thought made her shudder. It was hard for her to do that to even her mortal enemy. But he wasn't her mortal enemy. It was hard to do that to anyone, but she would be anyways. It was for the better, she supposed. Maybe they'd even grow to be friends somehow. Just.. Somehow. She'd sigh quietly, brushing hair from her face, laying back down tiredly, just thinking. Vrelun quietly sent the raven back on its way, not before thanking it though. Every one she received ever had gotten a thank you on departure, and a few gentle pets. She would've never gotten to where she was now without their help, and she was indeed thankful. None were ever killed, and were very well fed if they stayed for a while. That was the only other company aside from her dragons that she genuinely enjoyed. She'd better break that habit overseas.

When the raven sent from King's Landing landed at her palace, she gingerly picked it up and removed the letter. What, she wasn't a monster, well not to animals. But other trolls yes, especially if they pissed her off. She read through the letter and laughed the entire time. " Oh my. He's threatening to invade, if I don't concede Dorne's newly gained sovereignty. I doubt the northern men can handle the desert's heat!" She takes a sip from her glass of wine and then sets the letter down with the wine and motions to her attendant.

Her green blooded attendant comes back over to her when she motioned. "Y-yes, mi lady?" " Bring me my paper and quill, I believe I should try to piss off the behemoth in the north even more. After all he is most likely threatening Dorne with invasion." Her servant bows and walks towards her room to retrieve her paper and quill. " I will also need to inform the Heiress of a slight change to our plans." She smiles and her attendant bows again continuing on her way to her room.

She writes a very elegantly worded letter to the Heiress, informing her of her plans to bait Ozeath into splitting up his forces and if that does not work that she will continue with the previously decided plan. Her letter addressed to Ozeath was much less elegant. In fact she was purposefully trying to make him fall into her hand, and have his forces separated. Considering he was a brute that wanted to show his power off.

After an hour she sent the two letters off. One would arrive sooner than the other, that much she knew. Now to wait and see if he feel into her hand.

The King in the North was not a particularly skilled fighter. As he sent a famous knight tumbling to the ground, yielding before he could swing again, he demonstrated that he didn't need to be - sheer strength combined with unexpected speed compensated for his painfully average skill by quite a large margin. After thoroughly trashing most every knight in the yard and coming to a draw with two others, he felt his rage ease somewhat and the amicable , friendly king that rallied the kingdoms against the Dragon resurged once more. He went around, chatting with his sparring partners and ensuring they were all without serious wounds. He'd need their arms in the wars to come, be it against Dorne or Dothraki. He grinned , laughing at a particularly saucy joke by a errant knight of the Vale who now had a bandaged arm from where his king vented his frustration. Ozeath wasn't a flashy fighter, not marvelous to watch or ingenious in his attacks. He fought fast, hard, and practical.  Just like how he tried to do everything in life. He saw the Grand Maester watching him and waved up at him. He liked the man! Usually Maesters bored him, or irritated him with their spinelessness, as if forging that bloody chain chopped their balls off in the process. He liked this one, though, knew his stuff about proper war making. Paying off the maesters necessary to get him in this office was worth it to have someone to chat with about the differences in heavy cavalry between the Riverlands and Dorne.

He waved Ahmard down, shouting up at him in his painfully loud manner, "Get down here, you sodding git, we've matters to discuss!" He laughed, feeling much better about the whole Dorne splitting off thing and ready to properly organize a way to put them back in their place. He thought he knew just how to do it too.

Every troll had two hands, didn't they?

Ahmard gave the King a small, uncharacteristic smile for a brief moment. He was glad he managed to catch Ozeath after his outlet for frustration. Despite the differences that are often found between a Scholar and a Leader, Ahmard couldn't help but respect the man. While their methods were different, their philosophies were the same; Anything is achievable with enough hard work. Some might claim them to be two ambitious individuals seated in a place that requires timid caution. But was it not an *ambitious* conqueror that built the damn Keep in the first place?

He walked down the stairs, the Knights kind enough to step out of his way as he passed. He momentarily reminiscence about when he first arrived at Kings Landing. The tension between the often Noble blooded Knights and the low blooded Maester was so thick you could almost swim through it. But enough time tending to their wounds and counselling them on matters had left the King's men and him in good standing. He reached Ozeath in no time at all.

"Your grace." He nodded to the troll, "I have sent the customary retort to Dorne. Dull actions, I admit, but the Southern Sands once being under the fold affords them the right to fall back in line at the beckon of a Quill, before the tip of a sword." He gives a very characteristic frown, "Though I doubt it will bear much fruit. Dorne's actions seem... opportunistic, to say the least. I'd advise you call the small council, your Hand will want to be informed immediately, I'm sure."

Vrelun awoke to yelling from outside, quickly scrambling up to see what was wrong. Of course, Evlion had begun to help load supplies onto ships. A crate of assorted meats into his stomach instead of on the ship. She gave a loud sigh as he lazily flew back up, landing beside her. Vre hitting his snout gently. "No. Bad." A grunt from her dragon in response. Isriez casually flying onto her head and sitting neatly, welcomed by a gentle head scratch. Evlion wasn't as well behaved as his smaller counterpart, but she loved him anyways. Vrelun quietly let her thoughts wander back to Ozeath. She had two options when she confronted him; Spill his blood in the Red Keep then and there, or spare his life. Vre would much rather the second option, but what would her people think of her then?

She let out a soft exhale, sitting under Evlion's wing. It was blistering hot out, making it hard to think for her. She'd fry her brains thinking out there. Now, where was she.. Oh. Right. Pacifist or genocide run.. Tough choice. Ozeath over there slaughtered her relatives and is now trying to kill her, but she believed there was good in everyone. .. Including a murderer, but then again, who wasn't a murderer nowadays? Vrelun shuddered, remembering how exactly she came to rule Meereen. She'd shake her head a bit, deciding to consult her adviser Harton on the matter. Might as well get a second opinion.

Her stomach growled, Vre sighing. Maybe she'd sit for a meal with him while she was at it.

"Fuck Dorne." Those two words summarized everything he thought about the bastard province of Westeros. The only land to remain unconquered during the Conquest and the most ethnically and culturally different land in Westeros. "All they provide the land are exotic whores and fruity drinks, which we already get from the Free Cities. Frankly I wouldn't be too sad to see them go, but I'm the King, and letting a province just slip away will project weakness during a period where none can be shown. We need to stay unified." He said, stretching his arms out and doing some toe-touches. "I'm making you my second hand of the King, and you'll handle everything below King's Landing, while my darling primary hand focusing on everything north of us and anything that falls in between. After we kill the demon, you'll take up your own duties again and, I dunno, make you a statue or something." He shrugged, it wasn't an offer, it was an order. "I'm having the hand thing made for you. You're a smart guy, this is a good use of your abilities." He patted Ahmard on the shoulder, "You'll know how to deal with Dorne, just throw the Reach at them, it's what worked in the old days."


"While you two are handling that, I'm going to check the Stormlands and Dragonstone, make sure their defenses aren't absolute fucking shit like they were during the Ascendancy." He sighed, shaking his head.

The food in Essos was shit.

The royal adviser to Vrelun Travia, last of her name, sat at a bench near the middle of the Dragon's royal pyramid, in a massive room covered in maps of Slaver's...well, Dragon's Bay now, he supposed. Some of these dated back to the days of the ancient Ghiscari Empire, before they were crushed by the Valyrian Freehold. That, combined with the ancient tomes, proved to be a wonderful learning experience. He was going to have them all taken to the Citadel one day, to keep the knowledge for future generations.

Plus, this place was far away from the Dothraki. While their raiding culture was fascinating, they were too loud. The Unsullied were hardly any better with their stoic devotion to duty making them awful conversationalists. That just left her majesty herself, perhaps she'd join him today? He had some ideas he wanted to go over with her, looking at the political situation in Westeros and focusing primarily on the Vale, due to their noted sympathy to the Dragons.

He had made that name up for them, the Dragons. While King Ozeath and his sympathizers were called the Giants, taken from an old Northern legend surrounding the ancient castle of Kingsmoot, the myth that an army of giants slumbered beneath its hollowed depths.

Sounded a lot better than the Penguins.

He sighed, going back to eating the strange meat of the east and brushing up on his classic ghiscari and High Valyrian.

The quiet sound of footsteps coming to join him. Vrelun was quietly holding Isriez on the back of her hand as she walked, hoping he wouldn't be a pest to her adviser this time. The last time she had brought him along, he had tried to take a bite out of Harton's ear, the poor man. She couldn't apologize enough to him afterwards and even offered to patch up the bitemark, and did anyways. Vrelun would peer into the room, "Harton, do you happen to be busy?" Shuffling in, looking around at the many maps. He probably was, but he always did make time for her. Well, of course he did. He was her adviser after all.

Neatly sitting beside him, Isriez hopping onto her shoulder to watch Harton. The smaller dragon didn't quite like him, but Evlion happily visited every once in a while. Isri was actually quite defensive over Vrelun most of the time, even resorting to violence if anyone got too close or was getting too much attention.

Well, the needy bastard could wait. She had to give her adviser some attention too.

"It'd be a poor adviser who turned away his master. Please, my lady, sit with me. We have much to discuss, I imagine." The man turned, raising an eyebrow at the dragon accompanying her. "I hope your friend is content with some of this essosi mystery meat, I'm afraid I'm uninterested in offering my ear." He made some room, and set the meal aside for the dragon - he was still hungry, but he'd eat later. "What was your plan for assaulting Westeros, my lady? There are countless possibilities with a dragon at your disposal." He said simply, waiting for her to elaborate as he began to expose further, "Your long dead ancestors knew that fact well. The Valyrian freehold conquered much of the known world, their dominion stretching through all the Free Cities but Bravvos and beyond - some whisper they even ruled far Asshai. Dragons are the greatest weapon this world has ever known - yet a hundred fell in the war against the Harpy alone, compare that figure to the conquest of Westeros, where three dragons took the entire continent, with the exception of Dorne. What scale of conflict consumed a hundred dragons? It is unimaginable to me, at least." He looked at her, eyes cold as usual and face expressionless, "Do you think you can do the work of three with one?" Throughout the speech, he gestured towards various murals, the most notable of which being a massive golden harpy tearing apart a pair of black, fire breathing dragons.

"I..." Ahmard wanted to object but he knew it would do no good, despite Ahmard's very obvious lack of experience and skill at political matters the King didn't wanted him for subtlety and finesse. He wanted the Maester for the only thing Ozeath seemed to trust right now; War, "...yes, Your Grace." He sighed, racking through his memory, dusty tomes full of boorish passages and awkward paintings detailing battles between the Rhoynar descended Sand Trolls and their enemies. Written by Trolls who wouldn't dare step ten miles near an actual battle. He hated himself for it, his thoughts immediately going to things already known like so many other Maesters before and most likely after him. But what else could he do? For once, the sight of the King's Hand was a relief. Well... a slight relief, she didn't really seem to like Ahmard all that much. News that she would be sharing some of her responsibilities with a bookish Maester would not go over well with her, that he was certain of.

"Lady Cantha." He nodded to her, a sign of respect he didn't hold his breath for a return of. Hopefully when this business with the Last Dragon and her Terrible beasts was done he could once again slink back into his usual duties. Sending of Ravens, healing of particularly important Knights hurt at Tournies and most of all his own personal research. But until then he imagined there would be an excess of particularly tense small council meetings.

"Don't 'yes, your Grace' me until Dorne is dealt with, got m-" He couldn't finish before his dearest palemate decided to surprise tackle him.

Per usual.

"Oh no you don't, Canty!" He roared playfully, grabbing her by the sides and tossing her onto the ground, "Hehehe, gonna have to try harder than that next time, and preferably behind closed doors. But its a good thing you came here, we have things to discuss!" He bit back another roar of laughter in his attempts to be serious - he cared deeply for his moirail, but now wasn't the time for any shenanigans! He began to talk in his authoritative tone, "Canty," Already ruined it, "This is going to be your partner until the upcoming invasion is dealt with. He will handle everything South of King's Landing while you work with everything North of it as well as anything that falls in-between. Feel free to delegate as you please, but this is your respective responsibilities. I'm going to be out in the Clawlands, beefing up their defenses as, if I was launching an invasion, I'd land there. If you got any complaints, say 'em now Canty."

Vrelun nodded, letting Isriez hop down to the plate. "I can do the work of three with one, and I will. I can assure you, the Usurper is no harpy. As for my plan, some things have changed. Dorne will be busy diverting The North's attention away from us. Or, most of it, I hope. As for us, we're sailing straight for King's Landing. Evlion will deal with any opposing ships and ballistas that we come across, with assistance from our naval forces." Brushing hair from her face, chain still rested gently on her forehead. "The Vale will also be joining us. Lord Vulpec has longed for my return and has already began preparations. As for the aforementioned Kalsar ships, I would like you to attempt to convince them to join us. Power, land, whores, whatever it takes, I am willing to give. I'd like for you to send a raven to Lady Kalsar as soon as possible, preferably before we depart." Giving him a gentle smile all the while running a hand over her smaller dragon's scales. Might as well just say it now.

"I would also like to spend time with you, Harton. It gets boring sitting around and plotting all day, you know." Isri giving her the evil eye, flying up onto her shoulder. Vrelun quietly dismissed him, the angry ball of scales leaving the room, his mistress watching him the entire way before returning her gaze to her adviser.

"It may be the last time we ever get to."

Harton's  eyes remained locked on her throughout her explanation, nodding at the parts he approved and clicking his tongue at those he didn't. He'd need to talk to her about this, clear up some details. Heading right at the most important city in westeros immediately was an idea that would win them this war before it could truely start or make them lose it with equal swiftness. Plus there was that fascinating creation called wildfire to bring into account. He recalled an old saying, piss on wildfire and your bulge burns off.

It'd chew through their forces with ease, even the dragon wasn't safe. If the Giant was half as skilled as the legends said he'd make ample use of it in any siege. Of course, his lady had the fire it was modeled after at her disposal. But alas, dragon fire was hardly a subtle weapon, and any use of it would risk setting the city itself alight. Wildfire was at least kept in special containers - once dragonfire was let out, that was that. Though, he had to be honest with himself woth the fact that he hardly knes anything about dragons beyond the limited demobstrations he had the pleasure of catching. While using it on the capital would be a crushing victory in the short term, every house in Westeros from the poorest knight to wealthiest lord paramount would unite against them.

Plus, he doubted She could live with such a victory.

"Ah yes, the Nomads. Dothraki of the seas, they say. It'll be hard locating them, but not very. Consider it done. " he faked a smile , something he was quite good at," You honor me with your attention. Was there anything specific you wish to discuss or would you like me to offer my critique and praises regarding your current plan?" He wholey planned to anyway, it was his job, after all. "I have also made some...strides in my studies, should you wish to hear that, as well."

"Nothing in specific. Critiques would help a lot. I'd also love to hear about your studies afterwards." She always did. Vrelun was more of a listener anyways, and had always been. A quiet child, she was. Every time she spoke with Harton, she always looked forward to what he had to say. He was far wiser than she was, and had seen much more than she would in a lifetime. She hadn't just picked him for his looks and the fact that he was a Gargon. The last Gargon, to be specific. He was just like her, just.. Far older.

"Also, you don't have to fake a smile around me. I can tell when you do it." She'd snicker quietly, still smiling. Hers was genuine towards him. Harton had helped her through a lot, especially while conquering Meereen. She didn't know why she shouldn't be.

He was almost like Aquila, a friend.