The Square

Hands still blistering from attempting to dig his way into a burning building, the Baratheon guard told to attend those on the cart, was allowed through the sheild wall of his comrades, but greeted with his parnter attempting to mule the cart from the building behind them. If they stayed there, they would be pushed down an alleyway by oncoming flames and the only real option was to push ahead and out of the square. Pulling the cloak off his back, the guard stripped it with his dagger and wrapped his hands in the shreds, so he could grab the other side of the cart and help pull. In front of them, the other guards and Rhaelle's ladies continued to pave a way, however slow it was. When Xara was ripped from the line up, no one had a moment to react before a giant blurr with a familar buzz of raw energy shot past them. Forward. They could only move forward because their Lord Kainen would see to the rest and he did. In a single quick movement a rapist was dead. His brain matter sizzled away by the oncoming flames and his body dropped carelessly to the floor.

Xara stood frozen on the wall. One moment she was catching her breath from being slammed on hard packed cobblestones and the next a vision of a monster and a hero stood looming over her. Kainen smile was nothing short of frightening. The Baratheon demon inside of him that demanded blood and bone and battle wasn't sated by any means but he was completely satisfied with his first kill. Beneathe that, shining through in the sparkle of his Valyrian eyes, was something pure. Almost as if her Lord Paramount was happy to see her and to that, Xara could only return a demure smile. Shaking out her pulled curls, Xara's chest rose with a deep breath and she found pain striking along her back and smoke filling her lungs. Words, however, would have to wait as the small circle created by his massive presence was shaken with a loud crack forcing him forward. Xara's hand shot up, pressing into Kainen's abs; a foolish attempt to steady him or prevent him from falling. He didn't miss a beat, turning and returning a good natured headbutt to a long lost friend. Xara remembered Titan well. The colt and the boy had always been at odds with who was the master and who was the slave in their relationship and the entirety of the Keep had snickered when Kainen presented the horse as a going away gift to his younger brother before Azaroth had left for the Reach. While Azaroth had beamed with pride to recieve the gift it hadn't been lost on the horse that this was punishment. To be ridden by the lanky second son into the land of flowers was all the lesson he needed to return to his master humbled, even if he'd been plied fat with apples.Kainen's massive arm locked around Xara's narrow waist and hoisted her onto Titan's back. She took the reigns into one hand and patted the horse's neck with the other. His long neck swung around, head bopping with neigh's of recognition before turning all the way around, making a point to donkey kick a cloak coming about to avenge his fallen comrade. His master was met with similar foolishnes from armored idiots. Neither was phased.

Kainen, Titan and Xara quickly moved to the head of the line of the Baratheons attempting to move the cart. This created a wide berth for them to move in and eased the need to be on the defensive while moving. It also paved a path for the men sent to douse the flames and black and gold was quickly replaced with Reach colors. All was not to be well, however. As the men pulled the cart along, two small boys clinging to sides and an unconscious Stark girl lain the back, the back of the cart was roughly kicked by a stampeding horse. The acting commander of The City Watch stormed into the square hellbent on finding himself in conflict with the man that was his king. Of course this was not why he was intent on harming the man, because he had no knowledge of this, but his attention had been drawn to the three men who had dispersed the most of his forces. This men, in the commander's mind, would be the ones to blame for the entirety of this spectacle. Up-starts, rabble-rousers, he would call them as he presented them as the source of the problem. Fevered dreams from a fool too long upon a high horse, soon to be dealt with. Aside from mistaking his king and nobles for blame-able peasants, the commander had also made one other fatal mistake. His horse had knocked the Baratheon cart as it pulled over a rise in the street and though they scrambled to save her, the unconscious body of Rysa Stark slipped from the smooth fabrics and onto the street. She may have lived yet, if the commander hadn't been in formation with two others, one of which had a horse to delivered a killing blow to the girl's face without so much as a glance behind. The guards dropped the cart, to attend the screaming of young lads, only to find the girl disfigured. Though rage burned in the loyal guards, they sought to lift her from the streets and wrap her in the dark fabrics before replacing her on the cart.

Meanwhile, Xara steered the behemoth she was mounted on, towards her Lady, Rhaelle. Rhaelle, Rhaenyrs and Azaroth rose from the flames of a fallen building and found themselves on the steady street just as the last of the beams gave into the relentless fire. A fresh plume of smoke and dust soared above the remaining rooftops drawing the attention of the Tyrell and Hightower men. Azaroth's every breath was wheezed. Blood began to appear at the corner of his lips; his lung was punctured. Xara pulled the horse to a stop in front of the three but the moment Rhaelle moved toward the ample space on the back of Titan to place Azaroth there, the wretch beast sat down. With a yelp of surprise, Xara clung to his neck, her petite body dangling from the horse. With a loud whinny and shake of his head, Titan refused vehemently. He was rewarded with a low growl from Rhaelle. "Get up, you ass, or you'll be feeding one of these families for a month!"

The horse rose and Xara managed to return to the saddle with a bit of a shuffle and a pull. When Rhaelle hoisted her brother, Titan moved only his back end away from her. Another whinny and shake. Another growl. With her little brother gathered in her arms like a fair maiden, Rhaelle turned and dumped him into the arms of his larger, more capable brother. "See him to the maester and quickly." Then she lifted Rhaenyrs and placed her into the saddle with Xara with no resistance from the stupid horse. Relieved to see the youngest Baratheon still alive, Xara turned and gave her cheek a soft caress before leading Titan along behind Kainen.

Rhaelle turned back to the square.

“We’re almost there, brother, just hold on. Stay awake, and don’t let go.” The youngest Baratheon her voice rang in crack rasp from her black filled clogged lungs. Moving forward was becoming more difficult but Rhaenyrs as the rest of the Baratheon children was resilient to defeat as she dug her heels forward pulling both bodies out of the forged flames.

Despite the drag of her brother Azaroth who was stumbling on his toes now from wheezing and harsh coughs from his injury. Once they were out of the fallen building, Rhaenyrs paused with her legs shaking from the lack of clean air in her lungs and the weight of her brother on her shoulder started to be too much. She bounced at the knees jolting the weight to lift from her shoulders to adjust while the chaos continued around them.

Perhaps she was consumed in the black smoke for too long because the first thing she noticed was the uncontrolled cart flying passed with two guards trailing close behind it. From there her gaze was guided to a familiar looking figure just distant, her long lost cousin? The rightful King? Why on earth is he here? Shouldn’t he be on a throne or something, you know what normal Kings usually do. Then again, there is nothing normal of the Baratheon family. Trailing away from him, her vision was taken by a behemoth of a figure, her battle born brother, Kainen, who had this look in his eye she wasn't stupid enough to dare to question.

Losing her grip on her brother she felt her knees lower bending to the ground, her lungs collapsed against the center of her ribcage pinching them having her choke for air. Setting off another chain reaction of the need of endless coughing. Filling her eyes in a coated gloss of tears she clenched her throat to the burn breaking the cycle of relapsing coughs.

Now she was certain she been in the black smoke far too long. Rhaelle pulled Azaroth from her shoulder and shortly hoisted her up to saddle Titan. With the rush gone straight to her head she nearly slid off the horse’s side, with her vision starting to blur making it difficult to know exactly who’s waist she grabbed to keep balance. Till she felt the familiar angelic touch. With her vocals torn from smoke and ash, she attempted to voiced out with little success as she crashed against Xara’s back from exhaustion.

Aethon's guard had taken up a little more relaxed formation in front of him once they were clear of the chaos. The man himself standing before them with his arms behind his back, bony hands with claw like nails clasped together while he looked down upon the peasants and their would be saviors. Grey hair fluttered about his pointed features and angular face as shadowed eyes scanned for the King each time the man slipped from his sight. Even for a moment his attention was drawn to the other of similar statures, Kainen Baratheon, and much like his sister he was only given a scoff. That man was far less of a threat at an intellectual level than his sister or any of his siblings. A beast in any sense of the word.

Upon hearing his daughter speak, Aethon shot her a sharp glare, almost as if he were irritated she interrupted his train of thought. Though there was no almost about it, it was no secret Aethon had little patience for anyone but his own company. Flicking his hand dismissively he spoke to one of his guards off offhandedly.

"Take her back to her room."

The instructions were without question as he ordered two guards to rid him of his daughter's company so he could think without distraction. The same hand that dismissed came to rub against his pointed chin, the other arm curled across his chest as beady eyes and a sharp mind plotted silently from the safety of the gallery.

From everything he could see it seemed everything was coming under control. One thing he could hope for was the causalities were high, such a thing would weigh on a crown and was yet another avenue a smart man could exploit. Aethon was definitely a smart man. Another smirking smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he too was done with the excitement of public interaction. A part of Aethon almost thought such things happened often amongst the common folk. They were so unrefined anyway, they needed a good culling every so often. Why such a fuss was being made that a few were stripped of their meaningless lives did not make a whole lot of sense. Less strain on a city ready to implode. Perhaps this would help lighten the cities strain. Not that it would help with the smell however. Brushing his finger under his nose a grunt was given before he turned away and removed himself from the streets, back towards the Red Keep for a well deserved bath.

The aggressive and immediate action undertaken by the soldiers sent from the Reach houses proved to be a success at combating the flames that had once engorged the city's market. The salt and tarps had formed a barrier between the fuel source and the surrounding oxygen, suffocating the inferno and leaving behind embers. The other structures to which it had spread were being seen to by men handed buckets of water with stern instruction as to what they must do, as the fuel powering their burn was not oil-based and could be tended to by the cooling liquid. Dark plumes of smoke initially rose above the buildings, causing some difficulty breathing, but the billowing soot eventually lightened from black, to grey, and lastly white.

Once the matter was more or less under control, another five guards on horseback arrived with further orders from the small woman standing atop the royal enclosure. They were met with relatively low resistance from the crowd, as a healthy fear of being trampled by the colours of green and gold had previously been instilled among them. As their leader arrived upon the scene he motioned to a comrade and bent down to pass on the queen's instruction so that the crowd would not be alerted, "Rally the injured and deprived and bring them back to the palace square just outside the main gate. Assure them that no harm is to come to them and that they are to be tended to." He looked on at the pile of gold-cloaks that had grown at the men's hands, "What's all this?"

"They attacked us, Sir, in attempt to thwart our efforts here. It would seem they were to blame for the fire in the first place, and further sought to harass the crowd."

"Where is He?" He now referenced the newly crowned stag, but was careful not to openly project his name before the surrounding ears. The other man motioned with his head behind their horses, and surely enough there stood The Pensive King and his loyal companion, along with Lord Greyson of House Stark. Similarly to the Reachmen, growing mounds of the mutinous city watch lay surrounding them. Nearby was the Lady Rhaelle. "Dismount," and so they did, then turning in the direction of the king and his company, stopping just before him and bowing slightly but enough not to entirely too much attention, "Sire, Her Majesty bids you return to the keep. She fears for your safety. We have orders for half the guard to remain and tend to the fire and the rest to aide the injured back to the palace square. Physicians have been sent for to tend to them. Our horses are at your disposal."

At the base of Aegon's hill, just outside the main gate of the castle within the palace square, a make-shift infirmary was being set up with apothecaries and physicians ready to tend to those harmed by the explosion of the lamp vendor's stall. Odessa had descended from the parapet and now stood at the gates looking down on the progress and keeping an eye out for the return of her husband. These were not the people of the Reach, with whom she shared a mutual trust, so she refrained from going down to stand among them. There had been enough casualties that day, and the safety of her unborn child stood paramount over them all. "You may inform those recruited that they shall be handsomely rewarded for their help."

Greyson called them the Queen's men. Standing shoulder to shoulder, with Greyson and Daegon, Dante stood taller, forsaking his defensive stance for a look over the heads of people rushing out of the square and the gold cloaks still ready for a fight. Sure enough, the men on the scene were Tyrell and Hightower. Bringing up the rear were Baratheons. It was rare to see the war dogs taking a back seat and helping instead of engaging in the fight. Did that mean that Odessa had sent them all? He wanted to believe that Odessa had folded into his family, his family, a family no longer distinctly Baratheon or Tyrell but a royal family that had the interest in the kingdom as a whole at its forefront which meant using all resources at their disposal not just the ones they were comfortable with. That belief was shaken when Greyson called them the Queen's men. There was no reason other than a gut feeling to doubt the commands handed down from his wife in the tower, so that feeling was shoved down as he returned to his defensive stance the sword of a fallen cloak in his hand. It was too light, too sharp.

Must have been the steady clomp of hooves that kept the cloaks circling them at bay. That moon shape kept the guys from seeing the oncoming asshole stepping on the head of a Stark girl. More problems. Instead he saw them part the crescent a sword pointed at the three, demanding to know how was the leader of what he called disturbers of the peace. Dante wasn't really a man to kill others unless it was in self-defense but killing these assholes would be his first defense of the people. There was no turning back or away from from men that would start a riot and pin it on someone else. The smug look on the commander's face said he was prepared to let others take the fall for what he knew to be the result of his men's actions. How slow did anything aside from gossip travel in the real world that they didn't know they were staring at their judge, jury and executioner? On Dragonstone there would have been no mistaking any of this. On Dragonstone... Dragonstone wasn't the real world. It was a long terrifying dream he was waking up from so he could step into a terrifying reality. But fuck these guys. Getting sick of all the fighting, the flames of the riot dying physically and metaphorically, Dante stood up again, and took a deep breath, turning the sword down in his hand.

"Stand down."

Laughter from the cloaks. "Who the fuck are you?"

"He's your fucking king." Daegon chimed in.

The sound of it made Dante want to wince. Being king is what would make them stand down, at least it should have, but that wasn't really what he was getting at when he said it. They didn't stand down, but Daegon's outburst did get the gears of their mind turning and he could feel them scrutinizing every Baratheon trait he had and didn't have. From what he'd heard, there weren't many he didn't have. The men on the ground started to lower their guard but the commander was up for one last hoorah, spurring his horse forward. With another sigh, Dante reached out and took the reigns hanging from the front of the horse and yanked the animal face first into the ground. Its ass went up and the cloak on his back shot across the bow. Digging his stolen sword into ground, he said again, more exhausted and annoyed than firm, "I said stand the fuck down."

Thankfully nothing more would come of resistance to his order when men of the Reach addressed him as Sire. His first response to was to wave off the man and say he was fine but it was pointless. The guy still got waved off. "Take your men and horses and see to helping the others cart the innocent away." Gripping Daegon by the shoulder, he shoved his one of his oldest friends forward, "Take a cart. Don't embarrass me by riding back." The men he was referring to were the Baratheons carting people from the scene back to the make-shift infirmary his wife had set up. Before he started a walk back to the Red Keep, his long arm motioned to the cloaks standing around. "Seize them. Make sure the ones on the ground stay there."

Things were finally starting to settle from chaos to mild anarchy as the cloaks were systematically being subdued by a much larger force sent by the crown. Kainen now found himself with a couple more passengers than he was intending to save, though the last word is used extremely loosely, even for family. Slinging Azaroth over his shoulder, Kainen moved forward, his direction heading towards the Red Keep with little mind cast to if Titan was following him or not. From the reaction he witnessed when Rhaelle tried to put his brother on the horse and how the horse was now with Xara, well, it didn't take a genius so of course Kainen would at least understand the relationship.

At the other side of the crowd, Greyson stood with sword gripped in hand when Dante addressed the gathered cloaks and their soon to be former leader. The knight smirked unashamedly when Dante floored the individual and a grey hued glance ran across the rest of those that quickly lost their boisterous bravado. Typical thugs, hardly a backbone between them when their 'leader' was quickly dispatched.

With Dante ushering Daegon off with the injured and those lending aid, Greyson took it upon himself to round up the remaining cloaks and bring them into custody. His first act, placing a boot on the neck of the former leader that still lay upon the ground, pressing his head more into the muddied floor. Orders were barked and unlike previously they were now being adhered too. The cloaks were dropping weapons left and right, Tyrell men along with Baratheon and Stark were all being commanded by Greyson and every cloak was lined up in a single file. Those on the ground were picked up, rather roughly and some finishing with an extra bruise or two. The dead were thrown upon a cart rather unceremoniously for little care was given to those that revolted for the sake of money or whatever their reason for doing this was at the end of the day.

Roughly 20 or so now with wrists bound and each having almost two guards beside them were marched towards the tower with Greyson at their back making sure none stepped out of line. Sheathing his weapon finally a rustle to his left caught the Starks attention, but what he saw only had his eyes rolling and a sigh before he walked off to have each cloak locked up. The one he saw though, a shadowed figure with a goofy grin, an eye patch and a stumbling demeanor was rustle through the pockets of some of the dead. As much as Greyson did not approve of such behavior, he knew who the man was and arresting him too, well, there was hardly a point.

Rhaelle stood in her usual pose, arms folded under her bust-line, watching as her cousin and king prepared to face off against a rally of gold cloaks. Tyrells, Hightowers, Baratheons and now Starks moved around her like ants on a farm, quickly going about their assigned tasks but none disturbed the growing circle of cloaks versus their king. This was his moment to stand his ground and make himself known not only to the common people who had been absence his darkest hour and their brightest moment, but also for the fools who had ignored the rumors undoubtedly handed down from the few cloaks who had finally impregnated the Throne Room only to find their beloved tyrant dead. Ultimately, Rhaelle would take this burden as her own mistake. Miscalculating the sense of power they derived from Alexander and their desperate attempt to hold that power after his demise had been all her own doing and her cousin had paid the price, more important than the image of the new king beyond this moment, would be the suffering of the people because of her misstep. This would need to be immediately rectified.

Watching as her cousin, never a man of open conflict as was the usual Baratheon disposition, grew weary of the senseless fighting, Rhaelle's all encompassing gaze widened still to view the people, the smallfolk, seated upon carts and barrels either awaiting transport to the infirmary or simply standing around awaiting the mighty conclusion. Dante was oblivious to this. His motives and actions were always taken on as though no one were watching leaving them true to the fiber of his being. No part of him was ever bolder for the audience or pompous for the crown that rested on his head at all times whether physically visible or not. By halting the horse, the man effectively halted the entire uprising which sent a whispers through out the crowd. His less than royal address of the situation was now also cause for speculation.

"Is he truly our king?"

"He must be. He is a Baratheon. Look at him."

"The Forgotten Prince has returned!"

"The Pauper Prince, you mean? Our lives are now in the hands of a man no more fit to rule than you."

"Fit to rule? I hear Dragonstone suffered no debts and no droughts while he lived there."

"Lies drawn up by half-wit supporters."

Suddenly there were pots of conversation rising to replace the billows of dark smoke. As the flames of the city died, the opinions of the people rose then quickly fell as the man started through the crowd, so near they could take a measure of him. Pensive Prince indeed but that furrowed brow did nothing to mar the somehow soft features on the hard lines of his face. Halfway down the road he turned and engaged with soldiers aiding the injured. Interacting with the common folk seemed to bring him some sort of peace, however superficial it would be against the trials of being king.

Because Dante had sent away his only guard, Rhaelle remained. A silent sentinel in the stead of Daegon while Greyson saw to the arrest of the upstarts. She did not engage her king, allowing him to seek the solace in the few reminders of Dragonstone he would be allowed during his reign. She gave orders where needed, and guided those who would seek guidance from the king away from him, and to their tasks. The role was not unfamiliar, she had done the same for Alexander, but for very different reasons.

Elsewhere, Azaroth was drifting in and out of consciousness sharp bolts of pain shooting through his body as he bounced uncomfortably on his brother's wide shoulders. Had his ribs not already been broken by the beam they were surely broken now. He tried to convey this but Kainen was either deaf or uncaring or maybe his mouth was moving and nothing but blood was coming out. Titan took Xara and Rhaenyrs all the way up to the doors of the Red Keep, lowering his rear end gently so the petite cargo he carried would be able to find the floor without injuring themselves. Xara slipped off the massive steed's back and curled Rhaenyrs into her arms. She and the animal shared a tender rub of cheeks before Titan turned and clomped down the stairs and into the open pasture where the other horse would be. Rhaenyrs was quickly removed from Xara by the few Baratheon guards still in the keep and two rushed to Kainen to transport Azaroth on a stretcher to his rooms. The maester would no doubt be making several rounds through the castle today.

Gathering her skirts in one hand, Xara Xaq turned and took a count of her ladies. They and the two page boys who had traveled with her were all accounted for. There was one missing from their party, a stowaway whose absence caused her heart to clench in her chest, those hazel eyes drifting up toward the Great Sept of Baelor.

There were only a handful of Stark guards left loitering around the city and the infirmary, waiting for orders from the gruff Master-at-Arms of the Red Keep, who had taken Greyson's place in the command of the situation. Galen had sent orders for all the gold cloaks to make an appearance in the training yard. While the bannermen of each house already sworn to the new king aided in stilling the chaos brought on by other gold cloaks, the old soldier tore the rest of them new ones. It was in the middle of his ranting and raving that a page showed up with a letter from the king himself. Old and young seemed to be on the same page as to what to do with the men sworn to protect the city. If the old man could have managed a smirk, the gesture would have twinkled in his eyes and struggled to move his stern features. So once the cloaks had been given a stern talking too (a few a couple of lashes) and per Dante's order, dismissed if they had issues with the regime or if Galan perceived them as potentially disloyal. The war dog make quick work of pulling those men back into line and getting rid of the bad eggs before sending them out repair the damage done by the others.

So by the time Lord Tarik Stark made a beeline for the bannerman of his house, they were gathering themselves to head back to their quarters. Of course, as the men turned to head up the way, they were practically frozen in place. There was no secret in the North about Lord Tarik rage. In fact, it was quite infamous. The man headed toward them was more wildling than noble at the moment and that meant anything could happen, particularly to them. Because the men had no idea about the Lady Rysa and had only been summoned the disaster after the fact, they were all completely confused as to why Tarik was in such a visible rage. Greyson Stark had not been home to the North in a very long time, but the Starks were not known for their familial discord, so they assumed the Lord's issue would most likely be with something other than the fact that they had taken orders from the younger Stark, after all, the elder was not around prior.

"My Lord?" Said one of the men as their Liege came within ear shot.

Tarik's cold eyes fell upon his bannermen as they were seemingly making their way away from the scene of chaos. His first instinct was to threaten them but his brothers words ran through his mind. The King would not tolerate his behavior or wildling nature and there wouldn't be much time for him to reign in his true nature before he would be granted an audience with the New King.

"Tsk...such politics....Fucking hate it" he'd mummer before tightening a hand upon the sword at his waist. He had heard the man address him but he waited until he was towering over the shorter man. His eyes scanned the scene and allowed himself to push back his initial response. He felt anger right beneath the surface amplified by the pain he felt for his sister. He could tell that the men did not know what befell the lady and that alone told him that they had failed their duty. His knuckles cracked around the hilt of the sword as his eyes cut to the one who spoke. He kept an even voice but anger could be felt in the tone.

"Tell me, any of you, just one of you, even. WHERE is my sister? Do ANY of you have ANY inkling?" His anger washed over him as he spat out. "NO? Well, let me INFORM you. She's DEAD. And until I find out the events that lead to her death. I HOLD YOU AT FAULT." His voice caused a few of the men to flinch as his anger was very well known by them. He never had picked a fight with men loyal to the Stark name but his violence was no secret to them and having seen him in action for themselves or at least heard of such feats. They knew to fear when his blood was boiled. It took a moment for them to register what he had just said. They didn't know whether to speak now or to remain silent, fear sinking through to their bones as they realized they could be executed for not having protected Lady Rysa from whatever fate fell her.

Tarik's anger was barely contained as he could see the fear in them and grew annoyed that they had no answers for him instantly. "WELL? I STILL WANT TO KNOW. WHERE WERE YOU ALL? WHY WAS MY SISTER OUT OF YOUR SIGHTS?!" His voice bellowed and carried across the distance and few city folk turned to gaze at the scene before moving about their way. Clearly his rage could be seen and it kept most away from him. He couldn't help himself even though he was attempting to remain civil and calm. The grief was too strong for him and he wanted to hit something. Such an easy targer were the bannermen if he wanted to pick a fight but here he was in the South. Appearances meant everything and he fucking hated it.

"If none of you have answers. GO to your quarters. Once I have figured out what happened to Rysa... I will deliever justice as I see fit and I'd pray to the Gods that you lot haven't failed your duties. I EXPECT MORE FROM THE MEN OF THE NORTH." His lip curled in a half snarl as he spun on his heels and stalked away from the men leaving them speechless and fearing for their lives. Tarik knew if he continued to show out in public that he would let his father down. He had been sent to represent his home and he couldn't help but feel like his uncontrolled temper wouldn't be the news his father would want to hear before the dust settled. Or would it? His younger sister was dead... Starks in the South... the thoughts clouded his grieving mind as he made his way back to his apartment wanting to be out of sight of those who got a small taste of his anger.