“You cannot do this!” 

The rest of the court ignored him, acting as though he didn't exist, which further incensed his foul mood.

“I am the King!” Tyrell growled, a murderous expression in his eyes. He expected this to cause fear, not the disdain that was present in everyone else's faces.

“You are a tyrant, and I banish thee from this Kingdom!”

Tyrell's face turned several different shades of purple. He had never felt so much rage in his life.

“You! You upstart!”

His younger brother said nothing, whilst sat on his throne, wearing his crown.

“If you had been even a half decent King, this never would've happened.”

“I'll be back! Mark my words, I'll be back. You'd best sleep with one eye open, little King.” Tyrell said the last words with derision as he was dragged away and unceremoniously thrown down the castle steps.

He rose from the ground, breathing heavily. What next? There was only one thing to do now. One, all-consuming thought which would help him through this exile that his own people had inflicted on him.

Revenge.

Tyrell walked onwards, heading Northwards, to a land of savages and barbarians. He turned up his nose in disgust. To have to lower himself, to beg for their assistance. 

A hazy memory came to him. His father was staring down at him with a stern expression. The man had never smiled, and scarcely had a kind word ever slipped from his mouth, but he had been wise. Yes, he had been wise.

“They will try to best you at every turn. To take what is rightfully yours. Your throne, your status, everything.”

“Who, father?”

“Everyone. Anyone. And on that day, you do whatever it takes to survive and hold on to your crown.”

“Take back my crown,” Tyrell muttered. “Whatever it takes. I'll make them pay. They'll see.”

“They'll see!” He shouted into the bitter, harsh wind, and it was as though a madness had overcome him as he laughed wildly, wrapping his fur cloak tighter round his ample body.

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Days passed. Weeks. He had lost track of the amount of time he had been traveling, til he reached the crude Northland citadel. It was nothing in comparison to what was once his castle. Which will be my castle again, he corrected himself.

“Who goes there?” The guards shouted as one.

Tyrell tried not to show his disgust at their grotesque faces. Goblins. Who would employ goblins as their guards unless they were desperate? They stole, lied, cheated. They were not to be trusted. But then, who could be trusted? He began to wonder whether coming here had been a good idea at all. He took a deep breath and steeled himself.

“I am Tyrell, King of the Fells.”

The goblins laughed long and loud while he gritted his teeth. Before he was usurped, Tyrell would have driven a spear through each of their chests for their blatant insolence.

“I wish to meet with your Master.” 

“D'ya hear that, Gruell?” The Goblin who planted himself directly in front of the entrance to the citadel sneered. “He wishes to see the Master.”

His patience snapped, the force of his backhand caused the Goblin to collapse to the floor with a sickening thud.

Tyrell came so close to the other Goblin that their noses were nearly touching. “Not so funny now, am I?” He hissed. “Go and tell your Master I have a proposition for him. One which will involve a quarter of the gold from my treasury if he is agreeable.”

The remaining Goblins’ eyes widened as they mumbled among themselves, “quarter of the treasury…what?”

“Go!” Tyrell bellowed, and the Goblin quickly scurried away to do his bidding.

Not long after, Tyrell got his wish. He was standing in a long hallway. The only furnishings were the skulls of monsters hung on the walls. Some, such as a dragon's head, he recognised, whereas others were far too disturbing to describe.

“So!” The Master said in a loud, booming voice. “Tyrell the Bloodthirsty wishes to reclaim his throne. Oh yes, I've heard of you. Murderer of Innocents. Killer of the Last Pegasus.”

“The throne is rightfully mine after all.” He responded sharply.

“Why should I lend you my army? That is what you're here for, isn't it? I hear you offered a quarter of your treasury's gold, once you win back the throne you so covet. But I have no need for gold. Look how low you've sunk, asking the Barbarian King for assistance. Oh yes, I know what the other Kingdoms think of me, so I ask again, why should I help you?”

“For one simple reason,” Tyrell shot back. “There is no sport your people enjoy more than warfare.”

There was a pause, and for a moment he was worried that he had pushed the Master too far.

But he just smirked and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Do you know what you have? Spunk!” He laughed. “Lots of spunk! I'll get you your army boy! I'll lead you into glorious battle. But…” He now stabbed a finger at him. “Do not forget it was my help that got you back on your throne. The help of a Barbarian.”

Tyrell scowled, and nodded once. Whatever was necessary to reclaim his Kingdom, he'd do it, he could always deal with this Barbarian later. But for now, he would march to war. And when he'd won, he would punish all those who had turned against him. Oh, yes he would.