Fandom A Game Of Thrones : THE EXALTED COUNCIL - RP

[Lingua Frankly Not]

Natanael Baelish
Lord of Little
​

More than a bit of time had passed since Lord Natanael Baelish's well-tailored doublet and the sharp clack of his leather heels had graced the halls outside the small council chamber. Admittedly, he had assumed that these matters may have been brought to a wrap earlier in the day, though Baelish was entirely patient enough to compensate for his mistake. Standing outside in the hall several paces off, along the path he assumed a certain Lord Martell would depart down, Natanael entertained himself.

This is not to say that he is alone.

Resting atop Natanael's shoulder lays an iguana that frequently drew odd glances from guards, commoners, and nobles alike, and had earned Natanael something of an eccentric reputation. During these minutes, then hour, and perhaps more that Natanael waited for the Lord Martell's business to conclude -- for certainly, he was not presumptuous enough to dream of interrupting any matters so important as these -- Natanael intermittently drew fingers along the reptile's back, scratched the side of her head and beneath her chin as she liked, and whispered to her sweet nothings.

"Yes, my Lady, I know; it's unbecoming to look so dour. We'll feed you soon, won't we?" Natanael murmured, a whisper of detached amusement dancing through his gaze.

It is in a manner similar to this that Lord Baelish would be found, either by those about to exit the small council chamber, or any Lords or Ladies who might be approaching for some sort of meeting. Certainly any guards, Queensguard or otherwise, in the hall were likely looking forward to the timely departure of the most bizarre wall ornament in the hall.

Akio
& anyone else coming and going to the council chambers

 

[Hypnos]

Blackhaven
Eustace Lyberr
Soldier​

A cold chill blew through the air surrounding the Tyrell army, the heavy breeze enough to make even the most battle hardened warriors let out a shiver. This was not optimal weather, especially for what was to come. If it were up to Ser Eustace, he would be back in Highgarden right now, warming his hands by a fire and enjoying a good meal with an attractive young woman. He doubted he’d experience those luxuries again for a very long time. If at all. They were at war, war with half of Westeros, and that meant that there were a great many things that he was going to have to sacrifice in the future.

It hadn’t felt real when Lord Baelor had first sent ravens to his vassals demanding their presence at Highgarden. It hadn’t felt real when tens of thousands of men had left their farmsteads behind; their wives, their children, all to fight for a man who didn’t even know their names. It hadn’t even felt real when they first began their march eastwards into the depths of enemy land, braving harsh terrain and an unforgiving climate, knowing that around every corner they could find an army of people who would see them all dead and buried. It certainly felt real now. Standing beneath the walls of Blackhaven with thousands of young men at his back. Many of them wouldn’t live to see the castle fall. Fewer would live to see the dawn of winter. Eustace didn’t care. Only one train of thought coursed through his mind. Come the morning, he would not be amongst the rabble that would have to be carried off the battlefield in a wagon. One way or another, Ser Eustace would not die here today.

Blackhaven was a big castle, maybe not to the scale of Highgarden or Casterly Rock, but for many of these men, the largest structures they had seen in their lives were grind mills and granaries. To them, Blackhaven was a behemoth, a great monstrocity whose high basalt walls dominated the skyline like a permanent shadow, blocking out all signs of the clouds above. Today, that behemoth would fall. Today, the war would truly begin.

Ser Eustace sat uncomfortably upon his horse, fidgeting around in his armour as his men stood behind him in formation, awaiting their orders. Before them stood the castle, but also something more, this would be the first true battle in what could potentially be a long and arduous war. Many had advised caution. They had said that it would be better to let others draw the first blood in the conflict, to let Daeron or Elaena wear each other down and preserve the forces of the Reach. But they were not cowards. They would not sit and let other men decide the fate of the war. Baelor Tyrell had scoffed at the notion of remaining idle. Melessa’s little whelp would win the throne through valour and glory, not through cowardice. It was these principle that brought them beneath the walls of the castle, and it was these principles that would win them the day.

“Dondarrions! You are brave men! The marchers are known for their prowess at arms!” The call came from Lord Buford Footley, who had been assigned as the commander in chief of this particular army. Other Reach lords were scattered throughout the Stormlands, launching similar assaults, but that wasn’t of great concern to Ser Eustace, he only cared about the here and now. “But your cause is lost! Stand down and receive mercy! Stand down and no man will die here today!”

There was no response. There wasn’t supposed to be.

Dondarrion scouts had seen their army approaching several miles ago, they had lost the element of surprise. This call was simply common courtesy. A sign that Lord Baelor Tyrell was willing to accept the surrender of any who cared more for their lives and the lives of their families than Alexander Baratheon. Of course, it was doubtful that many would see reason. Stormlords were known to be thick headed creatures, too proud for their own good. Dozens of them would be dead when the Reach finished its march, and that was conservative estimate.

“I will only offer one more warning! Open the gates of face the might of the Reach!”

Silence once more.

Eustace took a look at the men behind him, then back at the castle. He swallowed, his sword feeling heavy in his hands.

It began in an instant.

Arrows rained down from the castle walls like snowfall in a heavy winter, sticking any man who was stupid enough not to hold up his shield. Luckily for Eustace he was not among them. The majority of his force were ready for the incoming strike and held their formation. Ensuring that the arrows had only a minimal effect. Perhaps Lord Dondarrion had been anticipating a siege, for it seemed that the battlements were not quite as lively as they should be in a time like this. The Reach had no time for sieges however. They would begin an assault.

Men charged forward like rabid animal, clutching various types of ladders or other scaling equipment. All it would take would be one man to get over the walls and open the gates, and then the day would be won. Would that man be Eustace? No. He would play things safe here in the left wing. Let other men die for glory. First upon the walls was Ser Edmund Flowers, the bastard of Honeyholt , a brave warrior of great renown. He was cut down like grass.

Next came another wave of warriors, all hoping to make a name for themselves, they climbed quickly and swiftly up onto the walls, but they saw little more success than the bastard had. Meadows, Merryweather, Caswell, Costayne, Conklyn. They all suffered casualties at the hands of the ferocious stormlords. It seemed as if there was no limit to the forces that Blackhaven could repel. Ladders lay secured upon the castle walls, but climbing any of them seemed to be a death sentence.

More men climbed. More men fell. Climb. Fall. Climb. Fall. Climb. Fall. No man could saty upon the battlements for more than a few seconds without being pushed to the ground. Discarded like a child’s today. Soldiers fell. Warriors fell. Knights fell. Lords fells. Even a few people that Eustace would consider his friends had fallen to their deaths below the castle walls. It seemed hopeless.

‘What if we lose?’ Eustace couldn’t push the dark thoughts from his mind. ‘What if out numbers are too few? What if that fat oaf in Highgarden has underestimated our enemy? What if I die?’ Eustace didn’t want die. He was not a brave man. He tried to be, but he couldn’t fathom death. The Septons always told him that a brave knight like him was assured a place in the seven heavens, but what if they were wrong? Had Eustace done anything deserving of dining with heroes such as Aemon the Dragonknight or Aegon the Conqueror? Had Eustace truly lived a just life. He had a foul mouth and poor temper, he’d lusted after whores, he had killed for his lord, he’d cheated in dice. Was this going to be the end of him? Would he suffer for all eternity? Would today be his last? Ser Eustace Lyberr: a coward who died upon the floor whilst braver men than him risked it all.

No.

“Form up men! With me!” He called out. Many would not follow him, many would be too scared. But that didn’t matter right now. He wouldn’t look back. He only had one goal. He would make his life his own.

Eustace rode forward at a rapid pace, faster than he had ever done so before. He rode until he no longer could, his shield raised high above his head as he dismounted his horse just below the basalt walls, his hand reaching out for the first rung of a ladder. Eustace climbed; climbed like his life depended on it. Which it did. Every rung felt like an obstacle that he had to overcome, a new enemy that had to be slain. Arrows flew by his head, whizzing just past him and barely missing, there was an inch between him and death. He could see the top of the wall now. He could see victory. He reached his hand up to grab onto the parapets and…

Fuck.

The arrow had only landed in his shoulder but it was enough to catch him off guard, he almost fell from his position, but he managed to hold on, adrenaline blocking out the pain. “I’ll fucking kill you for that.” He yelled to no one in particular. No one could hear him. No one cared. He pulled himself up finally onto the walls. Maybe three dozen Reach men had preceded him and they all lay dead at his feet. Killed by the men of Blackhaven. He made a silent curse to the gods for making him so foolish, but it was too late to give up now. He was here.

Perhaps a score had followed him up the ladder, and whilst the Dondarrion men were still putting up a good fight, more and more Reach men were beginning to overwhelm them. They could not hold out in perpetuity.

Eustace held his sword aloft, attempting to avoid direct confrontation, especially with the arrow still impaled in his shoulder. He needed to open the gates. He needed to bring in the reinforcements. It was hard work, very hard work, but he managed to fight his way towards the back end of the gates. Stab. Hit. Parry. Dodge. He had never been the sharpest blade, but here in the heat of battle he felt like John the Oak or Ryam Redwyne. The knights of legend.

He heard the Dondarrion men yelling curses from behind him, but at the same time he didn’t hear. Everything felt muffled. Quiet. Perhaps even a little peaceful. He cut down a Dondarrion man with a strike the back of the head, another he swiped at the knees. He could feel the arrow in his shoulder getting more and more painful. He’d have to get a maester to see to it after the battle. After their victory.

He stood at the gate, with maybe a hundred or so men at his back. The Dondarrions were beginning to fall flat now and he knew that they wouldn’t be able to last too much longer. They were winning. This was what glory felt li…

Another fucking arrow.

This time it hit him square in the ribs, knocking all of the air out of his lungs Eustace fell backwards, but was caught quickly by a man at arms. “Cap’n we here. We can do this.”

“Open the gates.” Eustace heard himself say, though he could not feel the words leaving his mouth. His eyes had began to grow tired. Things were gradually getting dimmer. He could see the men running towards the gate. He could see the men of Blackhaven die valiantly protecting it. He could see his companions finally unbar the doors and open the entrance way to the oncoming storm. He could see the men of the Reach rush forward. He could see nothing.

Manfred Beesbury
Knight of the Reach​

As soon as they saw the gates, open the men of the Reach began to charge. It was the first battle many of them had seen in their life times and they were all ready for glory. There had been hesitation at first when Lord Baelor had told them to hang back. He had ordered the bulk of the army to stay within the shadows until the gates were finally opened, ordering a party of maybe a thousand or so men to risk their lives in ensuring that the gates were opened so that the rest of them could claim the victory. It had worked, miraculously, and for that Manfred was very grateful.

He rode beside Lord Baelor Tyrell, who had himself come to the battlefield to witness the Reach’s first great victory. The man was fat, fat and old. But sitting there to his left upon horseback he looked no less impressive than any other soldier that Manfred had ever seen.

There was little time to focus upon Lord Baelor however, as combat was still afoot. The calvary road forward with great conviction, it’s vanguard led by the vallent Lord Garlan Florent who was the first man through the gates when they had finally been opened. The rest of the army was not far behind.

What followed was a massacre. Now that their defences were down, there was no hope for the Dondarrion men of continuing the fight. A few surrendered. A lot ran and were cut down in the ensuing chaos. But many more were too proud for that, they stood their ground and died like men upon the battlefield. It was a noble sacrifice. Manfred would remember them, even if no one else would.

It was not long after that that the castellion surrendered. Coming out with a banner of white and begging for Lord Baelor’s mercy. Luckily for him it was given. Baelor Tyrell ordered that all those that had surrendered should be gathered up and taken prisoner. All nobles in the castle would be given an escort back to Highgarden where they would live comfortably until the end of the war. Wealth and anything of particular value would also be rounded up and taken back to the Reach, where it would be used to pay off the soldiers who had fought so valiantly. Silver spoons, golden candlesticks, ornate tapestries, they were all spoils of war and now all belonged to the victors.

“Today has been hard, many good men have fallen on the battlefield.” Baelor Tyrell would not miss the opportunity to make a speech. “But we have achieved a great victory here today. The mightiest of the Stormlords has fallen. The marchers of Dondarrion. If we can take down this foe, who is it that stands in our way?”

The people cheered. Today, they had won.

 

[ailurophile]

l i l i t hiiib a r a t h e o n

a sudden gust of wind whipped through lilith's hair as she stood watching the children play, arms folded so she could tuck her hands beneath them and protect her fingers from the chill. just as expected, the game was about to 'end in tears'.
"excuse me for one moment." though it sounded like a question, there was no doubt that lilith's conversation with ronnet penrose was on hold. much to her amusement, ethan seemed mortified when she crouched down beside him, paying no mind to the fact she might dirty her skirts.
"mother!" her son hissed, eyes darting to the rest of the children who had frozen in a little huddle only a few feet away. lilith followed his gaze, and sighed inwardly. as much as she wanted to bundle him up in her arms and fuss over him the way she had when he was barely knee-high on her, she couldn't embarrass him. her little lord. raising an eyebrow, she smoothed her son's hair back from his forehead and, with a pang, realised how much he was growing to resemble his father.
"no need to fret, my dear. i'm not going to offer to kiss it better." she whispered, her eyes glittering with the playfulness that seemed exclusively reserved for her family, "but do be careful, for my sake if not for yours-- i do worry. and what would your father say, if i had to write to him to tell him you'd broken a leg on my watch?"
she could see her son considering her words carefully in his head and, satisfied she had gotten her message across, rose to her feet once more. no sooner had she turned back to ronnet, the children barrelled off again, whooping and cheering.
"now. where were we?"
it was a pleasant surprise for lilith to see her sister-in-law approaching. after bidding farewell to ronnet, she smiled and ran her hands down the front of her skirt, self consciously worrying that it could have become dirty while she was speaking to her son. though she knew it was wrong, she couldn't help but feel a shred of jealousy-- joy's husband was returning, while her dear alexander was still far away in king's landing. the more childish part of her had longed to join him, but she knew it was best for her to be home. that way, she could keep an eye on things, important things.
"i'm well, thankyou. missing my darling, of course, but it can't be helped." lilith smiled, keeping the sadness from lacing her voice, and let her eyes drift to the placement of joy's hands. "and yourself? you must be excited. when i was carrying my children, i was so ridiculously excited that i could barely even bring myself to sleep. poor alexander, having to put up with me." her reminiscing was followed by a gentle laugh. although lilith was known to be timid and quiet, amongst family she did tend to open up more. besides, she couldn't help jumping at the chance to talk about something so exciting.

TheFool

 

[Hypnos]

Gregor Bolton
A Disappointed Vassal​

Cursing under his breath at the sheer oddity of the farce that was unfolding before him, Greg allowed himself a brief moment to regain composure, still a little shocked at the crass and abrupt way in which Lord Bryce had addressed his vassals; those he expected to risk their lives for him in the coming months. Planning a war was stressful, no doubt, and it was clear that it had taken a great toll upon the Lord of Winterfell, but that was not a good enough excuse for this kind of behavior. Bryce Stark was their lord, he was not their father, and he should know better than to talk to his own people as if they were girls of two and ten who had just misbehaved at a family gathering.

Clenching his fist, with a frown still concealed behind his iron mask, Greg listened to all of Lord Stark’s little speech in silence, getting a little more irritated with every word that came out of the man’s mouth. This was it, was it? Bryce Stark intended to step down and leave the North in the hands of his son? Perhaps he might say that this was just the right time for him to go, perhaps he might even believe it himself, but Greg knew better. He saw cowardice. It seemed that the prospect of war had frightened the winter wolf (though perhaps it would be more apt to call him a pup) and he intended to leave all of the troubles that came with a war torn country in the hands of his son, a man younger than Greg himself. Bryce intended to run away, but Greg wasn’t about to let that happen.

Watching as Bryce left the room, Greg poured himself a drink, using his metal hand to steady the tankard as ale poured from the jug. He was barely watching as Lord Reed made his way to the front of the hall, instead deep in thought about what course of action he was going to take. “I’m about to do something very stupid.” he whispered to his sister, who sad beside him, just loud enough that only she could hear. Though no one could see it, his earlier frown had been replaced with a smirk. If Bryce Stark wasn’t going to take hold of the North, someone had to, and Greg wasn’t about to wait and let that opportunity fall to a Karstark or an Umber.

“My Lords! I propose a toast! To Lord Bryce Stark, for all that he has done for us over his long tenure as Lord of Winterfell!” Greg stood, the tankard of ale still in his hand. When he needed to be, Greg was very good at projecting his voice, and he knew that he could ensure that every man in the room could hear his words. “It is a mighty shame that he has decided that this will be the time to denounce his title of Warden of the North. I myself am shocked at this revelation, especially with war upon the horizon. It certainly doesn’t inspire much confidence that even the brave Lord Bryce does not want to stick around for much longer.” His laugh helped to disguise his words as a simple jest, but there was venom upon his tongue. “Of course, in his honour, I am sure we can all agree to uphold his final orders to us as a lord. Do not worry Lord Bryce, we may have all been planning on breaking the law and raping our way through the Riverlands, but now that you’ve reminded us of our place we shall refrain.” Another laugh, once again with little real humour to it.

With every word Lord Bolton spoke he began to edge closer towards the high table, a drink still in his hand. At first it was barely noticeable, but the more he spoke, the more apparent it became where he was headed, a place that should have been occupied by Lord Bryce Stark.

“It is a shame that Lord Bryce did not want to stick around and chat, but I’m sure he has much more important things to do than plan our march south.” For a second, Greg’s eye shifted towards the high seat of Winterfell. He imagined himself sitting upon it. He imagined himself taking charge.

It was too much even for him.

“But as I said. Let us all raise our glasses for Lord Bryce Stark. Warden of the North!” He took a swig of ale as the Northern lords repeated his sentiment. “If Lord Stark will not plan this war, then I suppose we will have to do it ourselves.”

Hypnos Grammatic High Moon TheFool Braddington ailurophile Little-Fox diwa Rusty of Shackleford

 

[TheAncientCelt]

Steffon Dayne
King's Landing

"Ya'r first time in Kin's Landin', m'lord?"

The chirping from the mistress of the night continued. A friendly woman, Steffon had no interest in small talk. As he followed her to the second floor, the Dornish Lord removed his hood. Steffon didn't know how the prostitute knew he wasn't a native to the city, what tells did he have? An accent? Clothing? Maybe ever other lord who frequented the city was a well known patron of Maerie's? 'Wouldn't that be a story.' Dryly, the Sword of the Morning responded. "Third."

"S'a louvely city, if ye' ignore the arse pincha's down in Gin." Steffon's curtness was a weak deterrent, given how the whore skipped no beat and leaped into a reply. She continued, rounding the stairwell and marching into the hall. "Firs' of every mounth, the Pentoshi visit. Traders'n seahands, they're a generous lot." She turned, smiling at Steffon. "Full'a stories. Do you have any, M'lord?"

Dayne had plenty, none of which he wanted to pass on to this woman. Approachable, overly so, despite her rugged appearance, Steffon felt wary as she spoke with a carelessness tinged with curiosity. She was trying to recognize Lord Dayne, no doubt, the inquisitive nature of the woman gave her away. She knew he was an outsider, he was of noble heritage but she could not find out what house or realm he belonged to, at least for now. It made Steffon nervous, was she a simple blackmailer? Trying to use his appearance at a brothel as an excuse to bleed him of his stags? 'Or she's smarter than she looks. Times of trouble always benefit people like her.' With the threat of war on everyone's mind, Steffon didn't doubt this woman and her 'sisters' would be making an effort to punch every pence out of their customers, or find those who would take keen interest in Lord's and knights visiting Maerie's. "None half so interesting as exotic sailors, I'm afraid."

Her lips twisted, the hilt of the knife not half as dangerous, with words prepped in her mouth. "This way, m'lord."

They continued, walking for another minute before she stopped him at a doorway. "You have my thanks." Steffon muttered, now making a conscious effort to keep his voice low, in the off chance they ever ran into one another outside this brothel.

"If ya' be needin' me, m'lord." Her eyes danced with mischief, eyeing the knight before her. "I'll be down them'ol'stairs."

Dayne didn't reply. Instead, he pushed the door open, stepping into the room and doing his best to forget. As he entered, Steffon was not half as shocked as he should have been, seeing Matthos embracing Shiv in a passionate kiss. His arms folded over his chest, an eyebrow quirking as the Red Priests' eyes opened wide, acknowledging his lord's presence. "Should I wait outside then? Five minutes should be more than enough time." He half joked, joining Matthos, hand clasping around the foreigners arm as well. "I see you're in good health too, Shiv."

The Sword of the Morning did not answer when the question for wine came. He did not need to. Reaching out, Steffon took the chalice in his hands and brought the red liquid to his nose. A tentative sniff, the Lord sipped on the pleasurable beverage for seconds before finally answering Matthos. "Miss me? We've not been apart a moon yet and you miss me? The others must've been as bad as I heard on the trip North."

At the mention of the ancestral sword, Steffon dully nodded. "I'd rather it be the other way, truthfully." Steffon responded. "Missing you more would imply I was in less danger, though I fear a grieving serpent may yet wrap its coils around me." Without names, Steffon held little back from Matthos. If there was anyone he could trust, it was this man. His council may come in handy, even, considering the circumstances Dayne found himself in. Oath bound to Qoren Martell, a man who's very gaze betrayed him. Prince Martell wanted Dayne dead, for a warning given to good men, all for his sons demise. 'That conversation still poisons me.' The wine graced his tongue a second after, a sip turning into a thirsty gulp as Steffon robbed the cup of its contents. "There were no problems then? My sword and armor's been delivered?" He might be confined to the metal, an early coffin, if he wished to escape King's Landing without injury.

B-Be-Balt-Balthazar Darklyn
Hand of the Queen

The Red Keep

The Hand of the Queen sat, comfortable as he could, listening to the other lord's advice. Qoren wanted to have Vaemond punished for his crimes, whereas Gawen wanted Commander Brune to be removed. Balthazar could say he disagreed with both men in this instance. Brune had friends in the City watch, if his removal happened at the same time as Vaemond's actions, it could be seen as a betrayal. 'The last thing her grace needs is a city watch with treacherous men in cloaks of gold.' The Rogue Prince had shown the whole city how important the Gold Cloaks were, Balthazar would not be the man to ignore that lesson. Elaena took a middling approach, allowing Lord Martell to speak with Commander Brune and having Vaemond appear in the capital in person. The former Master of Coins sat, nodding as each passing suggestion came from the small but skilled collection of men and women.

Then, a servant burst through the door, his breathing ragged. 'Willam and Tyland Lannister? What on Earth are they doing here?' Lord Darklyn shifted in his seat, uncomfortable at the realization that two Lannisters had arrived without any call. 'If Loren were to side with us, he would send a Raven. Not heir. . Maybe his brother, though.' It didn't feel right. And, on the mention of the Lannisters, every Lord began to put their final words in, starting with Lord Alexander Baratheon. Alexander's request to speak with Ser Gawen alone was. . Equally unsettling. The man was showing no kindness to Gawen, likely for good reason, but Lord Darklyn found himself unable to let this house built of simple brick, sticks and shit crumble so easily. "L-L-L-Lord Baratheon," He started, working past his stuttering storm. "I-It would be wise to keep Ser Gawen with Queen Elaena and Queen Jocelyn. His new position does not give him much time for small talk." His eyes glanced at Gawen for but a second. 'Murderer.' He wanted to accuse him, to see Symond Rosby's killer punished. 'But I can't.' Queen Elaena and Jocelyn trusted Tyrell, enough so to replace Royce with him. Balthazar could not agree with this statement, but would respect Elaena's wishes. Anything that Lord Baratheon had to say to Gawen was likely to poison their relationship.

Rising, as the others had before him, Balthazar bowed his head at the two queens once more. "W-with your permission, I'll see to the cities provisions." Already, Balthazar was thinking of a siege. He may be able to send a raven to Baelor, convince him to relent, but Daeron Targaryen could find salvation in exile or service in the far North. 'Aegon's son and granddaughter, turned enemies.' If there could be peace, Darklyn would pursue it. But, Queen Jocelyn's stance on the bastards was absolute. He was a threat to Jocelyn, to Elaena, and Darklyn could not bare the thought of another friend dying so soon. "Y-y-your grace," Instead of Elaena, Balthazar was smiling at Jocelyn, his lips upward lifting but morose. "I-I was wondering if we could dine together this evening, t-to catch up on time lost." Truthfully, Balthazar could not speak openly to anyone here but Queen Jocelyn and Cyrenna. Elaena, his new monarch, was young still. Qoren was a fire ball of emotion after his sons passing and Alexander Baratheon might misinterpret his words. After speaking, Balthazar waited for a response, before stepping out of the room. He had some old friends to see, a contract to make and salt to import. . . Enough salt for all of the Red Keep.​

Pia Tully
Riverrun

Maester Karl was sitting at her husband's desk, scribbling a mile a minute. Already, a stack of letters were prepared in front of him. Ryman stood over top the maester, pointing to an err in writing, if he saw it. Pia herself sat in bed still, her night gown doing little to maintain her modesty. Her eyes were on the candles, no, the light around the candles, a small glow of heat that attracted her gaze. Large, doe brown eyes were fixated on the flickering flames, the shadows cast from her husband and Karl, to the moon light that fought bitterly against concealment from the clouds overhead. An argument on Rhaenys Velaryon was supposed to end the evening, but now that shrew seemed so insignificant. News from the Crossing had spurned her husband into action, surprisingly, with Pia remaining stoic, strong. 'Terrified.' Lord Edwyn Frey was preparing for an attack, did that mean his scouts caught sight of Northerners marching south? Directly for them.

The idea of being attacked without any host ready to defend them, to be helpless in the face of an impending army, angry and bitter men of the cold marches sacrificing her family and friends to their strange gods. Pia shuddered.

"Lord Husband," The same condescending words slipped from her lips, now little more than a childish slur. "Is there time?"

Ryman turned, his autumn colored beard magnificent in the light of the candles. She couldn't see his eyes, but a hardness in posture betrayed him. "Of course." Her husband lied. "They will never march past the Twins, not before we ride North and send them back into their wooden huts."

"We?" She croaked.

A silence overcame the master chamber in Riverrun.

Then Karl muttered something, hard to hear from her distance from the old man. ". . .Send them to Harroway, then to Darry. . . Up the Green Fork, to the Twins." Strategy, letters filled with information for specific houses. It was Ryman and Karl's discussion for the past twenty minutes, trying to carefully plan a way to defend the Twins. No doubt they were looking at the North as the main threat, but the mention of Darry and Harroway made her stomach sick. The Vale was still in play. The Vale that supported a King opposite of their own claimant. They would be attacked on two sides. Pia shook her head, the lack of a response from her husband only frustrating her.

"We?" She repeated. A cold anger filling her body, she rose. "Who is we?"

"We." Lord Ryman, her craven of a husband repeated her. "Myself. The whole of Riverrun. Every house of the Riverlands."

". . . You don't mean my boys." She caught on. "They are not going North, Ryman!"

Wordlessly, Ryman turned his back to her. Her. "Ryman Tully. You are not going North with my boys! I forbid it."

Silence, the tapping of feather tip on paper ceased. Low mutterings from Karl, the sharp breathing from Ryman, it all paused in a pregnant silence. "What will you have me do, Pia?" The Lord of Riverrun turned, his eyes hard on his wife. "I wish not to see my children fighting, threats from the merciless North ever present. But we cannot keep them here. The honor of our house-"

"Honor?!" Pia Tully took a step closer, the cold stone an awful sensation on her feet. "What honor do you speak of? Tell me, husband of mine, what honor do we defend by sending our boys to die?" She wanted to hit him. To scratch at his eyes. To tear away his beard. He would not send her children off to die at the hands of the North.

As expected, Ryman couldn't answer her. He looked down, his wife's nostrils flaring and lips parted, ready to shout at him if a single word he spoke displeased her.

"I have a craven's honor." Ryman muttered. "A craven who is too afraid to look his sons in their eyes and tell them to stay home. Edmure is strong, Ryman wishes to be his older brother as well."

"To the Seven Hells with what they want! What about what we want? What I want?"

At that moment, Karl coughed and spoke. Pia wanted to toss him out of their room for interrupting. "My lord, lady. We do not have time to waste." He served as their mediator.

The Lord of Riverrun nodded, giving his wife a last look over. "I am sorry, wife of mine, for the displeasure we've caused you. Rest tonight. We'll take this to the solar."

Pia stood there, half naked as her husband and maester walked out of their chamber room, a stack of letters compressed in her lord husbands grasp. She wanted to shout. She wanted to cry. No one was going to send her boys off to the doom of war, be it Lord Ryman or Baelor Tyrell.

Rhaenyra
Captain General of the Golden Company

Myr

Sweat dribbled down from her forehead, spotting the desk of faded wood with small pools of moisture. Of the few blessings Rhaenyra received in life, the one she was most thankful for was her appearance. She was neither gorgeous, like the whores in many a magistrates harem, nor ugly, like a common Braavosi whore. She had a commonly appearance, Rhaenyra was often told. Pleasant, in its own unexceptional way. Years of the harsh Sun that reigned over Essos and the cruelty that came with the Brotherhood had weathered her face. A small nick across her upper lip, an ugly burn on the back of her right shoulder, with many minor blemishes helped cement Rhaenyra as a pleasant bird, but one that was so for its unusual blandness. That suited Rhaenyra perfectly, she never expected to be anything but an ugly duckling, as were most of the lowest rung women that followed the Company. You need not be pretty to spread your legs or collect piss each morning.

Now, sweaty and smelling of figs, Rhaenyra was positive a woman accustom to great beauty would be perturbed enough to wash immediately. Vanity was the death of discipline, Baelor Butterwell spoke, words that came down from Maelys the Monstrous. Little wonder why he said that, though Rhaenyra agreed with her predecessor. Her tent, filled with riches and tapestries that would one day adorn her castle wall, was empty of others. Only the Captain General, sitting at her desk, a sweat covered silk shirt of white clinging to her body with dark tights running down her lower half. Golden rings big enough to fit around a man's arm fell on either end of the desk, Rhaenyra had no intention of wearing them in the privacy of her own tent.

What troubled Rhaenyra was not her current state, which was more of the norm mid day outside of Myr. No, it was a raven from Westeros, carrying a message that neither Rhaenyra nor any of her men could ever imagine. 'A king who calls us home.' Her heart skipped when she first read those words. They soon were poisoned by unhealthy skepticism and the history the Golden Company and the Kings of Westeros shared. A King Daeron the third, to her a second, suggested war was on the horizon and he needed help. 'He has no love for lost subjects.' That was fine, Rhaenyra thought with a tinge of agitation. Rhaenyra did not want this strangers love, merely the gold he promised and the hope of finding a home. 'Daeron Targaryen. .' Her mind reeled, trying to remember the current royal family seated in the Red Keep. Attention undivided, given to Westeros was always difficult to come by. Sailors tall tales and maybe a lord's son who thought he owned the world were sources of information, but keeping up to date on the continent of her origins was not as easy as one might think it to be. 'Aegon was their king, he died.' She recalled the news. More specifically, Rhaenyra recalled the celebratory toast she took with her captains. The prince, Jaehaerys, passed before Aegon. He was a minor figure that brought out a grin from the Golden Company's Captain-General, but she strained herself to summon up the other names from her memory. 'There is the daughter. Whoever she is, a Martell is her mother.' She thought of the name with particular distaste. 'And then Daeron. . Waters. He's a bastard.' That symbolism wasn't lost on Rhaenyra. A bastard, proclaiming himself king, was welcoming back the exiles who fought for Bittersteel.

Rhaenyra swallowed hard. "Well, Waters. You've put me in a precarious position." She spoke aloud, an Essosi accent accompanying her Westerosi words. Without any suggestion of Daeron Waters supporters in Westeros, his position, his armies, Rhaenyra found it impossible to immediately ally with him. She wanted to, more now that she recalled his origin. The promise of a life away from the bloody fields, for her and her men, was too good to scuff at. Were this a Targaryen, Rhaenyra may just do that. 'Though if they ever gave their word to welcome us, as this Daeron has, I am not sure I could be so strong.' Rhaenyra stood, her eyes on the end of the tent, a figure's shadow lurking outside. "Dickon," A knight of the Company, claiming to be a descendant of House Costayne. "Find me the Eunuch."

A man of pale complexion stepped into the tent, his eyes leering at her chest. Rhaenyra paid him no mind. "Aye, the soot one?"

"The very same. Send runners to Myr, our Captains have had a long enough break. I want them here."

The Costayne stared a second longer, the rhythmic rising of her chest drawing his attention. "As you command, Captain."

Rhaenyra fell back into her chair, hand holding her salt and pepper colored hair. 'I'll need to recall the other Captains,' They had split their forces to economically solve problems for clients who did not need ten thousand fighters. A good method of bringing in income, she now needed to make sure they would be marching for Myr by the next moon. 'I'll need to write to my king, too.'​

 

[Braddington]

Harvest Hall

Lord Addam Osgrey
Lord of Coldmoat and Knight of Standfast​

The banners of the Reach flew in the winds, a mighty force of thousands full of Lords both big and small, knights seeking glory and knights seeking nothing more than to be alive once the battle was over. It often didn't matter, most would be dead by the end if an assault was on the table. Addam hoped to take it off the table. When Lord Baelor had given him the command over many older and more experienced Lords he was surprised to say the least, it hadn't been since his ancestor the Little Lion that an Osgrey commanded the allegiance of so many. Even if it was for but a small time he would savour it, this was what his family was meant for, not a small tower in the middle of nowhere. Now here they were under Lord Addam Osgrey, half the main army sent to smash the Stormlords in a series of coordinated strikes that would leave them crippled and unable to respond. His target was the stronghold of House Selmy. Harvest Hall.

The castle of the marcher Lords was not impressive but it wasn't supposed to be, it was a military stronghold carved into a mountain side to protect an important pass. Assaulting it would no doubt leave many dead, as the architect's of the Keep no doubt intended when they built it. As they approached Addam ordered the army to a halt just out of range of the archers, clearly they were not ready if the confused look on the garrisons distant faces was anything to go by, that and the infuriatingly high pitched sounds of panicked bells. He wondered whether this would be far too easy until he saw the rows of archers on the castle wall appear faster than he thought possible, it didn't matter that they weren't ready, they were marcher Lords, they were always ready.

Addam waved a gesture to the army behind him, this was as far they would hopefully advance, many were confused to say the least. Addam sat atop his horse, the chequey lion adorning his breastplate with two men beside him, each holding both the Osgrey and Tyrell banners. One was Ser Branston Fossoway and the other was Ser Robert Osgrey, his uncle and father to Garlan. As if rehearsed a page ran through the lines with a white banner, a banner of parlay and the three advanced slowly to the gates of Harvest Hall, the men behind them whispering amongst themselves as they did. The closer they got to the gates the more tense they felt, eyes watching everywhere and archers training their sights on the 3 men. “Addam, you better be sure about this. I haven't lived near 40 years to die in a shithole like this, if I am going to die at least make it a relevant Kingdom.” Came the quip from his uncle with nervous laughter Addam simply reassured him “If Lord Selmy doesn't want all his men to die here today, he will accept.”

Then they were before the gates, Addam stabbed the white banner into the ground and shouted out to the castle. The army behind him began banging their swords on their shields, creating a deafening chorus that no doubt made some of the archers shit themselves. “Lord Selmy! I offer you the chance the save your men! I offer you the chance of victory here today! I am Lord Addam Osgrey, commander of this force representing his Lordship Baelor Tyrell, Lord Paramount of the Reach and Warden of the South. On his honour and the honour of my house I offer you a choice. Come out here and face me, sword in hand to decide the fate of this castle. If I win the castle is mine, your men will be taken prisoner and treated with respect, no soul need die. If you win this army withdraws and you have your victory. Refuse me and we shall batter down this gate and smash you against the mountains to your back. I expect an answer within the hour.” With that the 3 rode hard for their lines once again, the relief visible on his uncles face. Now all that was needed was a response.

Yarrow

 

[Hypnos]

Gawen Tyrell and Alexander Baratheon
The Rose and the Stag​

It seemed that the small council meeting was drawing to a close, a queer occurrence considering that fact that it had only just begun. It felt to Gawen as if there was much to address within this meeting, yet those present were hesitant to start. It made sense, after King Aegon’s reign of almost perpetual peace, war seemed like a distant memory, and almost no one in the chamber had lived long enough to experience the last great conflict, Gawen included. A new war to the scale of the Dance of the Dragons or the Blackfyre Rebellions was a scary prospect, and not one that should be taken lightly. No one truly knew how to proceed. Perhaps Prince Qoren, who had been fairly vocal about his opinions throughout the duration of the short meeting, liked to entertain himself with the notion that he was experienced in such issues, but that was far from the truth. Qoren Martell, Alexander Baratheon, even Lord Balthazar Darklyn, who had served on the previous Small Council, none of them were ready for this. This worried Gawen. These were the men who would be responsible for taking care of Elaena, for making sure that she and her realm were safe. Things did not bode well.

As Alexander Baratheon stood to leave, indicating that others would be soon to follow, he looked at Gawen. Gawen recognised those eyes, they were the same eyes he had seen consistently since Harrenhal, the same eyes that followed him everywhere. Lord Baratheon was clearly another man who was too foolish to understand why he had done what he had done. They all were, all of the old prudes sitting here. The only one who truly understood was Elaena, for it was here that she had done it for.

Alexander called him a lord, which took Gawen a little off guard. He was not a lord, he was a knight, for he had given up the prospect of lordship long ago when he had forfeited his claim to Highgarden. He supposed that he shouldn’t be surprised however, he was now Lord Commander of Elaena’s Queensguard, and the courtesy that he received would likely be much greater, even if it were all hollow.

Gawen didn’t want to talk to the stag, Gawen didn’t want to talk to anyone. His gaze rested upon Queen Elaena, his eyes lingering for a little too long. He was part of her Queensguard, so he should be staying with her, he should be protecting her, but he realised that may not be an option right now. Alexander Baratheon was Elaena’s great uncle, perhaps the man didn’t like, perhaps he returned the sentiment, but the Lord of Storm’s End was owed at least a little bit of respect. ‘What is the worst that could happen if I am absent for but a moment?’ A hundred different disasters filled his brain.

“Of course we can talk my Lord, though let us make it quick. Her grace needs my sword by her side.” He didn’t smile. He wasn’t sure he could any more.

---​

Alexander nodded, relieved that Gawen accepted his request immediately. The lord paramount was about to speak, but he was interrupted by the new Hand of the Queen. Lord Darklyn asked Alexander to let Gawen go with Elaena and his sister, but he shook his head “I understand your opinion, my lord. But I fear I need to reveal all of my thoughts that have been stacking since that shameful meeting back in Harrenhal” Alexander said, turning his attention back to Gawen.
“Come, lord Commander, we have much to discuss, though I will be brief. While we may disagree in many things, the importance of our Queen’s protection and safety is not one of them.” His eyes moved from Gawen to Jocelyn. “We will be back soon enough, sister.” he bowed to the two women “Now we’ll take our leave” he dismissed himself. “Shall we have our pleasant conversation, my lord?” Alexander asked with a smile. Was it a sarcastic smile? Probably, yes. However, he did not mind, as the two men knew their resentment between each other. Even if they hadn’t spoken directly yet, the way Gawen stared at him was very clear: the son of Baelor Tyrell knew Alexander disapproved of his actions and Alexander knew Gawen couldn’t care less.

The lord paramount took a few steps towards the door and when he reached the knob he looked behind to see if Gawen was coming or not.

---​

The Baratheon’s words to Lord Darklyn filled Gawen with a slight sense of foreboding, it seemed that this was not going to be a very pleasant interaction. Perhaps Lord Alexander intended to yell at him, perhaps the man meant to stroke his own ego by calling out Gawen’s ‘dishonour’, perhaps he merely wanted to keep Gawen away from Elaena so that his sister could whisper sweet poisons into the Queen’s ears. Whatever he wanted, Gawen knew that he was not going to enjoy it.

Was Alexander mocking him? He could see the smile upon the man’s face, but he knew that it was not a genuine one. The Lord of Storm’s End seemed to be eagerly anticipating whatever sick plan that he had concocted. Gawen tried to ignore it, but there thoughts were always still at the back of his mind. What did he want? Why talk now? What was his motive? Maybe Gawen was just paranoid from being cooped up in the White Sword Tower for so long, thinking about his own demise, but he did not trust the Baratheon any more than he had to. Alexander should be a friend and an ally, but here in this city it seemed that good men were hard to come by.

“Aye, my Lord, I am right behind you.” He followed Alexander to the door, not knowing where they would be heading next.

---​

Alexander opened the door and the two left the Small Council room. Alexander looked around, seeing that Evelyne had left, even if the meeting had only lasted about a couple of minutes. The two Baratheons thought it would have been hours, since many things needed to be discussed. However, the arrival of the golden lions had changed their plans completely. To Alexander, however, time was something he couldn’t waste and he would not stay one more week in King’s Landing. His family and his kingdom were waiting for him. Troops have already been gathering by the Stormlands lords, many came with Alexander to the Crownlands, but many more were waiting for orders back in Stormlands. Alexander’s army needed its leader by their side and he would soon leave the Red Keep to make sure that would happen.

The lord paramount took Gawen to his own chambers, guarded by two knights of House Baratheon. “If you think I’m setting you into a trap, be relieved for I do not kill like this. I prefer combat over cheap schemes. I think we do have that in common wouldn’t you agree, my lord?” Alexander said as he opened the door to his room and entered. After Gawen came inside he closed the door. “Rest assured that you have my word we are alone. No assassin is coming out of the closet, I guarantee you that”

“Now on to serious business, my lord. What I’ve been trying to understand this whole time was the intention of your actions. I like to believe that you are no fool and knew the consequences when you murdered the previous Hand. You knew the bloodshed you would create with it, would you not?” Alexander shrugged his shoulders and walk on to a table where he grabbed a bottle of wine, pouring the red liquid into two small cups. He handed one to Gawen and kept the other for himself, taking a sip before continuing.

“My conclusion is simple. You did not give the crown to your family. You placed it on Elaena’s head and named her Queen. Therefore, I do not believe you are a traitor. You could, in theory, have planned this with your House, in order to give them a reason to start a war and eliminate the other kingdoms’ armies, making House Tyrell the supreme ruler of Westeros. However, the way you stare at my sister’s granddaughter gives away your true intentions. You care for her don’t you? So much that a bloodbath would be worth, if it meant she would win and rule over this country.”

Alexander made a pause, making sure Gawen was understanding everything he said up to this point. “But” he added and took a few steps towards him. “Do not think I agree with what you’ve done. Because of you, many will die. Because of you, she is in the most dangerous situation she could’ve ever been. You know the potential power your father’s army has. You know what will happen when they march down towards us. You have put my family at risk. No just my son and daughters, but my sister and the daughter of my sister’s daughter as well. I will not forgive you for that” he let out a big sigh and walked towards the door opening it.

“The Queen forgave your actions, but make no mistakes. I’ve been named Master of Laws, I state what rules are created, always under Elaena’s permission of course. But murder is something I’m sure she will not permit. So you escaped this time and no trial has been given to you. However, don’t expect the same thing to happen again, Lord Gawen. Do I make myself clear?”

---​

It was laughable, the whole situation. Alexander Baratheon had brought him all the way here, away from sight, away from the council, away from Elaena, just to make some idle threats and state the obvious. Were Gawen not so dour, he might have even let out a chuckle, but as it stood he didn’t think that he was capable to such a thing. Instead he simply gave Alexander the same dead eyes that he had been showing him this whole time. If Lord Baratheon intended to be intimidating with this threat, he had not succeeded, Gawen had exhausted all of his fear of death whilst he had been under house arrest. Elaena had pardoned him, that was all he needed to feel safe from Alexander Baratheon. He was a Lord, she was Queen anything that he might say, anything that he might do, it all had to go through her and she would not let this man take his head.

“I did what I did for the Queen.” His voice was completely serious without a hint of humour. “I did what the rest of you were too cowardly to do, and I stopped a traitor from giving away the birthright of our Queen, your great niece, to a bastard with no claim. I did my duty as a member of this sworn order. I protected my Queen.” The Baratheon didn’t understand. He thought himself clever for talking about plots within House Tyrell. Any man who had even heard of Ser Gawen through reputation knew that he didn’t see eye to eye with his father, he hadn’t even spoken to Melessa since she was an infant. The very idea that he would betray the trust of those he was sworn to protect for the family whom he so despised was insulting. He placed a single hand upon the pommel of his sword. He didn’t intend to use it, but he felt a lot safer with a weapon close to him.

“My father is a fat oaf, all of Westeros knows it from Dorne to the Wall, Daeron is a bastard born of sin, whose plot for the throne would lead us to death. Elaena is good, she is sweet and kind, and perhaps the smartest young woman this side of the Narrow Sea. Perhaps you think that I have started a war Lord Baratheon, but Elaena is a cause that I am more than willing to fight for, more than willing to die for. She is my Queen. She is your Queen, and you should remember that. These lives are not lost for nothing, they are lost so that a truly good person can rule these kingdoms.”

“I spit at your threats Lord Alexander. I work for her grace, and you should be doing the same, not threatening the murder of her supporters.” Gawen was angry at this point, and he made no effort to hide this fact, Alexander Baratheon should hold his tongue, lest he lose it.

---​

Alexander let out a big sigh. It seems the boy did not understand what war truly meant. “Spit to whatever you like, my lord. But once you’ve seen the true barbaric reality that is war, you’ll understand the mistakes you’ve done. Let me make something clear, lord Commander. You are not the one who decides who should die and live. That power falls in the lords and ladies who rule their Houses and kingdoms. Elaena decides who should live and who should not, not you. You have no right to claim their lives as worthy of dying for the sake of something. Justice is what should claim those lives, not you, who was a kingsguard by the time you sentenced thousands of men and women to die” Alexander was getting more furious with the young man, but he could do nothing to harm him, not without any reason. Unfortunately, it seemed like Gawen thought he could kill Alexander with no consequences. He might have Elaena by his side, but Alexander had Jocelyn, the one pulling the strings behind the Iron Throne. Nevertheless, he decided to calm down, understanding that provoking the boy would not be the way for Gawen to understand his point of view.

“You say Lord Rosby was a traitor, but because of your actions we have no proof. Daeron can now say he isn’t a bastard because we can’t say otherwise. Honestly, I believe that letter was forged, since if it wasn’t, the previous Hand would had showed it much sooner. But my opinion doesn’t matter against the Lords and Ladies of the North, Vale and whoever is backing Daeron Waters. Do you truly believe we can win?” Alexander walked out of his room, his guards looking at him, his expressions showing some concern about this whole situation. “So, lord Gawen. It is true my threats have no meaning. But I would like you to remember that Elaena claims herself as a just ruler. And a just ruler makes no difference between friend and foe when standing on a trial. So, don’t become a cold murderer for her sake. Our conversation is over. Go and meet the Lannisters with our Queen.” He said, walking away from the room, far away from Gawen and this whole troublesome situation.

His stay in King’s Landing had no meaning anymore. His position was Master of Laws didn’t matter for him. The war had already started, the other factions had probably started moving their armies towards Crownlands. Alexander needed to do the same, for the safety of his House and family. His mind had a plan, a plan that he knew none would agree, but it was the right decision and he knew his kingdom would back him up.

---​

‘You are not the one who decides who should live or die’ Those words echoed in Gawen’s mind as Alexander left the room, leaving the knight of House Tyrell alone once more. ‘If that were true, there would be no war to fight.’ Gawen sighed, following the Baratheon out of the room. It seemed that Lord Alexander had stolen from him the right to storm out in anger, but perhaps that was for the best. He would go and find Elaena. That was where he belonged.

JPTheWarrior

 

[Mion]

Blackhaven
House Florent
Lord Garlan Florent
​

From afar he watched the fortress of Blackhaven with a look of pity in his eyes, for the men inside that damned place today was the baddest stroke of luck one could experience, the kind that they no doubt prayed to the seven they would not. But the pity was not for them. It was for the brave men who had been chosen to storm the walls of the mighty marcher fortress. Many of them were brave, many of them were foolish and most likely many of them had no choice but in the end all of them would be laying down their lives for the greater good. For victory. For the Reach. For their future King. Some may say that these men lost their lives for nothing but their actions today would surely secure the future for their families and friends back home, today they would fight so that those back home don’t. And so with bated breath Lord Florent watched as these men fought proudly, he would watch them fight and watch them die. Until it was his turn he would not remove the scene from his view. If he was a religious man he might have prayed for them, or perhaps he would have prayed for the warrior to guide him. Instead he extended his respect to those men storming the walls. Lord Florent was atop a horse, bred and trained for war, its entire purpose was to carry him to his enemies and trample them under its hooves if it came to it, its barding sported the orange fox of House Florent, as did his brothers, Leo and Lucas Florent, who were eagerly waiting by his side at the front of the vanguard. He was wearing a silver plate, a lance in one hand and a shield in the other. His sword hung at his waist awaiting for its moment to bare its steel to the world just the same as Garlan.

Before he knew it, it was almost time. Lord Florent turned to address his men briefly. “Ready yourself men! When those gates opening it will be our calling to join the fight!.” And like that it seemed the reachmen who had stormed the walls had finally overwhelmed the men of Blackhaven at the gate. “Alright men! Follow my lead! For the Reach! For Lord Baelor Tyrell! For King Jahaerys!” With those cries he surged forward on his horse, the vanguard following behind him. He was far calmer than he should have been, his eyes focused entirely on the gate, he didn’t even register the men now riding by his side. For all Lord Florent knew he was in a world of his own. As the men of the reach charged forward with him he lowered his lance in preparation, for these men he and his vanguard would be the stranger. Lord Garlan was the first through the gates, it was already chaos inside . The men of Blackhaven were desperate as they had the right to be. But it was not time for mercy yet. His lance broke off into an unknown mans throat, he didn’t even know if he had killed him or not. It mattered not in the end, if he hadn’t the man would bleed out. The vanguard was crushing the Stormland forces, although it was rather sad to call such a thing an army. Lord Garlan drew his sword, it thirsted for blood. And blood it got. Swinging his sword in an arc he cleaved a man's face in two as he rode past, it felt like it was far smoother than it should have been. He had not been wearing a helmet. Either he had forgotten to put it on or, far more likely, he couldn’t afford one. With another swing of his sword he took another life. Riding by on his mount. It was a strange feeling, counting those who have fallen before you, or in this case behind you. Lord Florent did not know these men or what they looked like, only that they were no longer of this world. All that was going through his mind right now was his duty to secure Blackhaven for Lord Tyrell. Many of the Stormland men began to flee. Of course there was nowhere to flee to. Their only hope of surviving was surrender now. Another swing made four, and then five. He took no joy in it but it had to be done. It did not take long for the castellan to show his face, looking for mercy. And of course he would be given it as he was meaning to surrender. No doubt to save as many men as possible, the day had been lost as soon as the gates had been opened. For the vast majority of people this was their first battle, the long years of peace were over. It was bloody, it was gruesome. But it was what was needed.

With the castellans surrender the battle concluded. Many men had lost their lives storming the walls of Blackhaven but they did not die in vain. For their valiant efforts the forces of the Reach had won. Although Lord Florent did not feel that it was time for celebration yet. This was only the first battle, who knew how many would follow? He did not know if by the end of the campaign he would still be of this world. Or would he have been cruelly cut down like the men on this day? He thought of Brightwater Keep, his home. And more importantly he thought of his daughter. No. He would survive this war. He had to. He would return to his daughter by the end of it all. With the Iron Throne waiting for the birth of its new king after the traitors had been dealt with.

 

[Little-Fox]

Willow Stark
Winter's Blossom in Bloom​

In a room full of the Lords of Winterfell, a red haired curtain wasn't enough for the timid woman to hide her frustrations. She'd seen Lord Reed make his exit and then Lord Bolton decided to make his little speech. The sound of clay against wood could be heard over the din of the room as she not-so-gently let a pitcher down against the table. For those who truly knew her, it was a rare occurrence to ever see Willow angry and the way things had occurred in the last few moments alone it seemed extremely likely that those present might get to see her mother's temper flare.

"My Lords." She stated audibly, stormy blue eyes flitting from face to face as she left the pitcher where she'd more or less slammed it down. "I would like to begin first by welcoming you all to Winterfell, and to my home, the home of my father, the home of my ancestors." She moved slowly, her voice calm despite the pounding of her heart behind her sternum. "My father and I bore witness to something terrible at Harrenhal. Something none of us expected. The Hand of the King was slain by Ser Gawen... He was not slain in honourable combat, but through the back. A coward's attack. Lord Rosby was reading a declaration, one signed by the late King himself, a declaration of his son, Daeron's legitimization." She let that set in for a moment as she moved to stand behind her father's seat, her hands resting on the back of it as she continued to address the rest of those present. "My father sent men in defense of King Daeron as everything fell apart. Dorne attacked the retreating groups supporting Daeron..." She paused, remembering that fateful night. "I realize no one is happy that my father called you all here and then left without... a proper explanation or plan, but I beseech you all to have patience and understanding. I do not believe my father thought that you would do such things. I believe that he only sought to ensure that... that what often happens in war, is not something that our kin does. Is not something that we as Northerners become known for. My father, is not a man of so many words..." Normally I can't speak in front of a crowd, but... What am I doing?

She offered as polite a smile as she could manage as she tipped her head, those auburn falls drifting forward as she braced herself. "If a war is about to begin, then it is likely that there will be three factions, not two. We need to be prepared to fight, to defend, and to show that regardless of the circumstances, we are honorable and worthy allies, we are capable, and Daeron will be lucky to have us marching beneath his banner." At least... I hope so. She met each Lord's gaze for several seconds each, starting with the masked face of Greg and working her way around the room.

winterfell

 

[Braddington]

Lady Lysara Manderly
Lady of White Harbour, Warden of the White Knife, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed, Lady Marshal of the Mander, Knight of the Order of the Green Hand​

The speech was dreadful, there was no way around it. Every word she could tell that was meant in good faith fell flat on the delivery and the way in which he phrased it. He obviously wasn't calling his vassals rapists, at least he hoped he wasn't, he was simply indicating to the Lords that they should use the means available to them to reign in a fact of war. Not that anyone seemed to pick up on it as everyone grumbled around her, Ser Wyllis and Ser Wyman rolling their eyes with disdain at the performance put on before them. Lysara simply glared at them and they sat up straight, removing the look from their faces. Surrounding her were the vassals of House Manderly, the Flints, Locke’s, Woolfields and so on each leaning in, staring at her and waiting for her word and opinion on the subject, like dogs coming to their master for a treat. She simply sat there and took a swig of ale. She would not move just yet but wait to see what happened, after all she controlled the most powerful and wealthy house in the North by far with 8,000 banners beneath the merman which adorned her flag. Why waste her power in a petty and bold display now? Who would do something so stupid?

Almost on cue Lord Bolton arose from his seat and began his speech. The humour which made the more dumb members of the assembled Lords laugh their heads off, Ser Wyllis mainly, made the smarter men and women amongst the crowd tense up with worry. Each step he took towards the chair of Lord Stark made her slowly arise even more, unless someone did something this would not end well. Lord Reed seemed to be going after Stark, Karstark was just behind him, the Lords grumbled yet again and Bolton carried on with his little performance. They needed a guiding hand to end this little piece of theatre or else she would do so herself. They needed a Stark.

Then almost on cue the voice of Willow rang out through the crowd, stopping Bolton dead in his tracks and commanding the allegiance of the Lords assembled. Lysara sat once more and listened. Willow was always a shy girl from their interactions, this was rather out of place but entirely welcome. As she continued to speak it became clear to her that Willow was much more eloquent than her father, able to tell things as they were meant not as they were said. It was good, it was reasonable, it was as a Stark should be, as a leader should be. When it was done she cheered for the Stark girl, her vassals following on in a rehearsed manner before standing and giving her piece of theatre. The perfect time having presented itself in amidst the rabble. “An excellent speech, my Lady, and one we can surely all get behind with common sense. Our Lord gave us a job to do and we swore an oath so let's bloody well do it. My men and I, all 8,000 that owe allegiance to White Harbour, stand ready to assist their Lord and their King. I also wish to take this time to thank Lady Willow, a Stark through and through and someone who has eloquently put the case to act before us today. As we did for Rhaenyra we shall march south once more and show the southerners a real army made up of real men. Now, let us raise a mug for Lady Willow and House Stark!” a chorus of cheers went up from the crowd as Lords heartily took any excuse to drink once again. Lysara knew she had power and she would bloody well use it when needed.

When the commotion fully died down and people went back to drinking she approached Willow and bowed. “Good speech, my Lady, I just wish it was your father who said it. Ah but it is what it is, I just wish to let you know that you have House Manderly’s full support ahead. If I might make a suggestion, we need to plan our advance south now. I would gather the major Lords here to this table or another room if needed, Lords like Bolton, Karstark, Reed, Umber, me and so on. Then we can discuss something concrete. Be the leader the North needs right now.”

winterfell
Little-Fox

 

[High Moon]

Lord Torrhen Karstark
The Sun of Winter​

They arrived to Winterfell when the sun was just setting, he looked to Rodrik and said "Go find your siblings." with one last pat to the kid's back. ''And make sure your sisters stay away from Lordlings, I don't want their attitude slandering the Karstark name.'' he said and with that he went into the dining hall, which served as their meeting place.

Torrhen took his seat beside uncle Lord Umber and his Brother-in-Law Lord Glover, together they watched Lord Bryce as he was about to start his speech. He listened as his Liege spoke and his dislike of Stark grew with every word the man spoke, by the end of his speech Lord Karstark's expression had grown sour, his ussualy stoic and solemn expression gave way to a frown. He hadn't even touched his ale yet, when some Lords raised their tankards after the speech Lord Karstark stood firmly in his place, the speech was nothing but Lord Stark talking shit about his own vassals, it was just insulting all of them and any Lord who cheered for it were idiots themselves according to Lord Karstark, or shrewd people who wanted to get close to their liege. He had seen Lord Reed follow Lord Stark outside and he decided he would adress his own questions to Stark as well.

Torrhen placed his tankard down onto the table and got up. ''I'll look for Reed.'' he said to Lord Umber, as he left the hall the last thing he heard was the voice of Lord Bolton, probably filling the void left by Bryce Stark's absence.

He had followed Lord Reed from a distance, untill He had heard Reed's protests and the Guards less than appropriate attitude towards the Swamp Lord,. Then he made his presence known by walking out of the corner he was standing in. He glanced at the two guards, they weren't really impressive yet they did still tower over the small lord. Karstark cleared his voice and took a step, standing just behind Reed. "Know your place commoner, you are speaking to a Lord whose your superior. I'll be certain to report your attitude to your Commander." His voice came out with a authoritarian tone to it. "Come Lord Reed, there is no need to waste our time here... Come join me, we can discuss our situation over some fine ale. I think Bolton has assumed the role of Lord Regent." his voice was lowered snf he spoke with a more neutral, almost friendly manner.

Whisker Elucid @TheNorth

 

[Elucid]

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[div class=fyuri11wrapper][div class=fyuri11imagebox][div class=fyuri11overlayparent][div class=fyuri11overlay][div class=fyuri11header] Lord Toregg Umber

The Horn of Winter

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In all his time as the Lord of Last Hearth he'd seen nothing like it, this was a farce, a cruel joke played by a man who couldn't care less about what his title meant and what that required of him. Like always the little pup found ways to disappoint, oh how Calon would weep if he'd seen the state of his family now. The Umbers had been loyal vassals to the Starks for centuries, centuries of service and this is what they get in return? their lord asking them to ready their banners and march to the south for a king they knew nothing about, to risk their lives, their homes and their families all the while having the gall to lecture those very men on the virtues of restraint in war?

What's more, the man chooses now to tell us of his impending resignation from his seat as lord paramount and his intention to ride to the southern lands and act as the bastard Targeyreyn's hand? to wipe his shit and make his bed? this was the last straw he had heard enough, he would've protested to Lord Bryce had the man not left to attend to matters of apparently greater importance.

After that debacle lord, Toregg had some time to steady his head, drink some mead and cool himself down all the while he heard lord Bolton toast to the health of the Lord Paramount, his thinly veiled insults not fooling anyone. It was amusing enough of course but he didn't seem to address any of Lord Umber's concerns, why fight for this king of the southerners? a bastard?.

Lady Willow was next, she tried to calm the situation, reiterating what her father said and reminding them of what transpired in harrenhal. She was a sweet lasse whom he admittedly admired but the ship had sailed and frankly, there would be no convincing lord Umber by speaking of what happens in far of harrenhal. After lady Willow the Manderlys spoke up, a respected house he thought to himself surely they would understand the gravity of the situation. It was disappointing to see the Lady simply bow down, shout the stark name and call the houses to action. As if that meant something as if they were simply some sheep meant to follow the shepherd to their deaths if necessary. He'd heard enough, he had to speak now, it was time the hall listened to the Umbers.

"You'll forgive me, my lady, but I grow tired of this charade." He said as he struggled to stand on his own two feet, old age had finally crept up on the man, but of course, the weight wasn't helping. "I've been here before, many times before, I've raised my mug to the health of house stark more times than I can count; harvest feasts, weddings, tourneys and yes before me and my own went to war". He scanned the room for just a second making sure he'd gotten all their attention.

"I was young when Lord Calon had called us Umbers to war, I would've been barely 17. I didn't know what war was, I didn't know what it cost, I was just a boy. Often I wonder why it wasn't me that perished on the field that day, instead of him. It should've been me lying there in that puddle of blood and indignity, not him, not a man as great as him." Lord Umber gathered himself for a bit before going on, his emotions getting the better of him.

"When I returned, with the man's body I swore that I would do anything to help the grieving lord and his family. As a loyal vassal and friend. But it soon became apparent that the pup wasn't half the man his father was."

"I have raised a mug to the health house stark more times than I can count, I shall not raise it again. My men shall ride back to Last Heart and spend the remainder of this foreign war there, no umber blood will be spilled fighting this conflict. If lord Stark wishes to see this as open rebellion, he may, he may bring his men to Last Heart and ready for war I certainly will not shy away from it."

High Moon
Braddington
Little-Fox
Rusty of Shackleford

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[Little-Fox]

Anaya Uller | Lucas the Ashen Blade | Commander Brune
King's Landing: Small Council is in Session​

“What does some Dornish princling want with me?!” Boremund huffed as he paced through the cobbled streets of Kings-Landing. They were looking for one 'Matthos of Braavos' that some pillock had decided to let into the city, he sounded like trouble so Brune planned to nip it in the bud. His mood was a blend of restlessness, frustration, confusion and anger; though the latter was sort of a constant for him this past week, always on the back-burner.

"Return the message, tell the Prince I’ll be glad to meet him at, ah,” Brune ran through a quick mental list of places he was least likely to be murdered. “The Sept of Baelor?” He finished a little lamely. “I’m in a pious mood alright!” He snapped at the guard’s raised eyebrow. “Go then, off you fuck.” He waved away the man and continued on with his company of Gold-Cloaks down the street of Sisters.

Boremund had always aimed to keep a low profile, having a title or some fruity moniker seemed equivalent to painting a big red target on your chest. So the fact a high lord -prince whatever he wanted to call himself – even knew his name Boremund found unsettling. He had a bad feeling about this, but he rarely had any good feelings.


The way the mercenary worked with the crow fascinated the girl as she’d never really sent letters or the like in such a manner, she’d never really had a need to. “Do you even know who or what we’re looking for? A sigil? Colors? Anything?” She shouldn’t be surprised. She just expected the sellsword to know more than she did about King’s Landing and the people that populated it. “Maybe we should ask someone?” Green eyes scanned the area around them, taking note of the bustle and traffic of the street. Some rather concerned looking guard in Dornish colors came rushing by, looking to be heading back towards the main keep. Odd. She thought to herself. The larger group of people down the street made her give pause as one rather angry looking man with some sort of contraption on his face seemed to be leading the crew. “Ah… Lucas… Maybe ask one of them?” Yeah no, she wasn’t about to throw herself into another angry encounter if she didn’t absolutely have to. Ryden had done enough damage to her as it was.


Lucas shook his head at all of the details he was given. “Nope. Our ‘Oh so wise’ leader apparently thought me omnipotent and neglected to give me any information that would help us in our search for the man.” He looked at the man that she indicated and sighed. Great another person to get pissy. He walked over to the man and said “Excuse me. You wouldn’t happen to know a fellow named Brune, would you? We’ve been sent to talk to him.”


There was that ‘bad feeling’ Boremund was talking about. The column of goldcloaks halted behind him a moment as Boremund turned his attention over to what looked to be an unsettlingly-well-armed individual accompanied by some Dornish tart. These were not the clowns he was looking for.

“Who’s asking?” He eyed the pair suspiciously, Boremund didn’t have a nose but that had never hindered his ability to sniff out trouble. “...And who sent you?”


The ‘tart’ stood at all of 4’8 and held herself at a distance, red ink tattooed from cheekbone to cheekbone with white ink marking a few places at either side just below the red. She regarded him quietly, a decent amount of intelligence present in her sea-green eyes as she conjectured that this may very well be who they were looking for. She wasn’t about to correct Lucas in that he had been sent to talk to Brune, not her, especially not if this was who he was supposed to be looking for. “Lady Anaya Uller. Might I ask your name or if you can help us? Or shall we see about finding another who possibly can?” She kept her tone calm and quiet, not wanting to incite any sort of argument here, especially not in a city she didn’t know well enough to slip off to a hideaway. It was bad enough she couldn’t get far without her father sending someone to bring her back.


Lucas however stood at a firm 6’1, a grey chevron painted on his face in what looked like ashes. His tone was aloof and his expression was one of a man who did not want to be where he was, as though this had been a damper on his day. “Lucas….with no last name that’s important.” he made a bored circle in the air with his index finger. “Hurray for being a bastard. As for who sent me, Prince Ryden of Dorne. He sent me to help whoever Brune is or check in with him. He wasn’t clear on his orders he just said ‘go’ because he was having a royal temper tantrum.”


“My lady,” Boremund sketched a rough bow, he wasn’t wholly uncultured, just mostly. “I can’t seem to move for bastards in the city-watch, though I’ll grant you none of them are privy to royal temper tantrums, just my own regular variety.” He shrugged. “I am Commander Boremund Brune, I assume it’s me you’re looking for, there are not many of us Brunes left now, bastard Celtigar has seen to that.” There were angry murmurings from the goldcloaks behind him. “No offence.” He said glancing at Lucas. He took a second look at them, didn’t seem like spies, but then that might be the point.

 

[Nightblade]

Jon Baratheon & Willam Lannister​

Willam looked at the shirtless Stag “What were you supposed to do? Well stop him!”
He was still irritated by the fact that Jon did nothing, Willam thought they were friends
“Now it’s too late, Gawen is surrounded by people who love them. When we were riding there, that was the chance to do something

Jon looked at Willam indifferently. Everything the Lannister heir said was through and Jon hated himself for it.
His fists clenching, his voice became a snarl before he slammed his fist into the desk

“You think I don’t know that!?, you think I do not hate myself for him being in this position!?, but I could not….would not risk you!”

By the end of his tirade, Jon was panting, while he had gotten the point across he did not mean to in such a way. Calming himself down he spoke quieter this time.
“Trust me, we are not the only ones who want him dealt with and he will be finished soon enough”

Willam finally calmed down a little “How Jon? How are you going to do that,”
The Lion looked again at the Stag “Maybe it is better that you hate yourself, Gawen is surrounded by friends”
Willams feelings were confused, he finally thought things would get better here but then it confusion came back

“Right now the only one who cares for him in any way is Elaena, having you here may actually work to flay our dear monarch with enough guilt”

Jon explained as he stepped towards willam with a venom like grin on his face, resting a hand on Willam’s cheek before moving in to whisper
“Gawen will not live much longer, I promise you”

Willam looked at Jon, the guy was right, maybe he could convince Elaena that Gawen was a murderer.

“I can talk to Elaena, but she was in the council meeting I heard”
As Jon walked over to Willam, placed his hand on Willams cheek and leaned in, he got goosebumps and in an impulsive action he hugged Jon

Jon held willam close and ran a hand through his hair. The hug was shocking to Jon but pretty quickly he held him close. He had not thought about how being left out alone would have affected Willam.

Pulling back and looking into the emerald eyes looking back, Jon moved in and found his lips on Willams. His hands still on Willams hips

Willam kissed Jon passionately, he didn’t knew why Jon went for a kiss, but it made Willam remember old time.

Old times, when Aegon was still king. Old times, where Willam served Jaehaerys and spent time with Elaena.
This was all now gone, but Willam smiled through the kissing when he thought about the good time

Willam and Jon finished the deed, “That was great I think” he smiled and stood up.
He walked over to refresh himself in the cold water of the bath and then started to put his clothes on again
“I heard there was council meeting going on now, maybe it is finished and I can speak to Elaena”

Jon watched Willam with a grin. Helping himself to a goblet of wine, he took a drink.
Getting up after Willam got dressed, Jon rested his hands on Willams hips and left a brief kiss on his neck.

“Make sure you let me know how it went”


Willam smiled “I’ll surely do” He gave Jon a kiss on his lips and left the room to find Elaena

Yarrow

 

[Akio]

Qoren Martell

​

Qoren was a bit put off when the council ended so suddenly, Vaemond was the smallest of the issues in front of them and yet Baratheon had treated it like it was the entire council. Before he had much time to say anything though Baratheon had drawn off Gawen for a private conversation and the council had begun breaking up. After he left he turned to look at Jocelyn. "It seemed we had more matters to discuss but it seems things end here." He said with some disquiet as he stood. The letter from the Tullies is not something we should let slip by. If the Oaf of highgarden combine with the Tullies and come down on us we will have a hard time resisting till Daeron can draw can draw their attention. We should have someone familiar with him reply in his script, maybe Lord Darklyn will be willing. And then chose a place convenient to us. It might be a trap but it's not one we can ignore. Set up the place within striking distance but not so close to us that it would be suspect and leave an ambush in waiting to take whoever arrives, perhaps wearing Tyrell colors to make it even more distinct. If we manage to capture someone vital we might be able to protect ourselves from the Tullies risking very few swords." He said as he stood up from the table and turned to look at Elaena, bowing low to her. "As for all other matters, it seems they will be saved for next time, your grace. And Jocelyn." He said his cold eyes flinching up to her.

"I mean to speak to you soon about our conversation at Harrenhal." He said clearly, not planning on saying more then that as he turned to leave. He had given up his son for this cause, for him this was more than proof of his devotion. He would take apart, and win this war and he meant for Dorne to be rewarded for it. Dorne would come out on top in this war. It had too. As he left the small council chambers he saw a familiar face and while he did not smile he seemed to relax some and approached the man. "Natanael, I see you made your way to Kingslanding." He said approaching the man with something of a relaxed nature. This man was a friend in many ways, and very useful for him to have in the castle.

 

[Yarrow]

Loren Lannister
It was a few days after the dinner. Loren had the Lords feasting until they were ready to go sleep. The day after that he had spoken to all of them, some individually. By now the word had probably gotten to King’s Landing that the Lannisters sided with their neighbors, the Tyrells and Tullys. All Lords present got their command and every agreed on what they should do. The plans were simple, the coastal Lords would continue to defend the coast of the Westerlands, aided by some other houses while the others marched northwards, to the Neck where they would meet with the Tully force, however a small group would leave them halfway to reinforce the border close to the Crownlands

It was still early in the morning, but everyone was already awake at Casterly Rock. Today was the day they would ride towards the coast or Riverlands. Breakfast was served at his chamber and together with his wife and children he ate in silence. They all knew that they would not see each other for a long time. Gareth would join Loren and hopefully Willam and Tyland while Jeyne and Alysanne stayed behind at Casterly Rock.

An hour later they were all ready to march. Loren hugged his daughter and gave kiss to his wife Alysanne
“Take care of yourselves, before you know it we will ride through these gates again”
He then knelt and gave a kiss to the belly of his wife. After a final emotional hug with his wife he jumped on his horse and looked to the men beside him. Two were still missing, Willam and Tyland. Just as he was about the say that they would leave he saw Tyland entering the gates. Without Willam. Immediately he noticed there was something wrong, was Willam hurt? Did someone do something to him? He looked down and saw that Alysanne hadn’t noticed Tyland yet. To keep his wife from any pain he rode towards Tyland and said to him
“Turn around and ride with me through the gates”
Once they were outside the first gates he looked at the other knights on their horses from each house from the Westerlands “They will hear us roar!” and he began riding down the Rock. The knights followed him and as soon as they left the Lions mouth and the knights began to ride to their own troops he looked at Tyland, confused “Where the hell is Willam? Brother?”

TheFool

 

[Rusty of Shackleford]

Bryce and Amelia Stark
Old Wolves
Bryce nodded, saying, "Sick, brother? Have you talked to the Maester let? I can't have my brother sick." He sighed, saying, "Changing the subject, there's a reason I'm resigning. I've...I've served as Lord Paramount for many years. I did my best. But I'm no Lord. I have no ability to lead like Theon does. I can't have my vassals rebel in the middle of a war. I just can't do this anymore. I'm old. I'm a grandfather by now. My son is going to be Lord. My time is over, Brother. After the war, I'll serve King Daeron as best I can. Though I'm not the best candidate. But make it what you will. I hope you feel better soon, Brother."

Theon Stark
Alpha Wolf
Theon sat at the small desk, Lana behind him on the bed with little Lyanna. He sighed, writing a letter to his father, telling him that he was a grandfather, and taht the child was healthy and strong. He felt a massive sense of pride as he wrote that. He was a father. A father of a beautiful, healthy baby girl that would make him and Lana proud. He finished the letter, also including a statement that he would join his father in the coming war, and let his mother and sister's watch over Winterfell. The letter from his father still hadn't arrived yet, and his plans were set in stone. But that would change everything. It would make protecting his family much, much easier when he was Lord.

WaitingCynicism
​

 

[Akio]

Urrigon Greyjoy

​

As she stuck out her tongue at him he couldn't help but laugh even as she brought down her sword. Naturally, the spray of blood and the scent of death did nothing to bother him, he himself was dripping with blood anyway, in fact seeing his sister dripping with blood couldn't help but make his loins stir. He suddenly wanted to figure out who won the contest. Before he could say anything else though an arrow flew across the deck and stuck itself into Gwyns arm. Turning quickly he saw the terrified merchant trying to string another arrow. He considered going after him till Gwyn rushed him with rage. He just simply watched at this point, he knew the merchant wouldn't have a chance to string another arrow and he just watched with amusement.

She leaped onto him, grabbing him by the neck and slamming him against the ship. Then she did it again, and again, and again. Till the man's head seemed to almost pop like an egg and half of it was nothing more than a mess of broken flesh and bone. The crew was looking at her with fascination and amazement as she killed the man while Urrigon just looked with a sort of pride. When she finished she sat down and began yelling for someone to take this arrow out. Rolling his eyes he would stride over to his sister, his heavy footfalls echoing over the deck. "Stop screaming sister ill get out the arrow." He said with a grunt as he came alongside her. He would rip a piece of cloth off the merchant and tie it on her arm above the arrow. "Byrron! Get your ass over here!" He said and a thinner man came over and began looking over the arrow. He didn't seem ironborn and indeed was one of the few men on the crew who weren't from the isles. Never the less he was not only a decent warrior but served as the ships Maester and enjoyed a certain level of privilege among the ship. As he went to look at the wound Urrigon grinned at his sister still holding his ax. "So i believe i was on eight. Including that one how many did you get?" He asked teasing her slightly.

 

[Yarrow]

​

The Battle of Harvest Hall
The Lord and Lady of Harvest Hall were still watching their children as they played in the small garden when the alarm bells were being rang. Lysa looked with panic on her face to her husband Symon “Are they here? This soon? Are we ready? What are we going to do Symon?” she spurted out. Symon placed his hand on her shoulder as he stood up “Everything will be alright my dear” He gave her a pack on her forehead “Go inside with the children, Erick will protect you and the twins”. Lysa hurried inside and Symon ran to the armory where his squire and assistants put Symons armor on him.

A soldier from the wall ran into the armory “My Lord, Lord Osgrey is here with a message, he said he wanted to fight this out man to man, we have one hour to answer” Lord Selmy furrowed his brow “Thank you Meric, now find the Maester, ask him to send messages to Caron, Dondarrion and Alexander Baratheon, asking them for help and they need to know that the Tyrells have started the war” The soldier nodded and left the room again.

Lord Symon was always prepared, he had been drilled since he was a young boy by his father. Now was the time to prove that he was indeed a good leader. He had decided that he would meet Addam Osgrey in a duel where he would show the boy how to fight like a man. Together with his squire and two flag bearers he rode through the gates of Harvest Hall. Just before he left the castle he had given the last orders to his command. The three starks of yellow wheat on a brown field waved on one banner, while the other was white. Symon rode with his small party to that of Addam and stood within hearing distance “I accept the duel, there doesn’t need to be bloodshed”



As Lord Selmy rode out of Harvest Hall the mood of the army was tense to say the least, the white banner reassured them however, he wasn't here to spit in their faces after all. The two men beside Addam were less than eager, Ser Robert seemed distant and worried, he might have led the guard of Coldmoat for near 20 years but war was new to him, as it was everyone else. He simply looked to his nephew with an almost pleading tinge to his emotions, as if he thought Addam would fall here today and that would be that, but try as he might to form words or talk his nephew out of it, his mouth remained sealed without even a whisper coming out of it. Meanwhile Ser Branston simply sat there,determined perhaps? Or was it fear? Addam could not tell as he looked at the man, the exact opposite of his mother in almost every way.

When Lord Selmy reached a close enough distance and shouted out a new emotion hit Addam, he was….happy. Not for altruistic reasons either, it was not the men who would be saved but the prospect of a good duel and a competent opponent for once that gave him this satisfaction. When Lord Selmy finished Addam looked back at the army with a smile, he motioned to a boy in the crowd of faces, most likely a banner carrier to come forward. “You boy, be my squire for the duel. Your job is simple, don't get in the way and you will be fine.” The boy simply nodded in approval as Addam turned to Lord Selmy once more. “Very well, my Lord, it happens now. Do what you wish, say prayers if you must. I will be ready." With that Addam leapt down from his horse, and approached the clearing between the army and castle itself. The men behind him cheered in an almost tribalistic fashion as he did so whilst Ser Robert simply did a quick and inconspicuous blessing and prayer to the Seven.



Symon wasn’t a religious man, but he did send prayers out to the seven, all of them for various reasons. He stepped off his horse and his squire hurried towards him. The young boy quickly made sure all buckles were fastened. Symon was a little irritated by the fact that Addam was commanding him, like he had the upper hand, while actually Addam had to worry, since Symon was older and had excellent training.

Way back at Harvest Hall you could hear the people shouting and encouraging their Lord as Selmy walked over to the young Lord Osgrey. Lysa was standing at the walls. She wasn’t going to let her husband alone. The children were back in the keep with Erick, Lysa could protect herself. If anything would go wrong, she knew these soldiers next to her would listen to her.

Symon walked calmly towards Addam and stood still a few metres in front of him. He lowered his visor and took his sword in one hand, while his shield was held by the other. The white banner was planted in fertile grounds, but the men were all on their horses, watching their Lord.



Addam grabbed his helmet from the makeshift squire and placed it upon his head, bowing once to Lord Selmy and then lowering his visor in turn. The squire then ran back to the lines as Addam drew his sword and swung it a little, getting a good feel for it's weight and strength. “Good luck Lord Selmy, you have saved many lives here today. One life for thousands.” Addam then advanced steadily, light on his feet as he danced around a little, switching his sword between hands as if to loosen up a little. He did this for at least a minute, skirting around as his men cheered him on in the background. He felt alive. This was what he wanted, this was what he had always wanted, to be loved, respected and become everything House Osgrey deserved. Nothing would take this from him now he had felt it, especially not on his first command against a marcher Lord of all things.

Then as quick as lightning the duel became serious, the theatre was over, now it was about life and death. Addam charged at the Lord, switching angles as he approached and floating on a single foot occasionally switching to another leg. He did a small jump and drove his sword at the Lord, trying to pierce right above the defence provided by his shield and into the small opening which provided a view of his throat. He did so with strength, he doubted it would work but it was a chance to end this quickly and it would make a good story to tell Garlan when he next saw him.



Symon looked at the young man standing before him. He knew Lord Osgrey was still young, maybe not even twenty years old. Symon stayed silence when Addam got his round of applause by his followers. Symon smiled, the young lad in front of him was still full of life and joy. A war was waiting on him, a terrible one, Symon could say. Not that Symon was so experienced, but he had protected the pass Harvest Hall was built on for quite some years now against bandits and other scum.

Symon didn’t needed time to warm-up, he was ready when he needed to be. With his brown eyes the marcher lord looked at Addam. He was ready, as was the little lion in front of him. When Addam charged at him, Symon readied himself. As Addam was close to enough and he made a little jump, Symon knew what the reachman was going to do and he moved his shield a little up and backwards, before smashing the strong iron shield against the sword of Addam so it would be pushed down. Then with his sword he striked horizontally at the side of Addam, it would hit the armor, but Addam would sure feel the impact of the strong Symon.



As his body reverberated from the sudden loss of momentum as he hit the Lords shield he didn't have long to react as a sword struck his side, he managed to pull out just enough for no serious injuries but the impact of both the shield and sword disoriented him enough to where he needed to disengage and regain composure. As he did so he felt the pain in his side but he relished in it, this was good, the pain was sweet and he turned once more to his men, lifting his arms to signal a chorus of cheers and the sound of swords bashing on shields. He smiled at the sight, eager once more as if the last few minutes of fighting had not occured at all.

This time he wouldn't be so foolish, he approached once more on both feet with almost running with no jumps or theatrical moves as he held his shield out in front of him. Then he swung from above, knowing the Lord would have to react and block it with his own sword, leaving an opening with which he would charge forward with his shield and catch him off guard, hopefully knocking him backwards if not over and causing a great deal of pain if enough momentum was there. Pay back as it were for the strike he had received not a long ago.



Symon smiled a little when he hit Addam in his side. He could hear vague screams of joy coming from the tower and bells were being run, all in support of Symon. Symon took also a few steps back to regain some energy and focus. The only advantage Addam had was his youth, thus endless energy for now. Symon was smart enough to take all the time he could. For now Symon had been defensive, but soon he would go offensive and show Addam how you dueled right.

The little lion again moved towards Symon and Symon thought to himself ‘This boy is a little foolish by explaining all his moves before he does them’ Addam would probably expect that Symon would catch the sword from above with his own sword, but Symon loved the unexpected. Symon stepped in and moved his shield up while he took another sidestep. Like his previous defence, Symon turned the shield a little so the sword would scratch the shield and was directed away from Symon towards the ground. Symon looked bitter as the heavy sword hit his shield but he managed to keep standing. With his sword he slashed right under the waist of Addam, where his chestplate and upper leg plates left a little opening. The counter was cruel, but the little lion had to learn not to boast.



Selmy was different to what he usually faced, when he countered with his shield instead of sword he had to admit he wasn't expecting it and it took effort not fall forward as his sword slid towards the hard ground below. He knew a counter was coming, not that he could do much to stop it in his current predicament so in those few tense seconds he awaited pain which came as he felt steel on skin just at the top of his leg. To his own credit he didn't shout out in pain but clenched his teeth as hard as he could, he would not give Selmy or Harvest Hall the satisfaction of a scream. This was nothing and he now had the measure of the Lord he was fighting against and no doubt the gift of a permanent scar. It was time to be serious, this wasn't a weak and sickly bandit.

He stepped back and adopted a defensive stance, blocking out every sound around him so he could focus on his enemy and the area around them. It was time the Lord felt pain of his own. Whilst he would of found it poetic to cut him down like the wheat on his sigil it was obviously not going to happen against an experienced opponent such as this. If offense didn't work then maybe his speedy defence would.



Addam smiled, the boy was learning his place and taking the defensive, something the boy must have done from the beginning. As Addam stepped back, Symon followed by stepping forwards. Now he was in his element. Symon attacked the boy with three quick strikes, left right left, and then he moved his shield in front of him while he took another step forwards, trying to push him back.



Addam was ready for the onslaught, he had prepared himself fully and he would allow Lord Selmy to tire himself out whilst his own energy was high, adrenaline coursing through his veins. As the strikes came he parried them one by one, this was what Addam was trained to do from the moment he picked up a sword at a tender young age. In defence he was confident in his abilities, not in a bragging manner but simple fact. When the Lord pushed with his shield, Addam took the opportunity to spin to the side, allowing the Lord to push at thin air. Then during the twist took his sword and went for Selmy’s leg, or more specifically his ankle. It would be a brutal wound no matter who won here today but Addam was confident in his youthful agility and speed to pull it off with grace. He almost regretted the brutal nature of his attack but that quickly dissipated.



Symon was about to continue with his strikes but he stopped when Addam spinned away and Symon pushed nothing, he took a few steps to regain his stability but then Addam slashed at his ankle. The pain was excruciating, he could hear the cheers from the army of Addam. A few steps were needed to get the worst pain out of his ankle. Symon thought for a moment, preparing his final attack on the young boy. Maybe it was better, for the boy to end here and not see the terrors of a war. Symon held his shield in front of him and stepped towards Addam again. Instead of slashing, he started to poke, first at the shoulders of Addam, with precision he aimed at the weak spots in the armor, the little space between the plates. After a few pokes, each time taking cover behind the shield, the pokes were quick however, he added a few pokes at the waist. The pokes were quick, not trying to pierce through the flesh of Addam, but enough to see blood.



The shouts from the crowd would normally have energised him even more but he was focused, the crowd was an annoyance if anything. He simply breathed in and readied himself for the next attack. It seemed annoyance was the next strategy of Lord Selmy, each strike was more of an annoying thought than serious damage. Yes there was blood but not enough for him to worry. Addam grew tired of it and with a sudden and unexpected change of pace he charged forward with all his energy, deliberately hitting into him and his shield to knock him off balance. Then with an effortless slice he cut the sword arm of Selmy in such a way that would force him to drop his sword immediately. Then he came at the off balance swordsman with a final thrust which pierced his chest. The game was over. He looked down at Lord Selmy almost sad and withdrew his sword “You fought well, my Lord. Go now and rest in the embrace of the Seven knowing you did the right thing.” Then he gave the Lord a mercy killing and pierced his neck in a quick and efficient strike.



Lord Symon Selmy was totally caught off-guard by the sudden rush forwards from Addam. He was trying to stay on his feet but then he suddenly felt like a sword cut his arm, well, this was actually true. In an automatic reaction he let go of his sword, with his left hand he tried to grab the knife from his belt but then Addam followed with a thrust at his chest and he felt the sword piercing the armor and his flesh. He fell backwards onto the ground. He was bleeding and it was so painfully that Symon wanted to be death. In a last resort, he took the knife and thrusted with all his last power that he could gather at the ankle of Addam. Then when he saw the sword above him he closed his eyes and with a last blast of pain everything went black.



Lysa could barely see the fight from this far, she could only see the different colors of the two men fighting and when she saw her husband falling on the ground she screamed like she was struck herself “No.. no.. not Addam” the commander who was standing next to her was trying to get her on her feet again “Lady Selmy, we will do everything to protect the castle” Lady Selmy nodded and left the walls to go inside the keep. There she met with Erick “Keep the children safe, do not follow me” she then took the stairs to the highest room and watched as the men on the walls readied themselves. She looked to the three horses riding for the castle, it was the three men who accompanied Symon at his last battle. As soon as they reached the gates she looked at the huge horn standing in the window frame and she blew on it. The sound carried all the way to the army of the Tyrells. The archers readied themselves and when they would hear the bells, they would start to shoot.



Pain rang through his ankle as a blade sank into his foot, managing to step just a little out of the way so it didn't pierce his ankle and as he looked up Addam knew right away what had happened, there was to be no surrender. He paced back and forth and shouted to the castle in anger “Oathbreaking traitors! You dishonor your Lords word!” Until finally he collapsed on his foot, his uncle rushing forward with a horse to retrieve him and bring him back to a Maester in service to the Tyrell force. Then it was up to Ser Robert to finish this, he donned his helmet and like a true Osgrey took command of the situation. He turned to the force and shouted loud “You are men of the Reach! The biggest fighting force in all Westeros! Show these oathbreakers what a real fighting force looks like! Bring down that gate and take this castle, take everything within and most of all, take the glory!” Then the force charged forward, archers peppered the garrison and the archers on the walls with arrow after arrow in an effort to interrupt their volleys.

At the front of the force was Ser Robert himself, Ser Branston at his side and a whole slew of minor Lords and bastard sons. As the arrows rained men were cut down all around him, but he did not panic, he had a duty and he would do it. After what seemed like hundreds of dead and an enormous amount of time they reached the walls of the castle. A ram came through and began to batter the outer gate of the keep with fierce strength, luckily for the attackers their surprise assault meant the defenders had not had time to prepare the oil. Then came the ladders, rising to the walls as people began to climb, cut down one by one. Robert swore he saw old friends amongst the dead but who could tell noble from the rest of the rabble at this point?

He charged for one of the ladders and began to climb, he almost made it to the top uninjured before an arrow struck his side, still he climbed, knowing that him stopping would not bode well for the men behind or him either. When he reached the top men poured through behind him and they began clearing the walls, he cut down man after man in a blind fury, something he had never experienced before but not something he enjoyed. Then with a great crash the gate came down as hundreds stormed through the breach and began clearing the area of enemy troops. Ser Robert stood on the battlements and cheered down to men below “Go men of the Reach! Do your duty!” His celebration was short lived however when in the distance a crossbow man of clearly low birth levelled his weapon and, whilst shaking, fired a shot at Ser Robert. It struck his throat. Robert collapsed to the ground below and landed in the courtyard, dead in an instant, forgotten by the men below like so many who had died today. With that the last capable heir of House Osgrey was dead on the ground like a common foot soldier.

Ser Branston took control at the now breached gate, waiting to see how the garrison commander would react now he had no defences to protect his traitorous hide.




As Lysa noticed the army of the Osgreys approaching she rung the bell. Within five seconds the archers fired volley after volley towards the enemy approaching their walls. Lysa smiled, they would defend Harvest Hall with every last man they could. She looked down and the saw the battle unfold. To her dislike, they weren’t prepared fully, but a lot of Reach men had already fallen.

When she heard the gate breaking and opening she screamed, everything was lost now. Edrick, the castellan waved with a white flag from the first floor of the keep and shouted with his loud voice “We surrender, we accept our defeat” Lysa could hear her children talking to each other as they watched at all the men laying on the ground, blood everywhere and even a fire was starting somewhere.
She wished the twins didn’t had to see this, but she couldn’t live with it anymore. Her husband was dead, the man who was everything to her. She lost Harvest Hall, the place she grew to love. Slowly, she stepped into the window frame. She took a deep breath and she let herself fall forward. She closed her eyes and saw her husband smiling.



As the Castellan came to surrender, Ser Branston ordered everyone around him to stand down. The castle was theirs. Then like some cruel and twisted joke a woman fell from the Keep before them, no she didn't fall, she jumped. The Castellan knew right away who it was a collapsed to the ground in tears. Branston simply looked around to his men and nodded solemnly “I want everyone in chains before nightfall, no one is to be harmed, even the oathbreakers. Send a runner Lord Osgrey to inform him of what has happened and the demise of Lady Selmy. As for the children, get them out of there. Give them something to eat, treat them well and bring them back to the camp. They will be sent to Highgarden as wards of Lord Tyrell.”

Branston then walked up to the battlements and passed body of Ser Robert Osgrey, looking down at the man he grew emotional but kept it in check, turning to another servant “Also tell his Lordship of his uncles fate, gently if you will. Please remove his body with care and take him back to the camp.” As he ascended to the top he regarded both sides of the gate and shouted to them both. “Today you have fought and won a great victory! Harvest Hall is ours! Though many have died you did your duty as honourable men and broke the oathbreakers as we said we would! You have earned a celebration, tonight in this very castle we shall hold a feast for all who took part in this assault! For now rest and reflect on what happens to the enemies of the Reach. Enjoy your victory and your glory!” The men let out a deafening roar of approval. As the dust settled it was finally over, one of the first victories in what was to be a long war.


Braddington

 

[Yarrow]

Richard Redwyne
Richard Redwyne stood on the upper deck of the Arbor Queen, the main flagship of the Redwynes. The big burgundy sails were lowered and the gold and white oars were laying on the deck. Richard had invited all the lords of the Shield Islands here. His father Ryam had been working closely with the Lords of the Shield Islands, now he was supposed to do that in his stead. Richard had been thinking for a while about this idea of his. Baelor always talked about how good the Reach was, how powerful the bannermen he had living in his Kingdom were. However, what he really meant was how good the mainland was. Baelor didn’t care for the people living on the islands, especially not the Shield Islands.
He looked at the assembled Lords. They were all older than him, but Richard commanded the most ships and he had been living on them since he could walk. His presence radiated braveness, trustworthiness and determination. After he looked to each of them he began his speech, his voice was not very loud since they were not many people, but the words carried power with them.

“Lords of the Shield Islands, Greenshield, Greyshield, Oakenshield and Southshield, I, Lord Richard Redwyne, son of the legendary Ryam Redwyne, have called you here today to discuss some things regarding our status within the Reach.
For years Baelor has been preaching about how good the Reach is, how beautiful the lands are and that there is peace and prosperity everywhere.
However, when he says The Reach, he only means the mainland. He doesn’t mean Greenshield or Greyshield, Oakenshield or Southshield. He only cares about the mainland, the place where his wealth is being kept..”

Richard took a very small pause to look them each in the eyes before continuing

“Baelor doesn’t take note of the things that happen at the Islands, he simply doesn’t care. The only thing he cares about is that our fleet protects the Mander and the center of his wealth, Highgarden.
I, Lord Ryam Redwyne, am sick of that. I am sick of protecting his men and gold whilst he does nothing for us. I say from now on we focus on ourselves.
We defend the Shield Islands, but not the Mander, we protect the Arbor, but not the Whispering Sound. Baelor doesn’t care about us, why should we care about him?”

Richard was finished, he sat down and looked at the Lords of the Shield Islands, waiting for their response

 

[TheFool]

IN THE IRON ISLANDS ...



Veron Greyjoy
Lord Reaper


​

He called himself The Red Kraken.
He called himself The Shipbreaker.
The Ironborn called him The Scourge Of Maelys.
Some Ironborn called him… The King That Never Was.

But,
Victarion Greyjoy was simply ‘uncle’ to Veron.

“The boy will never sail,” Veron said. He moved towards a shelf of tomes that was mounted on the stone wall. Veron wasn’t a reader, but, he liked to have them displayed. It made others think that he was a man of logic. Which I am. “His skills at sea are abhorred at best.” He put his fingers on the spine of a single book,
A History Of The Seven Kingdoms.
He pulled it out from its place on the shelf and began flipping through the pages. With every page turn came a torrent of dust. There was a scent of musk that lingered among the pages. He put the book back when he got to the chapter that detailed the death of House Gardener. Veron soon found himself standing by a small hole in the stone that some would call a window.

Though I’ve sent raven to the bastard king, I feel regret. Veron wanted to win. He wanted to take The Iron Islands and propel them in place and status. He had begun to feel as if he could not accomplish that at the side of a bastard.
He rubbed his chin, which was riddled with blonde hairs.
Perhaps another raven is needed?
Veron turned away from the window and towards his uncle who was entranced by the burning embers in the fireplace. “What do you want, Victarion?” He asked. “Why are you here? Is it to annoy me some?”

Gwyn Greyjoy
NPC


​

Gwyn Greyjoy killed six. The fuck who shot her was included. She would never admit to those six though. Pride made her lie. “Nine.” She said to Urrigon as his greenlander gaped at the wound in her arm. Her stare did not leave his.
“Can I say,” She added. “That I am disappointed in you, little brother.” The Greenlander placed some sort of poultice on her pain, before bandaging it up with greying rags. Gwyn bit her lip. Hoping that she wouldn’t wince.
“I-” She stopped as a surge of hurt slithered through her arm. “I expected eighteen, at the least. You talk a big game when you yet to resemble a player.” Her thoughts turned to Veron. He would have choice words with her when he saw her arm’s wrappings.
That made her gulp.

Spoiler: MENTIONS

Akio
Braddington

 

[Whisker]

Jaremy Reed
​

Jaremy turned to find Lord Karstark standing at his heels. If the man had appeared tall while mounted upon his steed, he was a giant on foot. The Lord of Karhold was standing two steps down from the crannogman, but Jaremy found he still had to tilt his head back a little to even have a chance of meeting the other’s gaze. Despite this, he made sure his features retained their relaxed sense of calm. He was used to being looked down upon by others for his stature and knew that any sign of hesitation would be enough to be dismissed as weak. And, as he had learned in the hall, now was not the time for weakness.

“That will be most welcome, My Lord,” he said, drawing his cloak a little tighter across his shoulders. It was almost noon. Yet, the cold was as sharp as a knife.

His gaze turned back though at the mention of Lord Bolton. The words had been friendly, jocular even. Yet, it seemed almost out of place alongside the invitation. The crannogman started back towards the bailey, thinking more on the prospect of the Masked Man commanding the North.

That wouldn’t be so bad, part of him said, remembering the way the other had taken charge of leading them back to Winterfell. He seems to understand the risks involved.

And he was fearsome looking, too. A good man for a time of war.

But there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. It is to them we have knelt for hundreds of years.

They descended the stairs into the courtyard and crossed the open expanse to return to the Great Hall. Inside, the gathered Lords were expressing their opinion on the old wolf’s speech.

“It is a shame that Lord Bryce did not want to stick around and chat, but I’m sure he has much more important things to do than plan our march south.”

Bolton was on his feet, a goblet clutched between his iron fingers. There was no reading his expressions hidden behind the steel, but his words were drawling, mocking. Facing the empty high chair, the Lord of the Dreadfort raised his glass.


“But as I said. Let us all raise our glasses for Lord Bryce Stark. Warden of the North!”

“The Warden of the North!”

The hall reverberated as a few of the Lords joined in. As for himself, the crannogman remained uncertainly silent. Towards the back of the hall, a figure suddenly rose. She was kissed by fire, like so many of the northern maidens were, but she was different. Propriety came naturally to her.

He listened until her speech was finished, and to the rousing words of the Mermaid in support. All appeared smoothed over to the Lord of the Crannogs until Toregg Umber hoisted himself from the bench. Unlike most, Jaremy knew Lord Umber’s reputation; he had been taught his history alongside all the magics of his people. He had been a fine warrior in his youth, a friend to Calon Stark. To hear his refusal to budge was more than a little disheartening.

Collecting himself, Jaremy strode from the shadow of the doorway to stand at the forefront of the hall.

“I believe you are mistaken, Lord Umber. This is no foreign war we speak of. This war is on our doorstep, and if we are not prepared to meet it with all haste, then the North our ancestors have bled and died for will be lost.”

The Lord of the Crannogs was silent a moment, his deep green eyes roving the hall, settling momentarily on Karstark, Bolton, and the fiery Lady Manderly, before finally turning to the eldest Stark left in the hall.

“My Lady of Stark,” he began, his tone softening into a less severe baritone. “I am Jaremy Reed. My father was Joran Reed of the Greywater. Like the Lord of Last Hearth, our people have served House Stark faithfully since the time of the last Marsh King. We have guarded the Neck faithfully against those who would threaten our home. Against those would threaten the North. I come here today, not only as the representative of our people, but also to bring warning to you all.”

He took a deep breath.

“The Lords of the Riverland ride to the Crossing. House Frey has commenced building levies to heights unprecedented in that part of the Riverlands. They have reinforced the bridge with palisades and the rivers no longer carry supplies from the South.”

“My Lords, it is possible we stand upon the brink of invasion. And while our land protects its own, I do not know if I can stop them all.”

His mouth twisted a little. His people were small, not very rich, not influential. But they were proud. Admitting vulnerability among other things was … a difficult task. Yet, he knew what he needed to do and resigned himself to it.

Before long, the young Lord of the Crannogs was eyeing Umber again.

“Lord Umber, I was also young when I experienced my first war. I was nine when the proud Lords of the Two Towers invaded our home, slaughtered my people, and set to conquer us as they have many times before. No one raised their banners in our defense. We fought alone. I saw good men fall - I killed good men. Honorable men. And by the end of it all, The Lord of the Crossing lost seven sons, and I lost a father. Believe me, My Lord, I understand your grief. But I also understand that if we don’t stand and fight together as one people, then the North will fall. And everything we have fought for up till now will have been for nothing.”

“Ride South with me, My Lord.”


Hypnos
Braddington
High Moon
Little-Fox
Rusty of Shackleford
Shadowborn Omen
ailurophile
diwa
Elucid
TheFool
Grammatic
(Apologies if I forgot anyone)

 

[TheFool]

IN KING'S LANDING ...



Matthos Of Braavos
Son Of Fire


​

Matthos seldom mourned his childhood.
It was cruel.
His father was a fisherman who, instead of on his family, invested his coin on cooing sluts that would whistle his way when he passed their palaces. His mother wasn’t much nicer. She was the bastard of a Braavosi lordling- thus she drank like a Braavosi lordling. When she was in one of her drunken stirs, she’d clout Matthos and Meralyn on their ear.
Meralyn.
Matthos’ sister was his soul. My everything. The happiest moments in his life, the some that there were, all had her in them. He missed her. It’d been a time since they had last talked. Though he hoped to see her someday soon. When his work in Westeros was done.

When he arrived at Starfall for the first time, in the beginnings of spring, he saw his sister. Well, a glimpse of her. In Arianne Fowler.
Arianne. She became Matthos’ light. A friend he had hoped to have forever.
They would sit together for hours and tell stories. They would sit together for hours and jape about the most ridiculous of topics. They would sit together for hours with the finest reddened wines raised to their lips.

And then she died.

“Shall I bring up his lordship’s armour?” Shiv said. Snatching Matthos away from his memories. He looked at her and gave a nod. She left the room, leaving Matthos with his Lord. Well, one of them. “The journey was jovial.”
He said,
Taking a sip.
“We got here with ease. A fine city, she is, King’s Landing. Can you believe it is my first time?” Matthos said as he walked over to the futon and sat down. He crossed his legs and took another sip. When the wine slid down his throat he let out a sigh.
A sign of relief.
He and Steffon Dayne had a special bond. After Arianne’s passing, they wept with one another. They weren’t really friends but their relationship somehow surpassed friendship. It was a complex companionship.
If only he knew.
“Take a seat, my lord. Let us chit-chat.” Matthos patted the cushion beside him. There was a moment of hesitation but Dayne soon sat down at his side. If only I could tell him. The sat in silence. “You’re tense.” Matthos said, cocking his head.
Soon.

Jocelyn Baratheon
Dowager Queen


​

“Adjourned.” Jocelyn said as she watched her brother leave the small council room. She stood up from her seat and Elaena followed suit.
Balthazar came to her and asked her to dine with him. Does he think I’m one of his whores? She smiled at the short little man and then shook her head,
“I must say that I am exhausted, my lord. It had been a tiresome day. Perhaps we can plan a dinner for a few days time? It would be an utmost pleasure.”
Before he could bear a response, Qoren Martell sauntered over.
Gods give me strength.
He brought up what they had talked about at Harrenhal, which rejogged Jocelyn’s memories. She had tried to push Harrenhal to the back of her mind so much that she had forgotten about the hand she may have promised to the Dornish Prince.
Elaena’s.
“We will speak of this. I assure you. How about we schedule a dinner between you, Lord Balthazar, and I?” She proposed. Her eyes found Elaena, who was whispering to The Mistress Of Whispers about trivial things. “Gentlemen,”
Jocelyn smiled a great smile. “Goodnight.”

They walked through The Red Keep in a stiff silence. The candles had been lit and the smell of cooked duck was strutting about in the air. Jocelyn longed for her sleep. It had been a long day. One which she wanted to be over as soon as possible.
The High Septon did not show, she thought to herself. She had one hand on Elaena’s back and another clinging to a letter written to her by Larys Whent.
That old wretch will regret it.
It was a stairwell’s climb until they got to the quarters that Elaena called her own. They stopped outside of the wooden door that led to her bedroom before Jocelyn spoke,
“Get some sleep, my dear.”
Jocelyn leaned in and pecked her granddaughter’s cheek with a kiss.
“Grandmother.” Elaena said, quiet.
Jocelyn raised an eyebrow, “What is ever the matter?”
“What will you do with Willam?”
Jocelyn did not answer.
“And,” Elaena continued “His brother?”

Jocelyn hugged her granddaughter and held her close. It was sudden. But… needed. “What’s wrong, grandmother?” Elaena asked, her voice muffled. Jocelyn pulled away and then kissed Elaena’s forehead. “I will handle it. Do not fret.”
Elaena smiled a dim smile, before nodding.
“You will be the greatest ruler Westeros has ever seen. Do you know that?” Jocelyn said with sweetness.
Elaena let out a laugh,
“I wouldn’t go that far, grandmother.”
Jocelyn scoffed, “You are blind to your potential.”
They quickly hugged again.
She’s all I have. Sure, my brothers reside in the city right now. But they are only brothers. Only mere men. Elaena is...
Jocelyn could feel her eyes froth up with tears again. I must make sure she is protected. Losing her would be too much. Please, Mother. I’ve… already lost everything else.
“I promise you. Willam will not be harmed. Neither will his brother.” Jocelyn vowed. Though, depending on where Loren Lannister was to place his cards, that vow may have to be broken. Among other things.
“Now,”
Jocelyn smiled at her granddaughter. “Get your sleep. A Queen needs it.”

She returned to her room and to its particular scent of burning wax and rose petals. “Tyana, draw a bath.” Jocelyn ordered as she shut the door behind her. Though the room was a pleasant one, she had a distaste for it. The room wasn’t always hers. It once belonged to a boisterous whore.
Shiera.
The sheer thought of Shiera brought on a brutal anger. Jocelyn remembered the day that she was thrown out of her bed with Aegon...

“Joce, this is an overreaction. Just because she shares my bed does not mean I love you any less. You are my wife. You always will be my wife.” Aegon told her as he held her in place. She had tried to strike him with the back of her hand but he swiftly stopped her. Another man would have punished her with a fist. Aegon wasn’t like most men though.
He held her there and told her to be calm. And I did calm, until the next night when it set in that he was-
He was…
“It is ready, your grace.” Tyana called out.
Jocelyn was sitting on the edge of her bed. Until I realised that he was riding that bitch on our sheets.
She bathed.
And as she did, she felt all the stress of the last week slide off like flakes of dead skin. Her thoughts soon turned back to her past however. “It’s terrible.” Jaehaerys had told her as they sat at a breakfast table. She was sitting down cutting up a fried egg. He was standing tall, his hand on the sheathe of his sword.
“Jae, don’t. Your father is the King.” She retorted.
Her son grimaced, “Just because he’s the King doesn’t mean he gets to treat you like some… some…”
“Jae. Sit. Eat.”
He did as he was told. He always did. “I’m so disappointed in him for doing this to you.” He said as he sipped on some orange juice. “Jaehaerys.” She whispered his name as she washed her black hair in the bath water.
As she climbed out of the tub, she thought of Daeron and Visenya. The whore’s brood. She dried herself and then dressed in a nightgown.
The bastard siblings plot to steal The Iron Throne, like how their whore mother stole my husband’s love…

She sat herself at a writing desk and dipped a quill in some ink. There was a letter to read and then letters to write. I won’t let them. She thought. I won’t let them steal it. She put the pen to paper and began,
I will see their heads on spikes. Her free hand clenched into a fist. By The Seven- I will see it!

When the writing was done, she called for Tyana. “Take these to Maester Osfryd.” Jocelyn handed her the pile of letters that she had spent an hour or four working on. It was now night outside. The moon high in the sky. Its white light making the city glitter.
As soon as Tyana took the pile, Jocelyn used a penknife to break the seal off of the letter from Larys. As she read it, her lips turned to a smile.
“And Tyana-”
She said as the handmaiden was halfway out the door.
“Yes, your grace?”
Jocelyn looked at the girl, “Find Lord Commander Gawen Tyrell. And give him a task. Queen Elaena wants him to make sure Willam Lannister does not leave The Red Keep.”

Spoiler: Larys' Letter

“To Lady Jocelyn, grandmother to our true Queen,
I write to you to assure that all is well. I am yours. Do not forget that. Whatever information I gather will be sent to you in the form of writing.
As for now, I have nothing concrete but I do believe that House Lannister and House Tully will be siding against our dearest Queen.

So proceed with great caution.

Seven blessings,
- Whent”
​

Spoiler: Letter To The Lords Of Westeros

“To ___ ___,
( LORDS OF THE NORTH )
( LORDS OF THE REACH )
( LORDS OF THE RIVERLANDS )
( LORDS OF THE VALE )


I, Dowager Queen Jocelyn Baratheon, address you in a time of paramount importance. Our beloved home is on the brink of war all because some of our countrymen have hearts filled with greed. Their lust for power will pulverise The Seven Kingdoms.

I ask of you
I beg of you,
Please.

Go against your liege lords. Because of them, death will come to your land. Side with Elaena Targaryen, the fairest and truest Queen. If you do, then I can guarantee the same peace and tranquility that we have been blessed with for the last three decades.

Baelor Tyrell’s daughter is about to birth a bastard born of sickness. I have proof that she slept with dozens more men than my dear Jaehaerys. Letting that creature inside her wear a crown would only dishonour my son’s name whilst he sits in all seven heavens.

Daeron Waters is a bastard. Nothing more. Nothing less. A bastard. The legitimization is a lie, fabricated by Symond Rosby in spite. He got my husband to sign it as he lay dying. I urge you to think, if you proclaim this particular bastard as your “King”-

Then what is to stop all the bastard children across Westeros from rising up and overthrowing the truest born children of our greatest houses.

Please.

Join Queen Elaena Targaryen, first of her name, and overthrow your lieges. Do so and The Crown will gift you the rewards you will deserve for such gallantry.
Lands, riches, and, of course, peace.

- Jocelyn Baratheon”
​

4 DAYS LATER ...



Elaena Targaryen
Queen Of The Seven Kingdoms


​

That night was one of those nights. Where she dreamt of dragons. Their scales were all types of colours. Green, with golden specks. A pale blue, that resembled the sky on an spring morning. And then of course there was the white one. It hulked over the others. Its scales were aged. Its eyes like amethyst. Its fire...
Monstrous.
Elaena woke.
She was tangled in her bedding, sweat stuck to her skin. She was panting. And Valyria must have heard her, because the white cat pounced onto the pillow beside her and began to purr.
“You’ll protect me, right Val?” She whispered to the pet.
You don’t need protection,
A voice at the back of her brain echoed.
You are brave.

“Good morning.” Sansa Harte chirped as she entered the room and drew back the silken curtains. Elaena shielded her eyes from the sunlight with the palm of her hand. Elaena didn’t want to get up but she knew that she had to, lest Sansa would whine at her later.
She scratched Valyria’s ear, before throwing off her bed covers and sitting up. She placed her bare feet onto the tiled floor below,
Which sent a chill at first.
“Hurry, your grace. Tom’s making a special breakfast for you this morning.” Sansa said as she tidied up the items that surrounded the vanity mirror. Elaena, once out of bed, yawned. The yawn being followed by a stretch.
It’s time to start another day, she thought.

She ate her breakfast, which came as a surprise to Sansa who had made a jest bet with Brella that Elaena wouldn’t eat for at least another week.
“Edith Baratheon, I think he name is?” Sansa said as she bit into a slice of brown toast. I wonder who’s voice that was that I heard. Elaena sipped some apple juice. The one telling me that I was… brave.
“Her name is Evelyne, you dimwit.” Brella said.
Sansa gasped, “Well excuse me Hogg.”
Maybe it was my father.
Elaena picked up the last piece of pork sausage off of her plate and placed it into her mouth.
He’s watching me.
That thought gave her happiness.
“What are you two talking about?” Elaena asked, interrupting the bickering handmaidens. Sansa cleared her throat and bit into her toast once more. Brella smiled at Elaena,
“We were just talking about your new handmaiden. Lady Evelyne.”
“It is Evelyne?” Sansa asked.
Elaena snickered, “Yes.”
Brella looked at Sansa and stuck out her tongue.
A new handmaiden to replace the old one, even though the old one is still here in The Red Keep. Under lock and key.
Elaena frowned.
Along with Willam. She had only seen him once since he had arrived. Two days ago she visited him and spoke of things Elaena didn’t want to remember. He called Gawen a murderer and told her she was not safe within the same walls as him.
Elaena didn’t believe that though. In fact, she felt safest with her Lord Commander.
I must go speak with him again today.
Meaning Willam.
And I should… go see Meredyth Rosby as well to see how she is. I might take Brella or Sansa with me.

When breakfast was done, her handmaidens left her to her lonesome. She dressed herself in a frivolous silver gown that was fitted with blood red trimmings.
She looked in her vanity and carefully placed the crown atop her head. She had yet to be officially coronated by The High Septon but her grandmother told her that it did not matter,
“You are and always will be The Queen. Not having a ceremony cannot tell you otherwise.”
She smiled at herself in the mirror.
Elaena found it hard to.
But she managed.
I don’t look like myself.
The crown was slightly crooked. Caught up in a loose strand of her silver hair.
I don’t look like that little girl I once was.

She arched her back, as to make herself seem taller than she was. She stiffened her shoulders and looked head on at her reflection.
I will never be that little girl again, she thought. Before she left, and headed for her throne room. Realising that the voice she heard may not have been her father’s. But her own.
It was my voice.
The voice of The Dragon.

Spoiler: MENTIONS

LADY MAERIE'S :
TheAncientCelt

THE SMALL COUNCIL :
Akio
Hypnos
JPTheWarrior
@TAC
diwa

CAPTIVES :
Yarrow

THE HOUSES ADDRESSED TO IN JOCELYN'S LETTER :

House Bolton
House Cerwyn Shadowborn Omen
House Corbray Lingua Frankly Not
House Florent Mion
House Frey Grammatic
House Grafton clarinetti
House Hightower
House Karstark High Moon
House Mallister Nightblade
House Manderly
House Osgrey
House Redwyne
House Reed Whisker
House Royce Little-Fox
House Tarly
House Umber Elucid
VARIOUS OTHER HOUSES
YOU GET A LETTER, YOU GET A LETTER

LETTERS WRITTEN BY OSFRYD :
House Celtigar ( WITH DETAILS OF THE GARRISON WE SHALL SEND AND YADA )
House Sunglass ( YOUR MISSION IS TO KEEP THE PEACE IN CRACKCLAW )

 

[JPTheWarrior]

Evelyne Baratheon​

An elegant melody filled the Red Keep's halls, as Evelyne put her lips against the tip of her black and golden flute, took a deep breath and then blew air into the instrument. Her fingertips started moving, covering and uncovering the flute's holes, doing different notes that would blend into a beautiful soft tune. While she played, she was making her way to Elaena's chambers, so the new crowned Queen could meet her even newer handmaiden. Evelyne made sure her path was one took by many nobles in order for them to get a glimpse at her beauty. She left Stormlands for a single reason, to find a wealthy lord whom she could marry, forming an alliance that would help her kingdom and, most importantly, Alexander.

Her cousin, who always treated her as a sister, was the person she loved the most in the entire realm. He was always present in her life, during the bad and good moments, a figure she could turn to whenever she needed. Others admired Alexander for the just lord and his achievings on the growth of the Stormlands, but she saw him as the kind, caring man he was, always aiming for peace instead of war, but never backing down against those who threaten his family. She was his idol, the person she always tried to act like. And now, he had given her the opportunity to find a suitable husband for her, one who would bring her happiness and power.

Her lips curved into a smile with the thoughs of her cousin, almost missing a note due to the quick distraction. Many soldiers, knights, servants, lords and ladies passed by her, rarely ever not taking the opportunity to see her from head to toe. She was using a sleeveless black dress, golden drawings of gilliflowers decorating its sholders and long skirt. Her chest had just the right amount of skin showing, enough to create all kinds of thoughts in a man's mind. Around her tanned neck, a simple thread connected to her flute would rest, carrying the instrument whenever she wasn't playing it. The instrument's hanging position was carefully planned so the flute layed between her breasts, caughting the attention of any lord interested. Her brown curly braided hair had a silvered tiara intercepting it, with an amber crystal similar to the one Alexander always carried ornamenting it.

Her song was almost at its end, and with it she would reach Elaena's room. She was sure her music had been enough to announce her arrival. Even so, she finished the melody and silence fell. Her instrument was placed in its original position. She prepared her sweetest charming smile and knocked two times on the wooden door. "Evelyne Baratheon, your Grace" she stated waiting for someone to answer her call and let her move into the room.

TheFool

 

[WaitingCynicism]

Rusty of Shackleford

Brandon sighed as Benjen squeezed his hand. Being ill was never a good thing, especially not in the gods damned winter. "I've been to the Maester many times about this, and it's always the same. Leeching, or milk of the poppy. I guess we have to keep boiling wine to help with some. Sleep it off, maybe." He frowned as Bryce explained why he was stepping down. "I can understand that. Age is quite the damned thing. I understand wanting to serve the king completely, gods know I've wanted to serve the king by keeping Winterfell as safe as I can. And after the war, if the vassals rebel, there will be hell to pay. I can guarantee you that much." He smiled at his brother. "I wish you the best of luck, Bryce."