Author's Note: I finally got to read your reviews! Huzzah! Please keep them coming!

Thanks for the support guys. I'm seeing a lot of names I recognize from the first round when I glance at follows/favorites; I'm glad you folks are still on board for round two, it means quite a bit.

As always, I hope you enjoy this update!

Chapter 3

Original Word Count: 2823

Revision Word Count: 4236

"For the sake of the Mother, Ren, smile."

Aelor clapped his friend on the back as he settled into his seat at the head of the table, taking the glass of wine offered by one of the serving wenches when she materialized at his side. The Prince of the Iron Throne was grinning ear to ear despite it being only his second glass of the night, a far cry from the scowling and drunk Lord Renfred Rykker. Dressed in black and scarlet breeches and a matching tunic that still appeared crisp despite the last round of lively dancing, Aelor pushed his chair on the high dais onto it's back two legs, throwing one booted foot and long leg atop the recently cleared table.

Ren grunted, face unmoving. Seated to Aelor's right, a place of high honor in a prince's hall, the newlywed was staring down at the backs of his large hands, dark features flushed with drink. "I don't know how to do this, Aelor."

The Prince laughed heartedly. "I think it is a bit late to try and back out now, old friend. You have the wedded down, with just the bedded to go."

Ren's red face went redder, conflicting with the brilliant blue of his vest. "Exactly."

The serving girl—Jeyne, if Aelor remembered correctly—reappeared with another glass of red, extending it towards Ren. Aelor stopped her with a hand movement, smiling but shaking his head to ward her off. She nodded, curtsied one-handed, and left. "Come now, Renfred. Half of the handmaidens in the Red Keep knew you were more than capable by the time we were four and ten. From what Heavy Hallie told me this morning, you haven't lost your touch." His friend's face, already colored, blushed all the deeper at the name of the bosomy courtesan Aelor had had waiting in his friend's chambers the night before as a wedding gift of sorts. An impressive feat, considering Ren had already been as red as the Targaryen banner.

Aelor gestured down at the chaos that had once been his tidy main hall, to the pretty, plump young woman dancing with her younger brother. Her face was alight with laughter, just as it had been every moment since her arrival the morning past. "Look at Malessa. Look at her, Ren." His friend finally did, grumbling beneath his breath some expletive Aelor graciously decided to ignore. "She is having a grand time, and I daresay she has much more to fear from tonight than you do." The eldest daughter of Lord Donnel Buckwell, one of Aelor's sworn lords, had seemed completely calm and confident since her arrival. Truth be told she put her new husband to shame, Renfred having been a jittery, irritable mess for three solid days. "Besides, you and she have always gotten along swimmingly."

"Yes, but…" Ren finally grunted and brought a fist down on the table, more from embarrassment than anger. "I've no experience with maidens."

Aelor grunted in surprise, then grinned mischievously. "Well, as Willem Darry always told us…practice makes perfect."

"Aelor do—"

But he was too late, and Aelor did. Before the drunken Lord of Hollard Hall had even finished his threat Aelor had regained his feet, near catapulted down the steps, and strode to the center of the chamber, guests and servants scattering out of his path. Cellador and Ceranna of White Harbor, the musicians Aelor had hired at great expense, immediately ceased the jaunty tune they'd been playing, laughter and drunken conversations filling the sudden quiet for a moment before dying down. Smiling broadly, the Lord of Duskendale clapped his hands together, calling out to the lords and ladies gathered in his hall. "I think it is past time for the bedding!"

Renfred's cursing, loud as it was, was swept away by the cry of the crowd, women converging on him from all angles. Wylla Lyberr, wife to Ser Willis, had attacked Ren's breeches before he'd even managed to find his feet, as if she had been waiting all night for the opportunity. With a laugh, Aelor realized she probably had been.

The Prince himself made no move towards the throng of men surrounding Malessa Buckwell, leaving the removal of clothes to those more inebriated. He gave the lords and knights a moment to enjoy themselves, then turned to nod at the waiting Ser Manfred Darke. The squat figure, bigger than Rykker and half as tall, muscled through the crowd and scooped the already mostly nude maiden into his arms, striding toward the bedding chamber with the other revelers stumbling along behind. The Prince, knowing how out of hand such things could get, had ordered the man to make sure Malessa made it to her marital bed unscathed. Manfred was usually rude and always angry, but he was as loyal a man as Aelor had ever known. The new Lady Rykker would make it to her chamber unmarked if the boulder-like knight had to break bone to see it done.

Aelor was still laughing after the crowd when Ser Barristan materialized out of nowhere beside him, stepping in close to assure no other heard. "I have news, Prince."

He turned to face his mentor. "Good or bad?"

"Expected." The Kingsguard turned and gestured towards one of the shadowy adjoining halls. There, flanked by two men-at-arms wearing the white dragons of the Prince, stood a stranger dressed in heavy boots and a rumpled cloak. "A man from Gulltown in the Vale, arrived on a galley just this night."

The Prince didn't let his smile fade, though his humor certainly did. Patting Barristan on the shoulder, both men sauntered over to the interloper as if they had no care in the world. When they arrived, though, Aelor didn't bother with pleasantries. "You have information that would interest me?"

The man, who in truth was still half a boy, nervously licked his lips as he looked up. He swallowed thrice before managing to squeak out a response. "Y-y-es, m'lord. About Jon Arryn."

Aelor nodded, gesturing down the hall in the direction of his solar. "Well then. I'm looking forward to hearing all about him."

As Lord of Duskendale, Aelor technically owned every chamber within the Dun Fort, and from some points of view every chamber in the city of forty-thousand souls. He only truly used two though, his sizeable personal chamber and this singular room on the east side of the keep, overlooking the city he had made his own. It was from here that he ran his domain, the desk of dark red wood covered in parchments and inkwells, a systematic chaos that only Aelor knew the method behind.

It was from behind that desk that the prince peered at the Valeman, fingers interlaced and face blank. The Valeman in question, a lowborn named Ronald if he were to be believed, fidgeted nervously in the seat on the other side. His eyes kept darting around, unsure if he was supposed to be looking at the view out the sizeable window, the plate of roasted boar a kitchen maid had placed before him, or the imposing dragonlord seated across from him. Aelor ended that uncertainty with a gesture and a word. "Eat."

Ronald obliged, focusing solely on the plate in front of him. From the expressions that crossed the young mans face after the first bite, Aelor wagered he'd never had anything like it quite before. Small wonder. Those spices are from the Summer Isles, courtesy of the cargo holds of Aleqou Garantis. And very, very expensive.

The Lord of Duskendale had spared no expense for the wedding of his closest friend, and by the Seven those expenses were great. At first Aelor had thought it good fortune when Aleqou had sent a message that two of his fleet of trading galleys had made port three days earlier, but after his cargo had been purchased and the coin had traded hands Aelor realized the fortune was all Aleqou's. The prince wasn't too put out though; the chubby Pentoshi merchant made his second home in Duskendale and kept the Dun Fort stocked with whatever exotic Aelor wanted and plenty he did not, and was working his way into almost being a friend.

He let Ronald work his way through most of the plate and two glasses of wine before Aelor shot a significant glance at Maester Gorold. The middle-aged man, the only other present besides Aelor, Barristan and the informant, dipped his quill and held it at the ready. "This information you claim to have." Ronald jerked at the deep voice, having forgotten for a moment where he was and why he was there. "You say it concerns Jon Arryn?"

Ronald swallowed, then wisely shoved the plate away and gave Aelor his full attention. "Yes, m'lord."

"Prince," Barristan corrected form behind Aelor.

"Y-yes, Prince. My prince." The man had grown white as a sheet at the correction from Barristan, a rather extreme reaction considering how quietly it had been given. "Apologies, my prince."

Aelor leaned forward, only realizing that was a bad call when Ronald shrank back. "Calm yourself, Ronald. I am not my father." Aelor glanced at the remnants of the man's meal and let a small smile he didn't feel cross his lips. "If I were going to kill you, I wouldn't have wasted a fine meal on you beforehand now would I?"

Gulltown Ronald did seem to calm a bit, though his knee still bounced up and down rapidly in a nervous tic. Having taken stock of the man while he'd been eating, Aelor had determined that he had too much weight on his frame to be a true peasant but was too nervous to be familiar with dealing with nobility. Granted I am a Prince of the Iron Throne, which is not your everyday noble, but still; it's a poor showing. "Tell me. What is it you do in Gulltown?"

"My father is the steward for Ser Arstan Saul, my prince. I assist him."

Gorold spoke, filling in the blanks for Aelor without being asked. "A knightly house sworn to House Grafton, my prince. They control the largest towerhouse on the coast and police the dock, much like Ser Blaine's role as Shadowkeeper."

Aelor nodded his thanks, though his eyes never left the Valeman. "And as the son of a steward of a knight, you have information that I might find useful?" He kept his tone even, but Ronald clearly grasped the skepticism implied.

"I run messages, m'lord," he said quickly. "I mean, my prince. Between the knightly houses and sometimes to the steward at the main keep. It's my main duty."

Aelor leaned back. "And one of these messages had information of interest to me that you, as the message runner, were permitted to read."

Ronald swallowed, again white as a sheet, then plunged ahead. "I had a…friend, my prince, who—"

"Who is good with wax and seals, is he?" Aelor cut off. "A hard thing to do, copy a seal so closely that you can read letters and reseal them without being detected. Lord Grafton may wish to meet this friend." The prince raised a hand to forestall the certain-to-be desperate pleas. "But then again, so might I. For now, let's hear what these letters you were not supposed to read said."

The lad had grit, it must be said, even if his thinking left much to be desired. Despite being put on his back foot by Aelor's tone and words, as was the prince's intent in saying them how he did, Ronald hesitate, eyes darting between the three men in the room. Aelor knew that whatever information the lad possessed, he had intended on being rewarded for it. I can't say I hold that against him; nothing comes free in this world, and information can be more valuable than all the gold in Braavos, particularly now. Besides, he's right—if this proves valuable, he will be paid for it.

But first, a bit of mummery. Aelor lowered his head, letting the dark violet of his eyes mingle with the shadows of candlelight as he knew they would at this angle. His tone and gaze sharpened when he spoke again. "I do not have all night, Ronald. And while I'm not my father, I do not like to be kept waiting."

Whatever compensation he meant to ask for must have suddenly seemed unimportant, for Ronald began speaking so quickly Gorold struggled to write it all down. "Lord Arryn has called all his banners. Lord Grafton has ordered Ser Saul and the other knightly houses to gather folk from the streets and their own men."

It is as we supposed. War. Aelor felt his heart drop. While part of him craved the battles to come, the rest of him knew what was at stake. My family. Elia and the children. Mother, Viserys. "Any talk of lords not answering the call? Mercenaries, anything of that nature?"

Ronald shook his head. "Ser Veal and his sons were arguing about it, my prince, and the docks were rife with talk of the harbor closing at any moment. I booked passage on the first ship out."

"To come report on your family and those they serve." Ronald had the decency to appear chagrined. "Anything else?"

"No, prince."

Aelor nodded. "Well, it is more than I knew an hour ago." He stood abruptly. After a moment, Ronald realized he was supposed to stand as well, and did so with such hast that his chair clattered backwards to the stone. "Ser Manfred!"

The broad knight opened the door at once, stepping through. His voice suited his appearance, in that it was ugly and rough as stone breaking. "Yes, Prince Aelor?"

The prince gestured at Ronald. "This man has proven his loyalty to the crown. Ten golden dragons for him, then find him a cot."

"Thank you, my prince!" Ronald's face had lit up as he spoke, but Aelor was already moving past him with Barristan and Gorold at his heels. Aelor clapped Manfred on the shoulder as he passed. "He also wanted payment for doing his duty to House Targaryen. I'll give it to him, but he leaves Duskendale with a few less teeth than he arrived with."

The prince and his counselors weren't quite out of the door before the sound of Manfred's fist connecting with Ronald's face filled the room. "Gorold," Aelor said as they began down the hall. "Assuming all of that was the truth, I wish to know this 'friend'. Gulltown Ron in there is not intelligent enough to keep my interest, but anyone who can read and re-seal letters from a lord without being detected is someone I want to be aware of, if for no other reason than to make sure it is not happening to me. Stay here and patch Ronald up once Manfred is done, then get me that name. If he proves reluctant, bring Manfred back in."

Gorold nodded, stopping and turning back. "At once, my prince."

Barristan spoke up as the two of them continued on. "That may have been a poor move, Prince Aelor. Word will get out that a man brought you information and suffered a beating for it; might make others more reluctant to bring more to you."

Aelor grunted, not slowing. "He also left a fair bit richer, which I think would have the opposite effect." The prince sighed. "But you are probably right. I guess I have seen too many treacheries for money in King's Landing; it's soured me on those who would turn their own family in for so little a motive as gold."

"You have never lacked for gold, Prince. Those who have view it in a much different light."

I can't argue that. "A true statement on all accounts. That's why I like you, Barristan, you put me in my place. I'll give him another dragon for the teeth." They re-entered the main hall a few moments later, to find that after the bedding most guests had stumbled to their own chambers. Servants scurried about, cleaning the spills and returning order to the disarray the visitors had left his castle in. A few were helping this knight or that lord to their drunken feet and herding them off to their chambers.

Despite the looming trouble, Aelor laughed quietly. "I see I wasn't missed." He turned, extending a hand to his Kingsguard knight. "Rest well, Barristan. We rise early in the morning. Peasants to train, hangovers to cure."

Barristan the Bold took the hand, nodding. "Of course, my prince. Shall I convene a war council at dawn?"

Aelor nodded even as he turned to make his way back to his chambers facing the sea. "Please do, old friend. As Ronald so kindly confirmed, we are fighting a war after all."

Just how Barristan the Bold managed to assemble all his bannerman and top knights so early the next morning Aelor would never know, but when he entered the main hall they were mostly already in place, meandering through breakfast. 'Struggling' was perhaps the best term, as most of them were moving slowly sluggishly slow. Lord Cleyton Byrch was dozing in his seat, fork still in his grip, but the men were there in body if not quite there in mind.

Ser Gullien saw him first, beginning to rise from his seat and barking a alert to the others, but Aelor bade them stay seated with a wave of his hand. Jeyne, always at the ready when Aelor ate in his main hall, had placed a plate of fish and a flagon of ale in front of him almost before he finished taking his seat on the dais. He ate quickly as the men around him returned to nursing their hangovers.

Lady Wylla, the commanding presence Aelor had placed in charge of the servants of his household, stopped by his elbow to quietly discuss the state of the household as he ate, as was her ritual. Aelor supposed saying he 'placed' her in charge was an exaggeration; she had endured the chaos of the Dun Fort for less than a fortnight before simply informing her husband's liege that she would be handling the management of servants moving forward. Aelor, five and ten and at his wits end with that aspect of being a lord, had readily agreed. By days end, the Lady Lyberr had the Dun Fort running smoothly.

I value her husband's sword and counsel its true, but I could replace Ser Willis far easier than I could replace his wife. He had known even at five and ten how to manage soldiers and had learned and learned well in the years since how to handle washers, cooks, grooms and other aspects of running a household, but he had no intention of taking back any of Wylla Lyberr's authority; she was too damn good at her job.

Her report was interrupted briefly by the appearance of Renfred and his new wife, arm-in-arm. A round of good-natured ribbing and whistles greeted them, though Aelor was delighted to see that both Ren and Malessa met it with smiles and laughter. They seem happy. Good. There will be little enough to be happy about in the coming days.

He waited until Wylla was finished, giving the others an opportunity to finish their meals. Once done, though, he gestured towards Malessa. "Thank you, Wylla. I'd ask you to keep things running smoothly while I am gone, but you always do."

The matronly woman smiled worriedly at him, then glanced at her husband where he sat with their daughter in the tables below and swallowed softly. "I'll see to it the ladies and children leave you be, my prince."

A few moments later Aelor stood and spoke, addressing a chamber that now held only his lords and advisors. "We have received word from the Vale, my lords." Each of the lords and knights, no matter their stage of sickness while recovering from the night before or progress through their meals, instantly gave him their full attention. "Jon Arryn has called his banners. We are at war."

There was no shouts of elation or dismay, only a few bobbing heads and grim faces. Lord Cleyton, now fully awake, spoke first. "What are our orders, Prince Aelor?" The lord of Byrch Hall, a burly man gone bald a decade the prince's elder, was the most powerful of the minor houses sworn to Duskendale. His ambition and arrogance, never far from the surface, had resulted in their bumping heads in the early days of Aelor's rule; it had come to a peak a year into it, when Ser Balman and Ser Morgan, Cleyton's younger brothers, had left Byrch Hall for Aelor's direct service. Their paranoid elder brother had ridden to Duskendale in a panic, fearing Aelor meant to replace him with Balman. Aelor had ridden out, despite Barristan's protests, and met Cleyton alone. None but the two men knew what was said, but Lord Cleyton had been one of Aelor's staunchest supporters ever since.

"That's what we are here to discuss, Lord Byrch. I have sent a raven to King's Landing informing my father of what has happened, though I expect Varys already knows. The king will call his own banners as he must; the raven summoning me is likely already on the way. I intend to be marching by the time it arrives."

"The peasant levies have only just began training, Your Grace," advised Lord Donnel Buckwell. Malessa's father, silver haired and sixty with drooping mustachios, was by far the eldest of the lords sworn to Duskendale. He was as competent as he was cautious, and Aelor considered him a voice of reason. "Your thoughts, Ser Manfred?"

Manfred Darke was scowling, which might mean he was angry or might mean he was deliriously happy. "Most of the buggering idiots can barely avoid stabbing themselves with their own spears right now. Put them in front of a line of knights and they'll be lambs to the fucking slaughter."

Renfred, who had taken his usual place at Aelor's right hand once Malessa had exited, spoke up. "We train as we march. Halt two hours before dusk and train them until nightfall. By the time we reach any true field of battle they'll be as ready as they're ever going to be."

"They're levies," Lord Cleyton agreed. "Unreliable no matter how trained. Knights and men-at-arms are our only true force."

Ser Barristan, standing behind Aelor, grunted in disagreement. "They are our most dependable, yes, but properly trained and led levy spears can turn a battle. Most of them have never held a weapon before we armed them, but they can learn."

Aelor nodded. "They'll never match a knight in single combat, but if we train them as a wall, they have a chance."

"What are our total numbers?" Lord Elwood Harte, last of his line, was the final and weakest of the lords proper sworn to Duskendale. A lord since the age of two when a fever took most of the Brindlewood save Elwood and an old crone, he was short and thing with a few stray copper hairs he tried to pass for a beard. Aelor liked him. He was terrified of Aelor.

"Five thousand total," answer Ser Willas. "A third are levies."

"Not the largest of forces to be sure," Aelor admitted. "But we are already assembled. The Vale is only just beginning to muster, and Lord Arryn will have to smuggle Eddard Stark north and Robert Baratheon to the Stormlands to rally their own bannermen. We have the advantage if we strike now."

Ser Balman, seated as far from his brother as possible—no love was shared between the two eldest Byrch's—had been thinking along the same line as Aelor. "We hit them before they can gather. Take the Valemen or the Stormlanders one at a time, before they can muster their strength. Our small numbers won't matter if we hit forces even smaller."

A round of agreements coursed, punctuated by Renfred. "If we can catch them piecemeal we can shatter their forces before most can even rally." He glanced at Aelor, shrugging. "We're amassed and equipped. They are neither yet."

"The king will insist on your presence in King's Landing, Prince Aelor" cautioned Ser Barristan. "Credible as this plan is, your father will expect you to reinforce the capitol first."

The Lord of Duskendale nodded. "And so I shall, though I will not remain there. We march to King's Landing, traveling as we go, and recruit as many lords and their men as we can along the way. Then we march through the Stormlands; Baratheon is their only claimant, and the most dangerous warrior of the Lords Paramount. He is the one we need to remove. If we can do that, scattering Stormlords as we go, we may be able to end this rebellion before it begins."

Barristan tilted his head in warning. "The king may not approve, my prince."

I'm sure he won't. "The king started this war, Barristan, with no small amount of help from my brother. I intend to end it, whether he approves or not." Aelor rose to his feet, prompting the others to do the same. "Go to your men, my lords, and make ready. War is upon us. We march for King's Landing by dusk."