The Bloodless Siege

The army of Prince Rhaegar find the city's defenses on high alert and its great gates closed. The regular city watch, the gold cloaks, have been augmented by thousands more levies from the rest of the Crownlands. Though no one is keen to make a move this early, tensions are high. The Prince's army soon notices some sort of commotion from the men at the Mud Gate. The gate is ever so slightly opened to allow a single man to exit, carrying the banner of parley.

Ser Jonothor Darry comes to parley on behalf of the king.

Darry smiles warmly at the Prince as they greet each other, though it falters at Rhaegar's question.

"His Grace only allows you to enter, my Prince, along with any members of the kingsguard and lords paramount who ride with you. Your presence is requested in the Red Keep to meet with the King. Your army is barred entry, however. Those are my orders."

Darry nodded.

"I will deliver your response with haste."

The kingsguard returned to the capital, leaving Rhaegar and his army waiting under gazing sun.

---

Aerys's response was an ugly sight to behold. He roared with anger and slapped Darry across the face, denouncing the white cloak as a worthless coward unable to perform his sworn duties. A glass bowl from Braavos went crashing against the wall. By the time he had exhausted himself, the King looked half-defeated in melancholy. He went to the balcony of his solar with a view of the entire city. The army outside looked like ants that he could reach out a crush with his hand. Alas, such power he did not possess. He sank back in thought for a few moments before turning back to the members of the kingsguard.

"The Queen is sick and requires the fresh air of Dragonstone. Ser Darry, you are to escort her and Prince Viserys. The ship leaves at once. Ser Jaime, once the ship has sailed you will escort Prince Rhaegar and any guard he requires here to the Red Keep. Ser Gerold, call on Wisdom Rossart, I require his immediate aid."

The flames called to him, demanded his flesh and blood. He had seen the truth of things once more, like he had always done. Traitors crawling all around him, stealing what was rightfully his. They spoke such fanciful words with such fanciful smiles, but he could see through them. The flames burned away the mask and revealed the face of lies and deceit, of conspiracy and death. His death. But he would not let them take it from him. He was the Dragon King, the next great ruler of House Targaryen. Destiny called for a savior from the cold darkness, and he would answer the call. Where was Rossart? The master alchemist was always reliable, always loyal. The flames had shown him the truth of that. Rossart and his acolytes also saw the truth in the flames. The flames would save the world.

Aerys started giggling and mumbling to himself, unaware or uncaring if anyone was still in the room with him.

"Traitors come and go, but I remain. Charred bones and cooked meat they will find, a kingdom of ashes for my son. But I will return, reborn and beautiful of dragon blood! A birthing pyre for Aerys the Great!"

”He wanted myself and the Lords Paramount to enter. Likely to make a show of his traitors.”

Rhaegar said quietly, grimacing upwards. The Red Keep loomed large over them, and he could imagine his father looking down at him from one of the spires.

”I doubt we will be able to come to terms. If it comes to it, we must be prepared to force the gates.”

The Prince gave Oberyn a long look.

”He is mad, but not a fool. Killing would get him nothing save your spear in his belly.”

"He was never a fool, sadly. Fools are gullible"

The horse paws the ground and makes a circle, Oberyns reins it with firm hand.

"I pray you're right. I will be cautious"

---

When hearing the conmotion, Oberyn signalled his men for the ride. The Martell standard was unfurled and the prince charged with his horsemen, light and heavy horse, clad in bronze, mail, steel plate and leather, scions of the proud Dornish houses: Jordayne, Yronwood, Uller, Dalt, Allyrion. They galloped like wind, atop their purebred stallions, swift and strong like none other in Westeros. Whatever was transpiring Oberyn was determined to make it end, as soon as possible. If he had to gut Aerys himself, he would.

Following the departure of the ship, Sir Jaime heads out along with a handful of guards in search of the prince, with orders to offer him an escort back toward the Red Keep.

[OOC: Thanks for including me!]


Raymar ducked under the panicked spear thrust of a Goldcloak, sent his way after he'd cut down the man's comrade with a savage slice to the neck. Bringing his free hand up in a fist, Raymar felt the Goldcloak's nose break as he stumbled backwards, dropping the spear. Before he could react and regain composure, Raymar's sword cut cut clean through his leg, severing it below the knee.

He pushed past the fallen Goldcloak, breaking into a run towards the gatehouse, getting in amongst the masses of fleeing and advancing troops, men of both sides surging through the open doorway. Dashing left, Raymar sliced across the chest of one man attempting to heave the doors shut and followed up taking the hand off another, halting their efforts to heave on the door, allowing the human tide to continue to flow unabated. Men fought or fled everywhere, in Glodcloak uniforms, or the colours of many Crownlands, Westerlands, and Dornish Houses.

"Westermen, rally to me, into the gatehouse!" Raymar yelled above the din of battle. Not many heard him, but enough had: he spun on his heels and rushed up the stairway onto the ramparts, hearing the rustle and clanking of armoured men following him. In the chaos the doorway into the gatehouse from the rampart had yet to be barred, the troops in the gatehouse having rushed to barricade the street-level entrance first. Raymar led a dozen or so Westerman men-at-arms on a rampage through the upper levels, cutting down archers who had been attempting to pick targets through the arrow slits and pushing up onto the roof to clear out the last of the archers that might menace the rest of the advancing Dornish column.

He looked outside and saw the white of the Kingsguard, the young Ser Jaime at the head of a handful of the King's men at arms coming down the street towards the melee at the gate. Cupping both hands about his mouth and aiming down at street level, he yelled with all his might.

"WESTERMEN! SECURE SER JAIME OF THE KINGSGUARD UNHARMED! WHITE CLOAK, BLONDE HAIR, TO ME!"

Raymar once more set about in a rush, back down through the carnage he had just wrought, grabbing or shouting at any man of the West he passed to follow him. At the head of an impromptu wedge of every House of the Westerlands, he attempted to drive through the confused fighting around the gates towards Ser Jaime. This was the West's best hope to extract Tywin's prized son unharmed.

* * *

Donnel Lefford

Donnel, alongside a gaggle of young Westermen noble lads, all single and in King's Landing to seek matches, had spent the last few days hunkered down in the manse of a grandson of Lord Sarsfield. The majority of the Westerlands bachelors and their various hangers-on had agreed to hole themselves up in this particular manse as it seemed most defensible: it had high walls, only two doors (the main door and servant's door), and due to the construction of the manse with the servant's areas being only a partially-underground basement, the ground floor windows were quite high up off the ground. Should the city be stormed, or worse should the Mad King decide to round up anyone he decided was a traitor or a threat, this manse and the thirty-odd men within it could act as a makeshift castle for however long they might last.

The sound of fighting was already arriving on the wind. Somewhere, the city walls were being attacked. Somewhere, swords were clashing, which meant there were attackers either on the walls or in the city. Somewhere.

"What's the plan, then?" asked Willem Yew, the second son of a middling Westerlands House.

"Wait this out, we don't know who's attacking or how successful yet, I reckon?" chimed in Rufus Turnberry, looking discerningly through the window slats. They'd all gathered in a third-floor room with windows facing the direction they believed the fighting noise was coming from.

"Look, there, the gatehouse!" exclaimed Perwyn Falhall, one of the aforementioned hangers-on: his family were landed knights hailing from the southern Westerlands, and Perwyn was in King's Landing employed as a sellsword for the city's merchants. All eyes went to the gatehouse in the far distance where, indeed, the Targaryen flags were being thrown down in rapid succession. So, the attackers had taken the gatehouse and were inside the walls.

"Get ready for action, then," said Donnel, sitting at a table with a few others, "all of you, get your armour on. Either we'll be hunkering down here for the night or, if the Westerlands is amongst the attacking forces, we're moving on that gatehouse once the sound of fighting gets closer to us. If we can break out towards the gatehouse, we can find someone with a good name who'll tell us what's afoot."

The group nodded in agreement and began filtering to the various parts of the manse they'd made into sleeping quarters, putting on whatever armour or weaponry they'd brought with them. None were in anything more than partial plate, the majority had at least a mail coat or a brigandine. All had either a decent-made tabard of house colours or were borrowing one of their fellows spare ones: better to have some Westerlands colours about you, even if not your own.