Guess who's back. Back again.

Dragonstone - August, 283 AC

Soldiers trained in rows, alternating between a half dozen different positions while Raymund watched over them like a gopher, strict and diligent. The men of Dragonstone, be they fishers' sons or sellsword wannabes, needed work, and fast. The balance of the rebellion was in a deadly equilibrium, and the stability of the Crown rested on a razor's edge. Dragonstone needed soldiers, and it needed them now. Ever since the last batch had gone with Rhaegar to the Trident and died…. well, the soldiers of Dragonstone was in rough shape.

Not for the first time, Raymund wondered why it was he who was responsible for training them. Surely, there were other knights, more qualified men who could handle this. Sure, Willem Darry wasn't doing anything, but the old man wasn't the only knight on Dragonstone.

But Her Grace had given him her support. She believed in him, far more than Raymund felt justified. But he would not let her down. And to start, that meant making her an army.

There were very few horses on Dragonstone with which Raymund could make a mounted force, but he made do. Nine in ten of them were lean, toughened garrons, smaller beasts used to the island living that Dragonstone offered. Their coats bore the ashy coloring of their home, but they were far more even-tempered than the Dragonmount.

One in ten horses were rounseys; better than garrons, but worse than destriers. These horses were fierce, bred for warring, and Raymund purchased any that he could get his hands on. Thirty-three of the beasts from the stables of landed knights, seven more from the Targaryen's own limited menagerie. The males were bred with all the garron females, in Raymund's hope of creating a dedicated cavalry force. After that, they were mounted up for training.

Rhaella and Viserys would often watch Raymund work in the yard or in the fields, racing his recruits up and down the short length of the island. He could sense their interest, and they occasionally called out to him with questions or, in Viserys' case, requests to join in. The new Prince of Dragonstone had taken his training to stride, but seemed to think that meant he could join the men when it was their turn, as well.

It was after the training when they would take their chance to speak. "That was fantastic!" Viserys said, excited beyond the scope of Raymund or even Rhaella. He bounced up in down in place, the way only a child of seven namedays could. "I demand you teach me the same!"

"In due time, my Prince," Raymund chuckled. "In due time."

"Is this all necessary, Ser Raymund? I ask you to train the garrison, and I find you building an army. It seems to me there's a gap between the two you might have forgotten." Her eyes would be full of approval, however, so Raymund knew there was no true condemnation.

He looked at her, and let a small grin get past his lips. "In times of war, Your Grace, there is little difference. Your family fights a battle for their very existence. I am doing naught but my part as your loyal servant and Kingsguard."

"Well continue, then," she said, with a voice as soft as silk, "and make me a legion to rival Ghiscar."

So he did.

Raymund had no formal experience training a garrison, much less an army, but he'd been around soldiers his entire life. His father - Lord Robbett Cuy, one of the most paranoid men in the entire Honeywine basin - had insisted on Raymund being present during the training of his older brother, Branston. The man had never voiced his fears about Branston's possible death, but the specter of his anxiety hung over those sessions, always.

As such, Raymund knew a thing or two about drilling, building morale and camaraderie, and above all else, loyalty. Robbett had instilled the values of a loyal regiment to both his sons, stating over and over the importance of a conceptual whole beyond the individual soldier's life. You had to make an army feel like an army and value the concept of their unity. That way they wouldn't break at the slightest hesitation and could be relied upon to maintain a structure of command even if Raymund were out of the picture.

Easier said than done.

He made sure to include Viserys in as many drills as he could, allowing the boy to observe, and more importantly, be seen by his prospective soldiers. Personal feelings and loyalty were best cultivated through direct exposure, and seeing the precocious young Prince of Dragonstone in all his glory certainly did that.

While he was training a new army for Dragonstone, Rhaella got to work on the Lords of the Narrow Sea. Lords who would be needed in the second wave, when the Targaryens had the strength to go on the offensive once again. She invited ladies of assorted noble houses to attend her, choice among them from House Sunglass, Velaryon, Celtigar, and Bar Emmon. Even the houses of Crackclaw Point were included. Ladies of Brune, Byrch, Staunton, Crabb, and more were called to serve at court, either as personal handmaidens to the Queen or as some prestigious (but ultimately meaningless) title, such as Arella Velaryon, the 'Mistress of Embroidery".

Young squires and heirs were also called from the Narrow Sea houses, brought to serve alongside the Prince as friends and peers. Monford Velaryon, a young boy some years older than Viserys, was the first to arrive, alongside his half-brother - a bastard- named Aurane. They were followed by Calidan and Cormick Celtigar, grandsons of old Lord Adrian. A Brune boy - Raymun didn't happen to learn his name - came too, but was quieter than the likes of Viserys and the others. He would follow behind their antics, a silent shadow in a group of childish revelry. It seemed that he was accepted by the others, so all was well.

Viserys' court was just coming into its own when the capital was put to siege.

King's Landing - August, 283 AC

Jorgen Massey was having some serious internal conflict.

Bolts of red and gold fluttered at the gates, heralding the some twelve thousand men that carried them. The sun glinted off plate and pike alike, and grim looks gave their true intentions away in an instant. Lannister and their lions had come to scavenge what the stag had started, and Jorgen had no intention of letting that happen.

Unfortunately, his King didn't agree.

If they held the walls, there was perhaps a chance. Jorgen commanded some six thousand men within the city, made up of the City Watch, peasants levied from the population, and forces taken from the surrounding Crownlands houses. Stokeworth, Hayford and Rosby had all sent soldiers when the Lannister army was sighted, bolstering the defenses with well-trained recruits. They had the lords to command them, and the Kingsguard - Lyonel, Jaime, and himself. Although the other two were kept closer to Aerys.

Tywin Lannister might choose to starve them out, rather than risk his twelve thousand men against the walls, towers, and other defenses of the capital. That would have allowed for support to be sent, for the armies mustering at Duskendale, Stonedance, and Dragonstone to reinforce. The Tyrells at Storm's End could even be roused, joining House Targaryen to unleash fury on the rebels.

But the missive in his hands rendered all that a needless worry, a future that would never arrive.

Aerys wanted to let them in.

"Are you sure?" he asked, pleading with the messenger. Please, let it not be true. Don't make me doom these men. As a Kingsguard, his duty was first to the King, then to the royal family, then the rest. He couldn't disobey the King's orders.

"From the King's own hand, Ser," replied the messenger, as nervous as Jorgen felt. The boy's olive skin was slick with sweat, while his flinty eyes were aflame with dread.

The men around him looked the same. All warriors, all captains or knights with experience in their own personal battles. Manly Stokeworth was the Commander of the City Watch, not a knight like Jorgen or most other previous commanders, but digiligant and wary of corruption. Stokeworth was far older than Jorgen, and had the experience to match. Lords Hayford and Rosby stood together, and other gate captains filled out the rest.

They all knew what this would mean for the city.

"We should let them in, my lords," said one Janos Slynt, the frog-faced captain of the Iron Gate. "His Grace the King expects his orders to be followed with haste, and this meeting is anything but. Lord Tywin Lannister has always been a friend to the Crown."

Malcolm Hayford glared at him. "Think, boy. Look at the tides, the ways of war. Tywin Lannister has never been a hero. He will not put his neck on the block for us! Before the Trident, perhaps, but not now."

"Agreed," said old Lord Rosby, red-nosed and sickly. At six and fifty he was the most aged among them, but Jorgen needed his men and his coin far more than he would ever need his fighting skills. "I am no one to question his Grace, but it would be tantamount to suicide if we were to open our gates. I could not be more against it."

One of the younger captains - Jorgen didn't know his name - chose that moment to interject. "Just look at them! They aren't marching to defend us, but to attack. Only a madman would think otherwise."

"Careful, lad," warned Manly. "That kind of talk is treason. Our loyalty lies with the King, above all else." His gaze swept the tower room, staring down all others who might dare speak. The Stokeworth lamb seemed a poor allegory at this time, what with the strength he projected. "We obey his orders. His commands."

Jorgen swallowed. He'd spent a long time in King's Landing, serving the Targaryens in whatever way they'd asked. His grandfather had demanded such of him, back when he was sent to King's Landing. "The dragons are fickle, my boy," he'd said, staring intently towards Jorgen from his bedridden state. "They turn against you as quickly as they turn for you. You can earn their favor, but never count on it." He'd been among those to seize Brandon Stark, and he had heard Rhaella's screams just the same as any other Kingsguard. It was not knightly of him to stand idly by. But he'd done so all the same. His cloak, while snow white, had been reddened time and time again.

Not today.

"You mean to follow the King's orders, then?" he asked Manly. Jorgen searched the man's eyes as he responded.

"Aye, I do," he replied. The man set his jaw, daring him to respond. The tension was thick.

Jorgen's blade flew from his sheath, flying across the table to Manly's supply. The Commander of the Gold Cloak's blood splattered across the map of King's Landing, dotting the streets like puddles in a flood. Jorgen's heart was pounding in his ear, but he forced the panic down. No one spoke.

"Spread the word," he managed, finally breaking the silence. "No one goes in, no one goes out. The Lannisters mean to take this city, and I mean to prevent that. No blind sheep or mad King will prevent that."

All around him, men saluted, eyes hardening as they gazed upon the corpse of Manly Stokeworth. To many, that man was their superior. He'd need a replacement.

"You," said Jorgen, pointing to the captain who'd spoken out. "You're the new Commander of the Goldcloaks. See to it that this body is dealt with, and that a replacement for your previous position is found immediately."

"Yes, Ser." the captain replied. He bowed, and left. Soon, too, did the others.

That night, the attacks began.

Raymund gets to work on Dragonstone, trying to salvage the war effort after Rhaegar and co. royally screwed it up. Rhaella repairs relations, and Viserys makes some friends.

Also, Jorgen Massey is in some deep shit. We'll see how that goes.

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