Fandom ♛ Blackfyre : A Game Of Thrones RP

[TheFool]

Gilliane Manderly
Pearl




​

She was taken aback.

A kiss?

It was something Gillane did not expect. Did not see coming. It was, however, something she wanted. Something she needed. Her hand remained on his right cheek, touching it with an amiability. He pulled her into an embrace - his arms wrapped around her. Her chest pushed up against his. Their passion entwining.

“You look beautiful tonight,”

​

The voice told her.
A voice that sent shivers spindling down her. It wasn’t Aegon’s. He was silent but for slight gasps in between each kiss.

“You’re too kind, your grace.”

“I know I am.”

​

She pulled away.
Looking into Aegon’s eyes. She saw him. She saw him. Him. She remembered her father’s words. His solution to their problems. It has to be done. She needed it.
Gilliane leant back in, locking lips with the King once more. Her hand leaving his face and sliding down his side, until she pressed it against his groin.

Her stomach was knotted.
Like someone had roped it in a noose and pulled. Tightening it. Squeezing it.
She could feel herself begin to sweat.

Her eyes opened and she looked behind Aegon. To see the weirwood tree. To see its sickening face. It was taunting her almost. Or scolding her. She pressed harder, feeling Aegon. Feeling all of him. She was caught. In a storm at sea. Like the ones her father always told her of -
The winds pulled her away. The waves pulled her in.

She was repulsed.
She was aroused.

Forgive me, Mother.
Forgive me, Father.

She pushed up against him more. Her lips still on his. She used her free hand to pull at her dress. Loosening it so that her shoulder slipped out. It was cold against the crisp air. Gilliane hoped he would make it warm.

Forgive me, Maiden.

Spoiler: Gilliane's MENTIONS

Braddington

 

[RayPurchase]

Robert Reyne

Lannisport​

It took quite an extraordinary amount of willpower from Robert to prevent his eyes from quite simply glazing over as Jaimie made small talk. The death of Maekar, the weather… the weather for goodness sake. His eyes found Gwyne’s, and he attempted to convey the boredom, disdain and an urge for the ground to swallow him, or even better Jaimie. Of course, it was quite difficult to do this just through the expression of his eyes, but he gave it a damn good try. He was intensely aware of the figure sitting immediately next to him. He could feel the anger and frustration running off Gerion, it was almost like a cool refreshing breeze with these stuffy pleasantries. The boy was hot-headed, and clearly not yet a master of his external emotions yet. A brief smile flashed over Reyne’s lips at Gerion’s outburst, it was perhaps the first sensible thing he had said all day.


“I hate to agree with Gerion my Lord, but time continues to march onwards, perhaps it would be best to go straight to whatever business you have in mind,”


Very much an emphasis on hate, in fact Robert was not really sure that he could overemphasis the strengths of the feelings he had towards the jumped-up little lion. Spoil the rod spoil the child, and Jamie clearly did not have the required force of will with his children. Together the pair were truly insufferable, but Gerion was by far the worse, he was the heir, he should know better, and yet he swanned about, there were enough salacious rumours around him to make a whore blush. Enough to at the very least establish some of them were true.

His eye almost twitched, Loyal Bannermen. Did he actually believe his words, did he not taste their hollowness, the bitterness of the lies, did he recognise the tentative nature of his position, the Lion barely clinging to his kingdom, just tradition and the King’s favour keeping him there, and even then the King’s favour was a fleeting thing, like the wind, whilst it blew strong now, it could easily die down, stop, or even change direction altogether.

Had it really been 20 years, almost as long as Robert had lived that the Westerlands had suffered under such languid and weak leadership, his father had opened his eyes to it, he was glad that other Lords were beginning to see it, Gwyne’s eyes had been opened as well. Jamie could talk of security in his lands, they were fast escaping his grasp, what is a Lord when no one calls you such. Just a man.

Robert had not been sure what he was going to say. An exchange of hostages, a public moment of support, maybe even a good old-fashioned war. What he most definitely did not expect however, was talk of marriage. Thankfully he was not left gawping like a fool, even as his mind spun. His eyes flicked towards Gwyne, his ally, he could safely say that neither of them expected this. Robert could almost admire the move however, how better to neuter the ambitions of two of your most powerful bannermen, than to bring them into the fold, bind them by blood. A marriage to Lynora, second in line to the Westerlands, it would provide legitimacy, as they had learnt through the coming to power of the Lannisters of Lannisport, there was a lot of power in a name. His eyes flicked over to Lynora, she was easy on the eyes, not that it really mattered in a situation like this, a prize hog’s beauty lies not skin deep, this was no different, here lay the second in line to the Westerlands, if something woeful fate was to befall Gerion… He noticed at this point that his right hand was tapping rapidly against his knee, an outward sign of his racing thoughts. He stilled the hand, if not his racing heartbeat, and focused on Jamie.


“You do me an honour Lord Lannister offering fair Lynora’s hand, if something of a surprise honour. I would ask that you give me some time to dwell upon the matter, it has only been 6 moons since the passing of my dearest Lanna and our son, and their loss still weighs heavily on me. I must make peace with her memory, before I would be able to consider wedding another,”


He needed time, that was all, there was no need for soul searching or grief to overcome, that had longed pass, but only he had to know that, it was a useful smoke screen, the piety and dedication, even if it was all a lie. This was a massive crossroads, one from which there was no turning back, it was not a path that was to be picked lightly.

(Interaction: ailurophile Arcanist TheFool )

 

[Braddington]

King Aegon V Targaryen
King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm


As her hands moved over him, he pushed more, kneading her mouth with his own as he wanted deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole that was this tender moment. She tasted like nothing he had ever known, more addictive than any cup of wine, more intoxicating than any weed cultivated in Essos. He was trying to be gentle, but there was a fire in him, a fire that wanted to escape out into the wintry Godswood. There was nothing more beautiful than her, nothing more in this world that could compare to the feel of her hands, her lips and everything in between. He could -​

Stop.

He could stop.

And so he did. He nimbly escaped her grasp, desperately wanting to cling on but pulling his lips back all the same. Every fiber of his being hissed at him, the trees judged him, his own mind cursed him with vulgarity. Yet he still stopped. This was not right.

He had felt it in her. She wanted it as well, but there was something else behind it. The kiss was conflicted, the hand movements planned, not spontaneous. She was….unsure. And because of that so was he. He tried to become aroused once more, but doubt had crept its way in, and he could do nothing but look at her. The face he found so pure filled with worry and conflict.

He couldn't do this.

Not like this.

It wasn't right. It wasn't who he was. It wasn't who she was.

“My Lady, I….am sorry. I don’t….know what to say. I just don’t think...I can. Like this.”

He stuttered the words, awkward but genuine.

“I am sorry.”

He quickly began to walk away, eyes glued to the ground as his steps felt heavy on the snows. Trapped once more.

TheFool ​

 

[TheFool]

Vortimer Hightower
Beacon




​

The Starry Sept was almost full to its brim with guests and wedding-goers. All quiet and all still. Observing the matrimony being made. The bond, between Hightower and Serry. Vortimer’s gaze was the most intense. It was a serious thing to him, marriage. Nothing more serious than it, he thought. Mayhaps a funeral? It was everything though. A man giving himself to one woman. A woman giving herself to one man.

“One flesh,”
Septon Androw spoke with softness as he bound the bride and groom’s hands together, wrapping them in a rope of glimmering silvery silk.

“One heart,”
Vortimer looked to his right. At his own wife. He thought back to their wedding. She looks as beautiful now as she did that morning.

“And one soul.”
To his left, his mother, Elinor Costayne, sniffled. She wiped the tears away with a yellow handkerchief that was dotted in drawn black roses. Tears of joy?
He could never tell.
Likely not.

Before he knew it, his brother sealed the marriage with a kiss - and Septon Androw announced it. Emerick Hightower and Aubrey Serry were now wed. The sept erupted in cheering. Hoots and hollers and clapping. So much clapping. Loud and boisterous. Vortimer’s clapping was the loudest.
It had to be.

​

The bards played. Banging on drums. Stringing on strings. The music they played wasn’t very good. At least not good enough for Vortimer’s tastes. They played The Bear And The Maiden Fair, but it sounded more like someone beating a bear with a fiddle. He sat at the front table, where the happy couple were also supposed to sit - if they decided to stop their drunken dancing. He had a cup of ale in his grasp. It was half empty but he didn’t intend of refilling it.
It was already so late in the night and he was having his fun. Vortimer didn’t need an excess amount of ale to have a good night. I learnt that years ago, he thought to himself.
He bobbed his head to the music.

No matter how terrible he deemed it be.

“She’s much beautiful, isn’t she?” A sweet voice cooed. It belonged to his wife. Marselen Of Naath. A stunning woman with bronze skin that shimmered in the candlelight. Her hair braided - unlike anything anywhere else in Oldtown.
“She is. Not as beautiful as you though.” Vortimer replied, a cheeky smile on his face.
Marselen gasped and playfully hit his arm,
“You cannot say that. This is her wedding.”
Vortimer laughed at that.
He took her hand in his, “You shouldn’t hit your husband.” He said as he kissed her knuckles. That made her giggle. That made his son groan -

“Seven hells. You two are disgusting.”

Gwayne spoke as he sat to their left. Vortimer turned to him, letting go of his wife’s hand and placing his own on his son’s head. Ruffling his hair.
“Father, stop it you’ll mess it up.”
Vortimer chuckled, “I’ll mess you up, boy. Send you to live with Marselen’s family in Naath. Learn a bit of courtesy.”
Gwayne made a face,
“Or you could send me to Brightwater Keep.”

Hmm.

It had been a year almost since Lia, his only daughter, was made Lady Arwyn’s ward. They saw her on the occasion but it was not enough. Gwayne missed her. Vortimer missed her. So much. “We’ll visit her soon, son.” He promised, leaning in closer across the table.
“I thought she would’ve been here.”
Vortimer frowned, “We can’t expect Lady Florent to drop everything and bring your sister her.”
“I guess.”
“You guess.”
“I just… miss her. And you know what everyone says.”
“What does everyone say, huh?”
Gwayne blinked, “Edmund and Roger and Steffon swear she sucks the blood out of cattle.”

Vortimer blinked his own blink.
Once.
Twice.
Before bursting out into laughter. Marselen joined in.

“It’s true, father!”
He wiped his eyes of the little tears, “I’m sure your sister is fine, Gwayne. I am sure.”

“If you say so.”
The boy folded his arms, a frown on his face.

“I say so.”

“Mind if I take this seat?” Emerick asked, in a bit of a stupor, placing his hands on the back of Gwayne’s chair. His brother looked happy. Which was good. Happy and drunk. The two things a man need be on his wedding day. Vortimer gestured for his brother to take the seat,
“Go on and talk with your cousins, Gwayne.”
“But father -”
“Off you go, lad.”
With a grumble - he got up and left. Dragging his feet along the wooden floor. The afterparty was taking place not in The Starry Sept but back on Battle Isle. In one of the many great halls. The room was large and colourfully decorated. One side of the room donned in draperies of grey, green and white. The other side covered in whites and reds.
The hall was lit by candle flame, which provided a soothing ambience. Emerick sat down in Gwayne’s now empty seat blowing lightly on one of the candles on the table as he did.

Very drunk indeed.

“How are you, brother?” Vortimer asked. A simple question. A genuine one. Emerick nodded his head back and forth several times,
“I am… good.”
“That’s always good.”
“Happy.”
“I’m glad.” Vortimer grinned, “Excited for the bedding ceremony?”

The two brothers chuckled.

Emerick’s eyes lit up, “Yes. I am so excited to bed my wife. It is certainly the first time we’ve done such a thing.” Vortimer sat back in his chair and did a mock gasp. Clasping his hands over his mouth. That made Emerick laugh even more.
“Brother,” Vortimer began. “I am shocked. What would The Seven say? What would poor Septon Androw say? Or our dear sister?”
“Oh to hells with you. Like you haven’t bedded every whore in Westeros.”
“Why do you think I married an Essosi?”
Vortimer joked.
“Hardy har.” Emerick sounded.
A serving girl refilled Emerick’s cup of ale. She tried to do the same to Vortimer but he put his hand over the cup and thanked her.

“Did you hear the news?”
Emerick asked.
Vortimer shook his head, “Good or bad?”
“Depends.”
“Is this about the tourney?”
“No. About the attack on The Citadel.”
“The what?!”
Emerick burped, “Maybe attack is the wrong word. Someone tried to get into one of the maester’s rooms last night.”
“Who?”
“No one knows.” Emerick shrugged.
“Which maester’s room was it? Not our great uncle?”
“No. It was a maester in training.”
Vortimer eyed his brother, silent.
“A maester in training by the name of Lewyn Martell.”

The White Knights.

“Was he harmed?” Vortimer asked.
“Not yet, no.”
His brow furrowed, “You talk like you know harm is coming his way, Em.”
“I do know. It’s obvious.”
It was.
There had been a lull since they found the bodies of Uller and his men. A calm. Surely before any storm that was to come. Highgarden was to hold a tourney soon. One that Vortimer rightly wanted to dodge. A tourney in times like these…
Lord Tristan is only asking for trouble.
Though the same could be said for a wedding. Was he and his brother asking for it? Did they want more blood? More chaos? A part of Vortimer did.

He remembered the message in Ulwyck’s corpse.

He remembered the sickening smell of the white roses.

He looked away from his brother and over at another table. One that housed several gentlemen. “I’ll be back. We will talk more later, brother.”
“Of course we will…”

The table was cluttered in spilled ale, spilled wine, fallen tankards and half full cups. A platter was in its middle - containing squid pie. Barely touched. For good reason. Who hired these cooks? Who hired these bards? Vortimer would blame it on Lord Serry. He was a man with tastes hard to acquire. He took a seat in an empty chair and greeted the men around him,

His second cousin once removed, Dorian Hightower. A man who drank little. For good reason. He was once prone to drunken shenanigans.

The nephew of his former brother-in-law, Olyvar Redwyne. Sitting alongside his mother, who had scooted her chair over to another table - filled with gossiping women.

Lord Lucas Strickland, a man that Vortimer had a respect for. He was always a good drinking partner in these occasions.

And finally, next to Lucas, was Osman ‘Greasyface’ Mudd. An unsightly looking man. Scarred by a plague he had caught years ago. Gods, here we go. He isn’t going to shut up about that betrothal now that I’ve decided to sit. Lord Bart Mudd was very about the idea of his son, Mander, marrying Vortimer’s daughter.
An idea that would remain as such.
An idea.
“Gentlemen.”
Vortimer spoke.
And Osman.

“I hope you’re all enjoying the festivities? Thank you for travelling this way to see my brother wed. It humbles me.” He talked in a dry manner but it wasn’t sarcasm.

He meant what he said.

He always did.

Spoiler: Vortimer's MENTIONS

Arcanist
Optimus Princeps / TheAncientCelt

 

[ailurophile]

Lynora Lannister​

Never in her life had Lynora been more grateful for Gerion's smoothly brash interruptions. Had their father continued his tangent for even a moment longer, she was sure she'd be wondering what possible sin she could've committed to warrant such a torturous punishment. But of course, it had to be Gerion who interrupted, always Gerion. Lynora had to sit, and nod her head prettily, and laugh pleasantly at whatever poor stab at a joke the man took. It made her want to scream sometimes, the role she was trapped in. Not that she'd ever voice her resentment, of course, not even to her brother. As far as she was concerned, it was her personal struggle to bear, a struggle that could be temporarily forgotten about when she had some fortunate fool wrapped around her finger for the night.

A few hours to be truly and undeniably in control.
Worshipped.

She locked eyes with Gerion and rolled hers. The action almost had her miss her father's big proposition. Almost.

"Father?" Had she still been drinking her wine, she was sure she'd have choked on it, and been glad of it. Only minutes ago, she'd been mingling, complaining, sipping her drink-- she hadn't been able to imagine the way her father would shake her. Why did the one time he decided to make a proper decision have to affect her so?

And Gerion too?
Her gaze flicked to Lady Crakehall and, in spite of the situation, she found amusement for just a second or two. The very idea was preposterous. It wasn't as though she was particularly unattractive or stupid or dull, but she was far, far from reaching the standard that Gerion should find in his wife. Although perhaps her proclivity for masculinity would take the edge off.

Then, she looked to Robert. A fine man, that wasn't easy to deny, but still... Lynora just couldn't picture the two of them together. Ever. The childish part of her even went so far as to think to his previous marriage, and even that irritated her-- she had to be the second, the replacement?

And then he didn't accept. Didn't fall to his knees or jump for joy or even look all that pleased. It wasn't as though Lynora wanted to marry Robert, far from it, but something about his careful negotiation for time wounded her pride. What level of insanity did one have to reach before they rejected her? Taken aback, she could only blink. Stare, glassy eyed. Because on top of the blow to her ego, she'd had another thought: marriage meant a new beginning, somewhere less familiar than home, with different people.

Her hand found Gerion's.

"Father?" She repeated, softer this time. A child looking for reassurance.

TheFool Arcanist RayPurchase

 

[Elucid]

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[div class=fyuri11wrapper][div class=fyuri11imagebox][div class=fyuri11overlayparent][div class=fyuri11overlay][div class=fyuri11header]Ser Tristan Tyrel

Act III: The White Rose Tourney

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Highgarden​

"What about them uncle? Are those the prince's colors?!" said a giddy young lad whilst soundly perched on his uncle's shoulders, pointing incessantly at the column of men marching towards Highgarden. "Don't think so kid" the man replied, with a healthy amount of amusement in his voice "chances are, they'd be riding with a little more than ten men-at-arms. No, its probably some other petty reach lord come to get drunk on the paramount's ale."
Not wanting to disappoint the child any further though, the sun-tanned man continued "Say, we've been here a while, I don't think we'll be spotting any Blackfyres today. How 'bout we go down to the jousting lists? heard there were a couple knights sparring already!"
"No! We'll surely miss 'em if we leave now!" bellowed the child tugging on his chaperone's already balding head of hair. "Seven Hells! Stop that." the man commanded, swatting the boy's scrawny hands away.
"If we leave now, I promise I'll buy you something from the stalls on the way. You're not going pass up on apricot tarts before supper now are ya?" reasoned the man, clearly regretting having agreed to look after the guttersnipe for the day. The young'in took more than a few minutes to properly weigh his options before eventually giving his assent and suggesting the best route to their shared destination.

Tourneys, to the uninitiated must seem like a complete waste of coin on useless frivolity. But for families like theirs a tourney was a welcome source of income for the year to come. Indeed, the advent of a tourney often brought with it a whole host of new opportunities, lining the pockets of minstrels, barkeeps, hawkers and swindlers. Highgarden too, unfortunately, was not immune to the influx of such personages of ill repute, even the quickest path to the jousting lists took ages, on account of the ample number of rarities for a child's mind to ogle over littering the streets. A dancing monkey, a pair of conjoined twins and a dwarf were all part of the festivities that afternoon and at the cost of one groat you could even throw your pick of fruit at the tiny man, something which the child was adamant to give a go.

They'd hoped to find the jousting lists without much of a crowd around it, there were no official bouts happening at the moment and as far as they knew, no one very important had showed up as yet. There would be no such luck however, onlookers from the surrounding villages had gathered in droves to witness the spectacle of a few half drunk third cousins do battle with their own lowborn squires. Making their way through the waves of smallfolk the pair eventually found a spot for a much needed respite from all the walking, their brief recess however would soon be interrupted by a very familiar face.
"Papa!" screamed the child as he ran toward his warden, latching onto the man's legs. "I trust the rug-rat's not been too much trouble brother?" said the man as he held up the little boy in his arms. Before anyone could answer, the lad began to excitedly give an account of all the happenings of the day, from the banners of the different house he'd spotted en route to the castle to the oranges he'd thrown at a dwarf's behind. The thrilling tale was sadly cut short when his father interceded, "Here, why don't you go down and grab yourself something to eat huh? Daddy's been winning big toady. Just don't tell your mom I let you have sweets before supper."

"But he's alread-" began the uncle, but the boy had already made it halfway to the stalls, snatching the few copper coins from his father's hands. "So, you're gambling again?" he began, a pensive look on his face. "Hardly, its all in a bit of fun. Besides, I've won all the passes. Been betting on this dornish fella, heard tell about him from down south, they say he murdered a pig herder and his family for the high crime of looking at him wrong. Why is it that the viscous one's always turn out to be knights?...hey, look! there he is. "

The dornishman was draped in bright hues of purple and yellow, his armor shone so brightly in the afternoon sun you'd think it was a tactic to blind a charging opponent, a credit to his squires; two lanky boys not more than four-and-ten in age, looking perpetually terrified of their master. The shield the dornishman carried depicted a purple field riddled with little yellow....lemons?! It was certainly hard to determine from that distance. The man he was supposed to be fighting was another petty knight from dorne but no one had seen him in a while, most probably the lad was in some ditch somewhere collapsed from too much autumn ale. Snubbed, the lemon knight began guiding his gelding back to the pens when as if out of nowhere a knight draped in armor similar to that of a kingsguard; white, from head to toe, strode toward the lists atop a white destrier. The mystery knight's shield was simple enough, a white rose featured prominently to the backdrop of a blue field, no one had ever seen such a banner before. The dornishman seemed unfazed at the sight of the new challenger, indeed he seemed to welcomed it, barking at his squires to bring him a heavier lance and riding towards his end of the list. The mystery knight did likewise without a younger squire to assist him. Then as if on cue the horses broke into gallop.... and within seconds the crowd roared with excitement, it was a hit! The dornishman's lance had only grazed the mystery knight's shoulder after making a significant dent on his shield while the other's had found purchase on a gap in the dornishman's armor breaking the lance in two and leaving the man on his back in a puff of dust and smoke.

It took a moment for the crowd to realize what had happened and rally to help, but the dornishman although bleeding profusely would have none of it. Having somehow managed to get himself up on his own two feet he'd put one hand on the open would, trying to stop the blood from making a mess about the place, and with the other hand he'd unsheathe his sword all the while howling at the mystery knight, accusing him of having sullied the good name of house Dalt, a house which all were certain no one had heard about until that very day. The fight which followed, if you could even call it that, was quick to say the least. The mystery knight parried the dornishman's halfhearted blows only to come down on the man with his own, slashing at a opening in the legs and then burring his blade in the dornishman's shoulder. Leaving the body to bleed onto the dirt, the mystery knight made his way to the small booth where a squire would typically at the behest of his knight master, register contestants for the jousts.

"Y-You'll uh, You'll be joining us for the jousts then ser knight?" blurted out one of the scribes posted to write the names of contestants down, the man looked and sounded more than a little scarred by the events that had just transpired and when he didn't get any response other a grunt he thought it best to continue. "What should I put you in as then ser knight?" he inquired, without any success. "How 'bout 'The White Knight' ser? you seem to be dressed for the part eh? yes, uh that should do it. seven protect you ser, I-I'm certain you shall prevail. Now, uh if that's all?"

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[div class=fyuri11credit]code/design by @Fyuri[/div]​

 

[ailurophile]

Alyssa Tully​

The spider crawled across the windowsill, pale as milk water, a strange specimen. From her seat by the window, Alyssa watched it intently, eyes vacant. It moved each of it's delicate limbs with an element of spontaneity. So many creatures acted on impulse and instinct. Pathetic, really.

In one swift movement, she placed an upturned cup over the beast, and went back to the task at hand.

Her room had been in a disordered state, and that was something Alyssa couldn't abide. The Northerners made it so hard to even maintain a tidy bedspread, with all of the furs they'd given her. A disgusting, haphazard array of textures and patterns. Sizes, even. Over time she had found the best way to organise them was simply to fold them as neatly as she could, and stack them at the foot of the bed. It wasn't purpose, but they stopped being so offensive when they were piled up in one spot. Sometimes, when their very presence became too much for her, she'd shove them under the bed in an attempt to clear her head. Ever since she could remember, certain aspects of life had bothered her. Not just bothered her, eaten away at the corners of her mind, twisted her stomach into knots, created a pounding headache that could only be vanquished with order.

Alyssa took a deep breath. The furs were the last part of the room to be put into place, and she could now relax.

Now that her mind had stopped screaming at her about the state of the room, she could allow herself a moment or so to indulge in more personal thoughts. Her father's death, for instance. But really, there wasn't much to dwell on now that the initial shock had subsided. Or, rather, the effort it took to appear as though there was any initial shock. The old man had been weakened for years, and he'd been no match for Alyssa's assault. It'd barely taken three sentences to convince him of what he needed to do.

The kiss she'd planted on his forehead before retiring to bed had been a kiss goodbye.

So there she stood, alone in the room, and alone in the world. The way she wanted to be. After her husband had died, she'd stood like this, so she recalled. Thinking. At peace once more. There was something about the touch of another person she couldn't stand, their filthy hands, their pounding heartbeat, their warm breath. The very memory made her flesh crawl.

When she broke from her thoughts, she looked down to realise her forearm was raw, littered with marks from her own fingernails. She hadn't even felt the itching, the scratching, the clawing. It appeared she'd opened up partially healed wounds. It didn't matter.

She stretched.

Returning to the window, she drew a pin from her red hair and lifted the cup. The spider skittered out from it's prison, uncoordinated, disorientated. Alyssa hummed a tune to herself, slow and melodic, as she pinched the pin between her thumb and forefinger.

Aimed.
Impaled the spider.

One last twitch of those hair's-breadth legs, and it was dead. Funny, how a life could end so quickly. Or, so slowly, if one had the time. But she didn't, not that morning.

Alyssa stretched again, gave her room one last meticulous once over, and exited.

 

[RIPSaidCone]

Carron Marbrand
Near Wayfarer's Rest

A triumphant barrage of booted steps, the rattling sound of swords, pikes and armor, and the contrast of the cool flow of water down a river stream. These were the sounds of a Marbrand army's march, as Lord Carron Marbrand of Ashemark took his force of 4,000 men and horses from their battlements in the Riverlands back home. The decision had not come lightly, and had been the subject of much debate in the command tent, as House Marbrand had admittedly taken pride in its contribution to the war effort against the Targaryens and their Northern supporters, but it had been a necessary decision. The army was tired, and in-need of both plentiful rest and replenishment. At least that had been the reason that was given to the crown, as in reality, Lord Carron had invested himself into the belief that his troops would be much better needed at home in the Westerlands, where if rumors were worth anything, which they too often a-time were, tensions were brewing.

Riding at the front of his army on horseback, flanked on both ends by his heavily armored household guards, and being closely followed by his several officers, Lord Carron couldn't help but marvel in the beauty of his surroundings. He had always thought poorly of the Riverlands when it had come to its visual appeal, the land may have been fertile, and the rivers abundant with fish, but it was a dreary, muddy land that too often found itself as the battleground for other peoples' wars. It was depressing, but not here, no. Here, the sun was shining just right, its rays penetrating through the small gaps that the leafs in the trees above him had not covered, the grass was a pretty, bright green, and aside from his army, there was little sign of civilization. Although his vision was obscured by the thick forest that they were currently marching through, he could still see in the distance the tall hills and mountains that signalled the transition from the Riverlands to the Westerlands. He and his men were almost home, and just in time too it would appear, as days prior, he had recieved a raven informing him that there was to be a Night Market in Lannisport, and that his daughter would be attending as a representative of their house. Night Markets put coin in the pockets of many, that he was sure of, but they also put a number of egotistical lords in close proximity to one another, a danger comparable to placing a candle next to a puddle of wildfire.

He could only hope that the balance at home had not been tilted while he was away. Though he did have faith in his daughter's ability to handle the situation if it had been, she was still young, and comparatively inexperienced.

Hearing a noticable change in the pacing of the horse steps of his army, Lord Carron took a brief look behind and then around himself, seeing now that it was one of his officers approaching from the front, Ser Orland, a fine young man and his chosen scout for this part of the journey. He had been away from the main force for a few hours by this point, having left early in the morning to conduct his reconnaissance. As Carron saw that he wasn't frantically racing towards them, he assumed the report would be good. Giving the knight a small nod, he recieved a light bow in return, Ser Orland's horse turning to begin marching in the same direction and with the same pace as Lord Carron, the two marching in-sync. "My lord." The young knight greeted. "Ser Orland, how goes the report." It was funny, how the knight riding next to him had at one point been the small lad that had sparred with his daughter Aycella, and how he had been knighted, and she had not, despite poor Orland having found himself flat on his arse one too many times as a result of said sparring.

"There are several dozen villages between here and Golden Tooth that should do us good for both supplies and additional men, one of the village elders informed me that we could levy as many as six hundred if need-be."

"Good. Ser Devon!" Lord Carron called with a commanding tone, a third horse approaching, this time from behind. Ser Devon was a great deal older than Ser Orland, and a great deal more experienced as a result, having fought side-by-side with Carron during the initial Targaryen-Blackfyre war all those years ago. "Yes, my Lord?" He asked curiously, riding up to match his compatriots' horses. "Do we have the funds to levy six hundred men, and supply them?" He asked plainly, a brow raised only slightly. "We do, what with the gold we were able to acquire during the Riverlands campaign, we should have thousands left over by the time we reach Ashemark." Carron nodded.

"And food, water?"

"We should only require one or two stops to buy more supplies, and many of the troops have been hunting of their own accord in the nearby forests, which should lighten the requirement." That all sounded spectacular, many lords could only dream of having their marches be as smooth as this had been, but even with this information, Lord Carron couldn't help but overthink things. He had always been the type to overly concern himself with the most basic of details, although he would much rather overthink things than not be prepared for what could come over the horizon. Which is why he had sent his daughter on the mission of recruitment in the first place, it was better to have a large army and not need it than need a large army and not have it. Looking above himself, Carron saw a silhouette flying overhead, an eagle perhaps? Or maybe a bluejay? He had always had a fascination with birds, and he'd never really known why. Turning down from the sky, Carron's attention then moved to the vast line of troops that were marching on-foot behind him, first there was the cavalry on their horses, but behind that, thousands of men, a sea of dark colors and dark, fiery oranges, of pikes and swords and bows and crossbows. It should have made him feel safe, but all it did was turn his mind to what was to come.

And how quickly it seemed to be coming. ​

 

[Arcanist]

Gwynesse Crakehall​

Lady Crakehall, from the House thought to be one of the Lannisters' loyal bannerman, followed, again, not refusing his invitation to discuss serious matters. Gwynesse wasn't oblivious to what these matters would be; pacts of allegiances, she had guessed. Or perhaps the Warden of the West had grown some tact and intelligence, discovered the Red Lion circling his prey, adopting the Boar and bringing it into its nefarious scheming, vowed to end such uprising before it even began. Perhaps the tree that the apple fell from all those blasted years ago was something to watch, hiding its intentions and true characteristics until the threat towards the Lannisters grew larger...

Until she listened to the drivel he rhymed off to Robert. Maekar's death and funeral was a topical point of conversation, but a far worn one that Gwynesse tired of hearing. As if the conversation couldn't descend further, the Lannister turned to the blistering heat, useless trivia involving the seasons. Gwynesse felt Robert's eyes gravitate towards her, and her own doing the same, and she could sense the boredom and the need to escape from such a conversation. Gwynesse, at first, had been attentive, having straightened her spine, her eyes firmly on the Lord to at least give the illusion she cared about his conversation. As soon as she sensed the conversation spiralling, she had felt her body slump into the chair, her eyes wandering to the brilliant golden lion on a crimson banner outside the pavilion. Her leg jerked as he spoke. Her patience was wearing thin.

It was then she was at least thankful for the cub to usher his father along, despite the rude manner in which he done so. Had Jaime finished his sentence, Gwynesse would have lost even more respect in the man and his ability to overshare. But again, the precious time he took to get to the point. Gwynesse threatened to fall into a daze. Had it been her own men stalling, she would have harshly urged them to spit out whatever they wanted to say. The temptation for that was rising.

Until she heard the word 'bonds'. Her gait straightened up at the word. That was a word she heard uttered by many Lords and their sons before. A word her mother had always mumbled to her. A similar word to that which she used in her previous conversation with Lord Reyne. She felt the hairs prickle at the back of her neck. Gwynesse shifted uneasily in her chair at hearing Robert, Lynora, and marriage in the same sentence. There was a pause at that. She naively hoped her name wouldn't come up.

It came up.

Gwynesse's eyes bounded from the Head of House Lannister, to Gerion, back to the Jaime again. "Beg pardon?" She blurted out, her tone half-surprised, half...she wasn't sure. Horrified? Disgusted? Perhaps a mixture. She wasn't able to hear herself with the blood banging in her ears. She felt Robert seeking to exchange a look with her once again, but she couldn't bring her eyes to meet his again, although, she could sense his own surprise. She wondered if he could sense the Boar's own surprise. A wild look that prey possessed when they were cornered. Crakehall suddenly became more aware of the predators that surrounded her. Not the Red Lion, but the Bronze ones. Suddenly, their presence felt more threatening.

It was not the cub, she was wary of, that she so feared. The bond was what shook her. Marriage. She had turned down offers, put off any thoughts up until now of being a wife, a lady. A mother. A Boar caught in the claws of Lannisters. And to a boy, the one who strut with the sigil of the Lion on his back. The one who sneered, who loathed, who valued his name and himself too highly. Gwynesse was an obstacle. Too boisterous. Too out there. Not enough of a lady. She was no different from Gerion, though. She valued things of her own. Her independence. It was something she would lose to Gerion. The Crakehall could remain in name - though, she never sat Gerion reducing himself to that from a Lannister - but Gwynesse would never be able to remain one in spirit. She could kiss her ways goodbye. Through marriage, Lannisters would prance through Crakehall knowing they had secured another part of the Westerlands and remind everyone of their achievement, their oozing pride. Gwynesse, stubborn, and prideful as she was also, knew her answer.

Robert had a better excuse. He had Lanna's death, his son's death, to put off an answer for the marriage. What did Gwynesse have? A fear of marriage and a loathing for the cub she was asked to offer herself to. If she refused, she bore repercussions. If she accepted, she damned herself and her House. To say neither, she concluded unhappily again, she needed an excuse. Another marriage offer, perhaps, but who in the Seven Hells...?

The Marbrands. Not her uncle's children, obviously, but her other uncle. Two sons. What were their names again? Bronn? Darin? Barin? She had mixed around their names as a child, to tease them. Seems they stuck and stayed firmly in her memory like that. Whatever, she had no need to name names. Mentioning Brax was out of the question. Even if Gwynesse let her cousin in on the little white lie she had conjured up in the moment, he'd still blurt out the truth if questioned. He could never hold his water.

The Crakehall straightened up, her shoulders looser than what they had been, yet, were still tense the weight of the lie she had to pull off successfully. "Lord Lannister, it is an honour that you would suggest I offer my hand. Though, you've put me in something of a tough position," she stated, leaning forward as if she was letting Jaime in on a secret she held close to her chest. "You're aware of Crakehall's ties to House Marbrand? Seems they wish to tighten them. Lord Carron's brother, Dannis, is eager for me to extend my hand to his eldest son." She shook her head, gave something of a chuckle, as if arranging betrothals and marriages were a slight inconvenience. Rather, the knots in Gwyn's stomach had been telling her otherwise. "It seems trivial to bring it up, seeing as he's rivalled with a request from a Lannister. But you understand I have to consider all my options, don't you, my Lord?" She asked, cocking her head a little as she linked both of her hands together on her lap. "Even if one of them may reap more than the other." She smiled. No clear no, yet, not exactly a yes.

I hope you're idiotic enough not to see through this. She needed time. Time to figure out how to properly refuse.

Spoiler: Honourable Mentions

RayPurchase ailurophile TheFool RIPSaidCone

 

[Optimus Princeps]

“Tis Time to Tell those thar Bells to Ring,”
- Gregor Manderly​

From the funeral on the White Knife - a truly remarkable occasion - to the road back to Winterfell, Gregor found himself stone walled repeatedly in every attempt to suggest his proposed proposal to the King Without a Home. Manderly never wished to suspect friends of sabotaging his plots, but the most recent audience Manderly nearly gained with Aegon was suddenly stolen away by Walt. The cyclopean lord of Winterfell either was cursed (or blessed) with timing, or had his boyhood friend figured out. With growing impatience, Gregor set out in search of the boy-king. How hard could it be to locate a single foreigner in a castle filled with immigrants?

‘Harder than lookin’ Blackwood in the eyes.’ He gave a cruel, raspy laugh at the notion. For all the hatred Lord Blackwood received, mostly for his deformities, Gregor couldn’t help but respect the creature. Enjoy his company, even. If circumstances were different, and the war had been won many years ago, Gregor wouldn’t of minded the Small Hand’s presence up North. Yet, this decades long struggled persisted, with a modicum of improvement. Some were over joyed with the developments in the South. Seagard reclaimed, again. The corpse of a dragon littered the battlefield as well. ‘Calls for cheers.’ Gregor recalled vividly the announcement, raven finding passage past a vicious Summer storm to deliver the news. ‘Oh, how the ale flowed like milk water that night.’ All had drank themselves into a stupor, Manderly excluding himself from this company.

A dead prince was good for no one, should the father live still. ‘Merely have we angered the beast by plucking from it five fingers.’ The reprisal would be coming soon, and Gregor prayed to the Old Gods and the New that White Harbor was not the example to be set upon the North for their audacious kill.

Gregor had few friends left in the South. And of those, two or three were daring enough to risk communicating with Cap’n in private. His own network of information shabby compared to certain Southerners, Manderly took pride knowing that he was likely the most informed in the North. Even if that only meant hearing the rumors that drifted their way weeks sooner than word of mouth would take them. And what currently was being whispered to the Cap’n made his lips firmly press against themselves. ‘Ships, bein’ built in King’s Landin’.’ Large vessels that, according to one of his friends, could hold close to two thousand soldiers and sailors combined. ‘Five of those land near me city’n I’ll be under siege.’

Should the Black King decide his vengeance to be done upon Manderly’s prized pearl - second only to his daughter - Gregor would find himself hard pressed to continue his involvement in the queer game of politics that the North found itself in. ‘I’d be the new Tully.’ He thought with a sneer. With lands that were almost better off lost, his influence diminished and wealth slashed in half, he would be a figure of pity. Gregor would not let that happen. Not in a thousand-thousand years. Not even if he had to allow the rest of the North to burn to keep what was his without tarnish.

With a growl, his eyes scanned the open courtyard of Winterfell. ‘Where is that damned boy?’ A marriage to Aegon would ensure House Manderly’s perpetual influence, rising status and increased wealth. It would remedy the waking nightmares Gregor found himself trapped in. ‘Has Walt concealed him behind some queer spell of his?’ Leaning heavily on his staff, the many designs cut into it telling an elaborate and mostly false story of House Manderly’s sigil, the Warden of the White Knife pushed onwards. A quick gaze into the Godswood had him looking else where. Cursed woods with faced trees were not a place a man such as Manderly felt comfortable dwelling in.

Accompanied by three other men, two guards to keep a watchful gaze over the aging lord, and a close attendant, Manderly fell upon the hall of the Wolf Lord’s. With little activity going on, servant girls rushing around as if their asses were lit ablaze, Gregor grit his teeth. Still no Dragonling. Gregor was close enough to making leave of the room, when he noticed a figure sitting with a fire to his rear. One that was familiar to the Cap’n.

“Gents,” Turning to his attendant, a house guard by the name of Leanor, he waved them away. “I shall be spendin’ some time here, I be thinkin’. If ye’ could continue this wild shadow-cat chase without me,” His voice trailed off, eyes beaming at the house guard.

A long faced, pale man with blistering lips, Leanor wasn’t attractive by any sense. Nor was he wholly ugly. He lacked even that charm. There was a plainness to his flaws, shallow and insignificant. The merman and trident on the corner of his tunic was the single most catching part of Leanor. “Should one of us handle the other matter?” He spoke, properly and without a hitch in his voice. Close enough to a lullaby, Manderly oft thought.

“Ah, Blackheart’s babe.” He smiled, flashing his golden tooth. “That be an idea. Should ye’ find the guards off duty, be generous with’em. Make friends, Leanor.”

“Pay back Maegor for your leg at long last.” Leanor concluded.

“Aye,” Manderly nodded. “Tis Time to Tell those thar Bells to Ring. And what tragedy do they ring for.” Manderly’s grinning visage shifted as he turned. Hearing the attendant of his and two companions turn from the hall, Manderly paced forward. Loud, his staff clacked on the stone, dragging the weight of the three-times captured Captain forward. Without ceremony, Manderly dipped into a seat close to Bolton, his lips twisted into an ugly smile.

“Lord Flay-Me-Nahht, what an appealing presence you are here, in these damp and deserted halls of our most venerable lord.” His smile widened, eyes cast backwards as he took notice of the grander seat assembled next to the Stark Lord’s. “And our respectable, battle hardened young killer king.”

It wasn’t long before the same girl as before rounded the corner, a plate of warm bread supplied for the other noble. Ale, a generous flagon, set down next to the bread. Gregor gripped the flagon first, eyes on Rogar as he drank. “Tell me, Lord Bolton, how fares the home and yer’ lady love? It has been some time since I’ve seen her last.”

RayPurchase

 

[TAC]

Lucas Strickland
'The Silverspear'

The food was pleasant and varied, drifting off from classic Reach dishes to a few questionable, but on exploratory inquiries, were far from revolting. The wine was likewise enjoyable. Strickland noticed a lack of his own brand being held, with Arbor gold and red being the most prominent in the casks and handed out from the many servants who braved the party floors. With the proper meal, Arbor gold or red were adequate and Lucas wouldn’t complain more than a wry remark. It was better than Butterwine, which grew in popularity to his utmost surprise (and disgust). The festivities were grand in scale, fitting a House named after one of the largest structures on Westeros, if not the world. Knights were well fitted in doublets or regal gowns, with the ladies old and young outfitted in dresses that’d cost most men fortunes. Lucas was dressed in an equally expensive doublet, a piece of clothing unknown to him in most his life. Not even at the king’s coronation or victory feast did Lucas wear anything half as ‘elegant’. It was puffy in places that shouldn’t puff. It was rippled, an odd appearance when he gazed into a mirror, and mostly black with white stripes running down either arm. Finally, his own House’s emblem was proudly displayed on his chest. The three shells, with the added flare that reminded the world (and himself) of his foreign origins, the Golden Skulls clutched around a spear. A cape made of deer fur, the interior lined white with hare skin, was tightly clasped at his shoulders, swaying awkwardly with every step.

Strickland felt out of his element, frankly. He gave several knights and nobles small, polite conversations, but found the situation too daunting to lose himself in. The intricacies that went into a rather mundane meeting between two lords or even a lord and a knight were unknown to Strickland. Each new face he was forced to introduce himself to, Lucas felt as if he missed a bow of his head or a ‘my lord’. Maybe he should’ve brought gifts too. Lucas heard some lords would exchange them when seeing each other.

After the wedding itself was over and the accumulating mass of knights, ladies, lords and whoever else a Hightower might invite to a wedding marched onward to the Lord’s keep, Lucas decided to make himself scarce for precisely these reasons. He’d be loathed to admit it, but he felt lost at the celebration. What did he discuss with a delegate from the Marches? Would it be rude to excuse himself suddenly from a conversation, or interrupt a pair of knights to join their conversation unprompted? Even them, the knights of the Reach, people he once thought he knew, donned strange customs.

Strickland resisted the urge to groan. ‘Things are a lot simpler when you just talk. Quit the bullshit.’ He was asking for too much though. Living in the Reach for twenty years now, Strickland understood that bullshit was what these lords did better than anyone else. Empty smiles as they greeted the mercenary for the first time, with veiled insults and daggers behind their backs, eyeing him for weakness. He learned quickly not to trust his neighbors, they were all too eager to take advantage of a clueless Essosi-born sellsword. ‘Just a realm full of mummers. Really good mummers.’ His grey eyes trailed a woman with voluptuous curves, a maiden from House Wythers. ‘Pretty mummers.’ He’d admit.

For awhile, Strickland’s unoccupied table was a haven. He had a small, pleasant conversation with one of the performers before he went on to juggle knives and spit fire. Likewise, Lucas was never left wanting. Being isolated had the perk of being noticeable, in an odd sort of way. A maid took notice of his empty plate and moved to remedy it, earning a murmur of thanks from the mercenary lord. It was only in the last half hour that Lucas’ expression turned from neutral to downright perturbed. The reason was quite simple.

Osman Mudd.

An old acquaintance and the son of his friend, forlorn as they were, Lucas still considered Bart a friend. Osman, in all his deformed glory, approached the table with a Hightower in hand. Strickland recognized him instantly as Vortimer’s cousin, but the name was lost to the wine on his tongue. A polite greeting to both, Strickland urged them both to leave, to be off and away somewhere else. Those two attracted more, others of noble standings joining them and making polite conversation.

“It’s been awhile, Lucas. My father talks about you frequently.” His speech was slurred, smelling of dried, salted meat more than wine. A telling signal if any. “Have you gotten his raven for this years banquet yet?”

“Truly, Osman. You’ve grown into a man.” Not a fine man, Lucas didn’t need to spend much time with the scarred man to know that. His eyes lingered on women for too long, his breathing was unsteady, as if bothered by old age, despite being of a relatively few Summers. “I’m afraid I haven’t. My keep is new, perhaps the ravens aren’t accustom to stopping at it.” Strickland lied quickly. He’d managed to hide away from Mudd’s salacious performance and banquet for twelve years. The first eight, he reluctantly visited. But with each surpassing celebration, Bart grew odder, pushing the boundaries of what he could get away with. Uncomfortably so.

‘Never before have I seen so many naked maidens. Nor strangled chickens.’

“Hah. Well, you’re invited.” Osman slapped Strickland on the shoulder, his greasy mitts staining the white stripes on his doublet. “Father calls you a brother to him. Like Lothstan or Strong.” Paused, only to inhale his wine in two remarkable gulps, for Strickland was sure his cup was nearly full, he pressed onwards. A ribbon of red trailed his neck and disappeared past his attire, no doubt to marr Osman’s pale flesh. “That makes us family. Cousins. Or you my nuncle.”

“Suppose it does.” Lucas pulled from Osman’s grip, eyes looking to Hightower’s drunk cousin, seemingly in deep conversation with Vortimer’s mother. ‘When did she get here?’ It was impolite not to greet her, yet the golem sitting aside him was unlikely to let him get a word out to any other. “All men of the company are family. We fought together. We bled together. Died together.”

“Hear hear!” Osman pulled his cup forward, bashing it into Strickland’s. “Men of gold, are we. That’s what father always says.” The greyscale survivor cheered. “We take what we want from these stuttering lords and they thank us for it!”

‘I don’t recall you ever stepping foot on a field of battle,’ Lucas wanted to say. He was ten when they left, at most a squire reading the knights for battle. ‘Doubtful even that, with his disease.’ Strickland vividly recalled being told of Osman’s condition, Mudd’s grief and mutual prayers being sent to whatever god would listen. Be it the Seven who dwelled in the far off continent of Westeros, the Lord of Light or the Black Goat. Whoever it was listened, for better or worse, and Osman survived the worst of it.

“You should truly join us, cousin.” Lucas couldn’t hide his twitching eyes once he heard what Osman decided on, preferring nuncle. Cousin made them sound too close to equals. “Too long have you languished in those fields of yours. Don’t you get lonely? No wife to warm your bed? Family kingdoms away?”

“My cousins keep me company, as do my bannermen.” Strickland was terse and unnoticed by Osman.

His expression changed from a benign smile to something deeper, with the sides of his face cracking in a truly disgusting display as a wide smile flexed every muscle on his face. “No wife though. Every man needs a wife. Something sweet to fuck that doesn’t want coin afterwards.” He bellowed, a bit too loudly. But that was no surprise, given the man. “Me, cousin, I mean to wife a very important lady here. . Soon, I’ll have’er. Maybe steal her away. Won’t that be romantic? Like the Braavosi do.”

“Be sure you flee soon after you steal her.” Strickland urged. “Otherwise her father or brothers may mount your head upon a pike for your insolence.”

“Ha!” A fist slammed in unison with the warcry. “We are gold. Gold. They fear us, cousin. We want their lands? We take it. Their women? We take them. From Dorne to the Vale, they shake at the knees when they hear of our arrival.”

Lucas wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol encouraging Osman or if the man truly felt so entitled. Knowing his father’s deviant history, Strickland was willing to put a horse in both categories. “Be sure to keep those thoughts to yourself, Mudd. They are killing Dornish at the moment, but I don’t doubt the Company may follow if we are as abrasive.”

Mudd, once more, focused on his drink. A nubile servant girl was filling it, whilst Osman drank in her form with no hidden gaze. “They don’t have the courage.” Osman seemed to be half interested. “Do they, little tart?” The second son’s hands grew closer to the servant girl, another action noticed by all near the man.

“Of course not, me’lord.” She responded with haste. His drink filled, she made to leave, Osman’s hungry eyes burning a hole through her dress as she found others to service.

A natural lull in the conversation finally came, and Strickland was on the verge of moving. Anywhere seemed better than stuck in the company of the lustful Osman. Before he could fully rise from his seat, the host of the festivities arrived, quickly pulling a chair up to join them. Strickland felt relieved, if not annoyed, that Vortimer came at such a moment. ‘Mayhaps you arrive sooner and spare me.’ He wanted to shout.

“Vor-Lord Vortimer,” Strickland corrected himself, unsure if it was proper to refer to the man formally in his own home. “A pleasure to finally see you tonight.” His words carried blunt sarcasm, his eyes rolling in the direction of Osman, who’s smile only reformed at the sight of the lord of the tower. “I’m always happy to humble you. Feels as if you great lords need it from time to time, lest you get lost in all this wealth. And company.” His voice was somewhere between jovial and curt. An odd mix, where the dryness adopted a comedic lilt. “It was no trouble. The ceremony was. . . Stunning. I’m sure your brother and your new sister will be very happy.”

“Not too overworked? I imagine it must be difficult. Every man and woman in this room wishing to get a moment alone with you.” He gave a small smile that didn’t last. “Flattering you incessantly, even complimenting your unusual choice of drink. Already, ten lords have issued complaints to me, wanting to know why we’re drinking Arbor Red and not Strickland Rouge.” Lucas turned to his cup, the remnants of his Arbor red. Sipping down the rest of it, his eyes cast towards Vortimer again.

 

[RayPurchase]

Rogar Bolton


Lord of the Dreadfort

Rogar’s quiet contemplation and dark thoughts of Southern Lords were quickly blown away by the arrival of quite possibly the only Southern Lord he had time for, perhaps former Southern Lord would be a more correct description of Lord Manderly. Despite the family clinging to their 7 gods, they had been in the North long enough to become a familiar face, Northern in all but their distant bloodline. As for Gregor himself, the man was a foul mouthed, gregarious and charismatic old fool, by all means a polar opposite of Rogar. However strange times make strange bedfellows, and these were very strange times indeed. Like Rogar, Gregor’s main concerns lay North of the Neck, not what lay below it, this alone was enough to bring the two together. A humourless smile graced his lips, as he laid his knife down.


“Lord Manderley, a truely unexpected pleasure, it seems far too rare to have two Northern Lords sat together in the Hall of Winterfell, more often than not I find myself surrounded by a sea of strange Lords with even stranger customs.”


He glanced about the near deserted hall.


“I could quite safely say this is the first time I have been described as an ‘appealing presence’. Perhaps I am losing my hard edge in my advancing age,”


He ripped off a chunk of bread, popping it in his mouth and chewing thoroughly, the salty bacon grease tingling against his tongue. There may not have been a welcoming committee, but the kitchens were as welcoming as always.


“The Dreadfort still stands as strong as ever, and Lady Alys is…”


She was not well. The loss of Royce still weighed heavily upon her. They had never been the closest of couples, it had been a purely political marriage, a Karstark and a Bolton. It had been a successful marriage though, 2 strong sons sired, only one now. Royce had always been Alys’ favourite. Their were never meant to be favourites, but it worked out for the best, Roose took after his father, cold, blunt and abrasive, like Flint, whilst Royce was his mother’s son, a child of laughter and good nature. Gone now, and with him part of Alys had gone too. Rogar hadn’t had a meaningful conversation with her for months, she was simply not there anymore, a husk of a woman, drifting through the barren corridors of a draughty castle, seeing ghosts everywhere.


“...as well as can be. I’m sure she would look fondly upon a visit from yourself, your late wife was a true friend to her. Tell me though, how fares the White Knife and your family? I do hope my absence at the funeral was not frowned upon too much, I had my own farewells to attend to, I’m sure Lord Tully did not grieve for my absence,”

( Optimus Princeps )

 

[TheFool]

Ysilla Martell
Sunflower




​

‘Kill them all’.

Kill them we shall.

“It’s settled then.” Ysilla said. Mallador had retaken his seat, the spillage now completely clean. She smiled at him. He did not smile back.

She looked at those in front of her,
“You leave at first light tomorrow morning, Lord Quentyn. I will provide you and your wife a bed for the night. Arianne may accompany you on the march - as you will be stopping at Godsgrace.” Ysilla gazed at Quentyn’s wife. She was a woman with a wild reputation.
A true Dornishwoman.
She turned her sight to Edric, “You’ll be going with him.”
“Will I?”
“Yes. You will.”

Ysilla stood up and bowed her head, “Now forgive me but I am awfully tired. The wine has gone to my head. I will leave you all. Mallador, see that they are given accommodation and anything else they wish for in their time here.”

“Of course, princess.”

“Goodnight. Sleep soundly.”
And with that she left. Leaving her vassals, her Father’s vassals, to their devices. To prepare themselves.

For war.

Several days later,








Gwayne Golden-Eyes
NPC




​

Gwayne Golden-Eyes prayed for rain.

For snow.

Something that wasn’t the blinding sunlight that stung his eyesight and the sweltering heat that came with it. They pushed him along, his hands bound behind his back. The gnarled twine used to tie them dug into his skin, like little knives. He could feel his palms still caked in dried blood.
A sensation he was not fond of.
Another one he disliked was the thirst. His throat was drier than any Dornish desert could possibly be. “Water?” He asked, hoarse. The Planky Town guard who was shoving him through the streets only shook his head. No water for him.
“Wine, even?”
He begged.
Though he was parched, his voice was dripping wet with desperation.

He passed crookedly built stone buildings. Houses and stores alike. Their inhabitants stood in their doorways. Watching him as he was prodded along like a sow ready for the slaughter. A delicious meal.
He knew they were happy for this.
For his soon-to-be execution.
Another Reachman down.
Gwayne wanted to scream and howl at them all, to spit in their brown faces - but he could not. He did not have the voice nor the saliva to do so. Instead he was complacent -
Being brought along.

Towards the gallows.

They were situated in Planky Town’s main square. A scaffold for hangings and another one for stonings and whippings and pillories. The latter of which held a man. One Gwayne knew. His first mate, Aemon. He hadn’t seen his friend since a few nights ago.
When they took him.

His eyes darted around the square.
Watching.
Taking it all in.
There was a crowd of about thirty gathered around the platform with Aemon on it. Gwayne was never the type of man to hold ill will, but in that second, he hated everyone in that crowd. Every man, woman and child. Even the little girls that remind him of his own.


His Rosie.


“Look, bastard.”

The town guard who had escorted him here grabbed him by the back of his neck and turned his head to the left. To look at the pickets. To look at the heads impaled onto them. Pate and Jon and even Deaf Glendon, who he had hoped got away.
They were dead.
All dead.
“We hung ‘em first.” The town guard continued. “The one with a missing finger was first, followed by the one we stabbed.”
He was pointing at Pate.
“Then we found the deaf one. Clobbered him around a bit before his hanging. Wanted to make sure he couldn’t hear one bit.”
Gwayne tried to get away. To remove himself from the guard’s grasp but it was to no avail. He was too old and too weak to accomplish such a feat. The guard’s grip tightened, his nails digging into Gwayne almost as much as the twine bind did.


“You’re next. Then your friend.”

Walter
NPC



​

He wiped his forehead of sweat, a thirst stirring within him. Clenched in his fist was a rock. Black and big enough to hurt. With precise carefulness - Walter raised his hand back high and swung. The stone hurling itself at the prisoner. The one they all took turns on, the night the Reachmen were captured.
It connected.
Hitting the young man in his head. He stumbled back and the crowd hollered.

Cheering.

Walter walked a few paces forward and climbed up upon the scaffold. He turned to face the crowd. His back to the prisoner who sat, bloody, slumped and wheezing.
“This man and his crewmates came at dusk. They came to laugh at us. To drink their wine and dance on the graves of our people. Dornish people.”
He yelled.
The people continued to cheer.
“This… is vengeance.”
Walter looked at the prisoner. Broken with fright.

“For Drinkwater and Uller. For all of our men who have died trying to tame the beasts in The Reach.”

He thought back to the night it happened. He and his men had had too much to drink. Stale ales and shades of Dornish Reds. Gerris came into the tavern to tell them of it.

“There’s a ship docking.”

Walter rubbed his mouth so to rid it of dribbled wine,

“What of it, Ger?”

Dickon and Black Qoren arm wrestled, away from the conversation. Ryon drank, staring at a burning candle.

“Its sails say Reachmen to me.”

The arm wrestling stopped.
Walter’s heart skipped a beat or two. Everyone was whispering about the going ons in The Reach. Knights in white raising havoc. Two notable Dornish lordlings dead.

“Take us to them so.”

He still had his thirst and it needed to be quenched.


​

Walter was back in front of the crowd. Standing tall and strong. There were hoorays and huzzahs. Shouts filled with joy. He reveled in it, shutting his eyes. Taking each voice into him. Until he heard something that wasn’t so cheerful. A scream.

Of terror.

Followed by another, and then another. Then he heard it. The cheers turned to the clinging and clanging of the town bells. “They’re here!” A voice cried out. Walter opened his eyes and jumped down off of the platform. His boots landing loudly on the sandy cobblestone.
A guard ran up to him.
Dickon.
“What’s happening?” Walter asked him, his hand placing itself on the pommel of his sheathed sword.
“Ships, ser.”
“Ships?”
Dickon nodded a frantic nod, “We’ve spotted ships.”

Walter exhaled. His heart now pounding. He knew who it was.

It was Reachmen.

Coming for those whom Planky Town took prisoner.

Gwayne Golden-Eyes
NPC





​

The bells rang.

And rang.

And rang.

Before he knew it, Gwayne was let loose. The guard’s hand no longer wrapped around his neck. There was a panic. The crowd who had watched the executions were now scattered and scared themselves. Like how he imagined his men were before their long sleep. A woman and her child bumped into him - pushing him into a pile of sacked fruit. He tried to stand -
But he lost his footing and fell back. Some of the sacks opening. Oranges rained down upon him. Hitting his head before rolling away on the cobblestone.

“Here, m’lord.”

A voice said, over the shouting. Gwayne felt pressure against the twine. They felt heavier and heavier until they snapped. Freeing him.

Gwayne rubbed his wrists. Hoping it would relieve the soreness. He looked at his rescuer. A man smaller than he. Older than him too. “Who… are you?” He asked, his voice still croaky. The man put his hand on Gwayne’s elbow and attempted to pull him along.
“Wait, stop.” Gwayne said.
He tried to loosen himself away from the old man.
“Stop.”
He insisted.
“We must go. I have an orchard near the town. You will be safe there.”
Gwayne’s eyes widened, “I have to go and help him.”
“Help who?”
The old man stopped and looked at him.
Gwayne Golden-Eyes swallowed before continuing, “My first mate.”

The old man gave him a dagger and told him to be quick about it. Gwayne nodded before shambling back into the square. It was now more or less empty. The bells still ringing. He passed the pikes that held the heads of his dead friends. He forced himself not to look at them.
Not to look into their ghostly stares.
Aemon was, thankfully, still there. On the platform, weeping. Gwayne climbed upon it and wrapped his hands around his first mate. “Come, Aemon. We must leave.”
“W-What?”
“We must leave now.”
“Who are you?”
“It’s me, friend.” Though his body was devoid of liquid. Dying of thirst. Gwayne felt tears gather in the corners of his brown eyes. “It’s Gwayne. Old Golden-Eyes. The fella you say is always too busy with his head in the coffers. The captain… of The Rosie. Come on Aemon. P-Please.”
When Aemon received that first punch, Gwayne did nothing but call for help and watch. Watch it all happen. It was cowardice. Utter cowardice.

He wasn’t going to let that happen again.

He wasn’t going to leave his friend to die once more.

Aemon mumbled a few things. Things that did not make any sense. So Gwayne picked him up, with all of the little strength he had in him.

“We’re going home.”
He said to his first mate as he leapt off of the scaffolding.

Walter
NPC




​

Walter ran.

And ran.

And ran.

His men at his side. Black Qoren and Dickon and Will and Little Walter and Green Garin. They ran through the cobblestone streets. Kicking dust with their boots as they did. “Get inside everyone!” He repeatedly ordered through battered breaths.

When they got to the dock. The first thing they saw was the ship they had burned. Its corpse lay in the water, half sunk. Burnt black. At the end of the dock was Gerris and Mors and Ryon. Gerris held a brass telescope up to his right eye.
Watching something in the near distance.

“What is it?” Walter asked as he stopped. He put his hands on his knees and took a breath. “Reachmen?”
He added.

Gerris took the scope away and shook his head. “They’re coming from the wrong direction to be Reachmen, ser.”

Walter stood up straight, his brow raised.

Gerris looked at him,
“They’re coming from the north.”

Ysilla Martell
Sunflower




​

She dreamt of her father, half nude. Sitting in The Water Gardens - letting the sun’s rays caress his skin. She sat in front of him, her legs crossed, watching. His figure was statuesque. Perfect. She was a few years younger in this dream. The age of fourteen or so. She could tell because of how she looked.
She was fat.
A face filled with tiny red spots.
She didn’t have her scar either. The small one above her right eye. The one she got from fighting two girls. She held her head in her hands as she stared.

“That’s not polite, Ysilla.”

​

Her father chastised her.
She nodded,

“Sorry father.”

​

Is this just a dream?
She thought.
Or is it a memory? One that I’ve forgotten?

It must have been the former. Her father, Mors, was rarely around when she was that age. He was always too busy elsewhere. Dealing with men of The Reach, or the warring barbarians to The North. It was his job after all. To rule the realm when Naemidon couldn’t.

In Ysilla’s eyes, her father was the true king.

Those eyes opened in a flutter. Ringing in her ears. She sat up, soaked in sweat. She was hot and flushed. She shook her head to rid it of the noise. However, it did not go away. It only grew louder. She looked around the room she was in. Her room. An empty flagon of wine next to her bed and a half-played cyvasse set next to her writing desk. She threw off her covers and hopped out.
Her bare feet feeling cold as they touched the tiled floor.
She walked over to her window.
Her feet pittering.
Pattering.
Ysilla drew back the curtains, made of Myrish silk. She peered out. Seeing nothing but Dorne.

What its going on?

The sound grew louder.

She put on an over-robe and unlocked her door. Locking it, quickly, again behind her.
Jogging down the stairs.
Her hand rubbing against the marble bannister.

“Mallador?!” She called out as she entered the great hall.
No response.

Her jogging turned into a sprint. She ran past the great chair. Pushing the double doors open that led out onto the great balcony. She stopped when her stomach pressed up against the top of the railing. She looked out at where The Narrow Sea met The Summer’s.

Ships.

She blinked.

What seemed like hundreds of ships. With different sails to one another. White and grey and black and teal. Mermen, seahorses, wolves and dragons.


Red dragons…


Sunspear was under attack.

 

[QuirkyAngel]

Ser Conrad Stone
(Highgarden, the Reach)​

The day of the tournament had finally arrived. Conrad should have been thrilled. It was the reason he’d travelled all the way to Highgarden in the first place. To win and bring home the prize money. However, seated atop a decorated horse, the hot sun bearing down on his black armor, Conrad wished he were back at the inn. He’d never been a fan of tournaments. Overly glorified competitions for knights to show off in his mind. It was the reason he’d never participated in one in the 9 years since he’d be knighted. Lord Elstan had never asked it of him either. That had always been Nikolas’s job. But now he was dead and Conrad was taking his place.

“Keep your eyes on your opponent and don’t you dare look away,” Anton Waynwood said as he handed Conrad a green shield, emblazoned with the Waynwood family crest. “That’s how you get killed.”

“Like that Dalt fellow?” The Lemon knight’s body was still the process of being cleared. Given the amount of blood he’d lost though, Conrad doubt he’d make it. He was surprised as anyone when the mystery knight appeared, but their skill was undeniable and Conrad couldn’t help but be impressed, if not a little wary.

“Dornishmen are passionate like that,”

Conrad shook his head and lowered his visor. “Well I’m not. If I get unhorsed, I’m yielding. There’s no honor or glory I’m willing to die for.”

“And you call yourself a knight of the Vale, ” Anton chuckled, giving Conrad’s mount a pat on the rear, before leaving the joust area. “Good luck, Stone. Don't disappoint me. I bet some good money on you.”

At the other end of the list, his opponent, who had volunteered to have a bout with him, was ready and waiting. The knight was on the smaller side, wearing gray armor with a coat of arms he did not recognize. Granted there were many coat of arms he didn’t recognize in the Reach, Anton would’ve pointed it out to him if he were facing someone important . Not that it mattered either way. One’s house had nothing to do with one’s riding skills. Regardless of the house or lord the knight represented, Conrad had no plans of underestimating his opponent.

Conrad raised his lance and urged his brown steed into a steady gallop when the match began. At first pass, the two lances deflected each other, both barely grazing the other’s shields. Starting defensively allowed him to catch a glimpse of any potential openings, gauge his opponent’s weight, and locate the best point to aim for in order to dismount them. If it were a real battle, he’d have gone for the horse. Or the head. However, such unchivalrous acts were frowned upon. Not to mention if he ended up killing some important lord who was playing knight, he’d be the one suffering the consequences. Against those opponents, it was better to draw the match out longer. Make it feel like the match had been fairly equal before truly striking to dismount. It caused less problems later.

More importantly, the longer a match lasted, the more suspenseful the battle became, and the more people would come to watch. He could already feel the anticipation grow with every pass as people waited, breaths held, to see who would win. And, once a victor was determined, the cheers would be that much greater.

Or so Anton said.

And Nickolas wondered why he didn’t like tourneys.

Conrad unhorsed his opponent on their fourth pass, when it seemed the smaller knight could no longer hold their lance steady. Then he helped the knight up, much to the pleasure of the crowd, whose cheers only grew. Words were exchanged, lost amidst the claps and cheers, before both knights departed the joust area.

Anton helped him with his horse. “Not bad. Did you think of that one yourself?”

Conrad removed his helm . “Think of what?”

“That display of sportsmanship and chivalry. It’s good. Reachmen like that sort of thing. Since this isn’t the Vale, and we didn’t come with a banner of supporters, your victories won’t garner much approval unless you can sway the crowd like you did.”

Conrad rolled his eyes. “I didn’t plan that far ahead.”

It was just common courtesy. Really. Did nobles have to make everything so complicated? No. Not nobles. Just Anton.

“And that’s why I’m here,” Anton patted him on the back. “You just keep doing what you’re doing and leave everything else to me. Brother tasked me with helping his no-name son-in-law build some reputation and I have no intention of disappointing him.”

Conrad opened his mouth to reply, but stopped himself from doing so and just sighed instead. Depending on how many knights registered, and how many events were planned, it could be days before a tournament ended. He didn’t want to spend his days in Highgarden arguing with Anton the entire time. They were related now. Family. And, to him who had none, family meant a great deal.

“Ah, that reminds me. I’ll have to find the Tyrells soon. Tell them how fabulous their tournament is and all that. It’s only proper, you know. To greet the hosts. You hold fort here and keep an eye on this ‘White Knight’. He seems to be your biggest competition.”

Anton gave him one last pat on the back before departing. Conrad would like to believe that Anton was telling him the truth. However, after the words ‘proper thing to do’ left his lips, Conrad knew otherwise. Of all the Waynwoods he’d gotten to know, Lord Elstan’s brother was probably the least proper.

Elucid

 

[Hypnos]

Mikken Cassel​

The weight of the ram felt heavy upon his shoulders as the great behemoth dominated all that stood in its path, indiscriminately devouring anything and anyone that tried to get in its way, regardless of their status of either civilian or combatant. Like the rugged and rough Northmen that wielded it, the ram seemed out of place in the dry and burning sands of Dorne, a dark and imposing blot of war in a land that had been the center of peace and prosperity for the better part of two decades. A peace that was about to be shattered, as if hit by the very ram which the warriors of the Red Dragon now held aloft.

Screams could be heard throughout the streets of the Shadow City, as men and women were cut down like sows at a butchers, completely unprepared for the events that transpired around them. For how could they have known? How could anyone have known? What kind of seer could had predicted this? But much like a slumbering dragon, when the North was roused, it could not be lulled back to rest so easily, and the death of Maekar Blackfyre had sounded so loudly throughout the Kingdoms that even the deepest of sleepers could not ignore its song. ‘Rejoice!’ It sang. ‘The Red Dragon has returned once more.’ A chorus which was taken up by the rowdy host of Northmen that now demonstrated the Dragon’s wrath on a city of unsuspecting Dornishmen.

Ser Mikken Cassel was a veteran of twenty years worth of campaigns up and down the neck, and before that he had fought a handful of battles alongside Ser Cregan Stark during the Blackfyre War of Conquest, yet never before had he witnessed a massacre so bizarre as this. It was like a play put on by mummers, as unkempt and bearded Northmen, still equipped in the wolf furs and sealskins of their homelands, squared off against the tanned and wiry Dornishman, distinguishable by their darker complexion, and smug grins that remained imprinted upon their faces even as their spirits left them, and life drained from the rest of their faces.

Mik did not have time to give them much thought, nor did he have time to think about much of anything as wave upon wave of Northmen followed behind him into the fray, pouring from their boats like water, and eroding at the hard clifface that was the Shadow City, though this was just the start. Soon naught would be left but the pride of Dorne, Sunspear itself, falling forlorn and neglected into the great Northern Sea. The seat of the King’s own Hand, severed by the Red Dragon and his loyalists.

From the corner of his eye, Mik could see other men charging forward, fighting with great ferocity beneath the banner of the Red Dragon that they hung aloft, the great beast looking at them with menacing eyes as if daring any man to run back into their ships and straight into its wrath. Lord Walton Stark was ahorse, leading a contingent of cavalry that consisted of three of Lord Ryswell’s boys, and Mikken’s own son, whom he hoped would make a name for himself in these trying times. Lord Stark was an intimidating figure at the best of times, with a scarred and mangled face, and a single piercing eye, but as he charged through the city with the vigour of a much younger man, Mik could only praise the Old Gods that they were fighting side by side, and be thankful that he was not one of the Dornishmen being trampled under foot.

To his other side fought the Red Dragon himself, the Princeslayer; Aegon Targaryen, for whom all of this fighting was for. He looked determined. Determined to simply keep living or determined to take back his throne? Mik could not tell, nor could he spent too long contemplating it, for as he turned his face, he narrowly avoided having his head removed from his shoulders by a particularly nasty looking Dornishman, who swung his spear dangerously close to Mikken’s eye, though a helpful sword thrust from a man wearing the white prints of Lightfoot prevented the Cassel from living a similar fate to his liege lord.

He was sweating. From the heat, perhaps, but also from the adrenaline, as he charged the ram closer to the gate, experiencing many more close calls, only to be saved once more by the brave men of the North. It was hot. By the gods it was so hot. How could anyone live in this godforsaken country? And Mik had been one of the smarter Northmen who had forsaken their traditional furs and pelts upon the ships in favour of lighter and more versatile leather armour. If the battle went on for too long, he knew that he was at risk of collapse, but as the ram steadily approached the great walls of Sunspear, he knew that the shade would provide at least some relief.

What he wouldn’t give for the snows of Winterfell right now. Though he supposed if he were to be making wishes, he should instead hope for his own return home from this hellish place, afterall, with the ram pushed against one shoulder, he remained particularly exposed to the ongoing attack, at the complete mercy of any attackers. Two of the six man crew had already fallen, and one more was only barely hanging on. The monstrous thing was getting heavier and heavier by the minute, though Mik was resolved to complete his task, for if he ran with the Dornishmen back towards the sea, he was likely to be cut down like one.

They were lucky, it was still mid-morning when they had landed, and the sun hung eastwards towards the Northmen’s back, giving them mostly clear visibility whilst the Dornish had to squint and squirm to see their attackers, an awful fate when they could not even see the man who felled them, though Mik thought it might have been a blessing, for at least then that could imagine it was the Red Dragon himself who cut them down rather than a nameless and faceless old man like himself.

Cassel panted as they finally reached their ultimate destination, the large and imposing gates of Sunspear itself which had likely been barred not long after the bells had began heralding their arrival, though such sounds were now being drowned out by screaming, cursing, or the victorious chanting of his own brethren, who had grown cocky cutting down merchants and almost retired guardsmen, and perhaps forgotten the harsh combat of the Neck. He paused for just a moment to catch his breath, though he knew that such inaction could be a mistake, for arrows or hot oil could rain down upon his head at any moment, though neither seemed to come, and Mik began shouting orders to ready the ram into position.

‘Back!’ He yelled, as the sheep headed goliath was lowered just afront of the the gates, his own arms blessed with a second wave of strength as victory was so close at hand.

‘Forward!’ The beast was thrust with great strength into Sunspear’s main gate, causing the iron riveting to shake violently, though the structure itself held fast, the metal and timber proving more of an obstacle to the ram than a hundred confused Dornishmen.

‘Back!’ He yelled again, pulling on the large oak and praying to be given a third wind.

‘Forward!’ Once again a devastating attack that left the gate weathered, but still standing, a violent opposition to the Red Dragon’s ambition.

‘Back!’

‘Forward!’

‘Back!’

‘Forward!’

Twice more the ram charged, and twice more the vicious magnitude of the assault reverberated throughout the battlefield, though twice more the gate held. The last assault however, despite being unsuccessful, seemed to have put pressure upon their timber foe, and it was obvious that the gate could not take much more abuse of this caliber.

‘Back!’ Mik’s voice was hoarse and broken from attempting to yell over the constant sounds of the fighting, yet still it maintained strong and determined.

‘Forward!’ With a final crash, the gates fell before the ram’s might, collapsing in on themselves and revealing the interior courtyard of the Castle Sunpear, making way for thousands of angry Northmen to spread their reign of terror not only onto the Shadow City, but now also the keep itself.

In the chronicles of the Seven Kingdoms, Dorne had survived countless invasions from their neighbors, and had even withstood several times the force of an otherwise united Westeros. The North however? The North had a now perfect record.

 

[Braddington]

King Aegon V Targaryen
King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm​

The bells


If there was a sound comparable to the Seven Hells it would be the fucking bells. They tolled for death, they tolled for pestilence and they tolled for war. They tolled when King’s Landing fell. They tolled when his father died. Now they tolled for the impending sacking of an innocent city caught up in a war they did not understand or quite possibly even remember. Dorne was on the opposite end of the Kingdoms, a remote area filled with sand and heat, but one of their cities could change this war. One of their cities was a stepping stone between him and the release of all the fire that had swelled inside of him.


But what of the people? Did they deserve this? Did they cause this?


No. The answer was as clear as the skies above him.


This was all for one man. One traitor. One snake. Mors Martell. A Hand who would soon been severed. The city had to fall, and quickly. When it did, they would leave, without so much as a glimpse behind them. Innocents would be hurt, men would die, but what of the slain at Seagard? What of all those that would fall if they did not do this one act? It was horrible, despicable, maybe even evil. But it was necessary. And that is what kept him going. Even in the face of the fear which had clawed at him for days on end. The fear that the bells would toll for him next.


His ship lead at the front of the fleet, the Red Dragon flying in the southern winds, Lord Stark and his other commanders by his side. As soon as they made landfall, the carnage of war began almost immediately. It did not matter how well planned an offensive was, it was always the same. You could never plan death. The sun beat down upon his pale features, his hair already slick with sweat, his armour black, trapping the heat against his skin. Roasting him like a suckling pig. With a kick, his horse began the race forward, charging onto the beach where the invasion force had already cleared out the meagre and unprepared response that greeted them. The crimson blood seeping into the sand, bubbling in the heat. Formations came together, a battering ram already rushing towards the Shadow City with speed. The beach was already secure.


“Aegon! Aegon! Aegon!”


They were chanting his name. As if victory was already secured. As if they did not have a city to contend with next. The feeling was not one of exhilaration but one of dread. Like it had been when he faced Maekar. When he killed Maekar. They chanted then. No idea what it had unleashed upon their sons, brothers, fathers. This was the beginning. Twenty years and only now had the starting arrow been shot.


The advance continued, he stuck to Lord Stark’s side the entire time as the city was approached by the bulk of the men. They charged in, the sound of metal clashing against metal reverberating all around him. Drowning out the bells that now sounded like a desperate scream for order being overshadowed by the chaos. His hand came to his horses side, tapping it like a wooden table, nerves and impatience rising within him. Men died and he sat. Men were maimed and he sat. It had been agreed that he should not risk his life for a sure won battle. This was not Seagard, this was not a place for risks. He had promised his mother, he had assured Lord Blackwood. Yet how could he sit and let men risk their necks for him as he sat in his elaborate armour that was his father's before him like a ponce of a Prince? He was scared, terrified, and yet so were they. His mind turned to the pearl he had left in Winterfell. Her fiery hair more vivid than the sun that shone upon him.


Then he charged.


No warning was given to Lord Stark or his noble entourage. He just went forward. The haggard cheers of men barely audible above the hooves of his horse. There was no direction, just forward. Just forward into battle. He had nothing to fear, he was a Dragon and a Dragon did not fall so easily. A mantra he chanted in his head, Dornishmen he did not even look at falling beneath his hooves. He would win, it was his destiny.


“Your grace!”


The shout was too late. A spear easily penetrated the side of his horse, the creature collapsing to its side as he was thrown off it. He had not seen it coming, and he suffered for it. His heavy armour quickly became a detriment, the weight of it making sure the damage done to his leg would not quickly be healed in the course of this day.


“Your grace! Get up! This is no place to fal-”


The man, draped in Tully colours, collapsed on him. He quickly pushed the corpse off of himself, standing with a sword in hand. He could feel his side was bleeding, but it elicited no pain. The adrenaline coursing through his veins hiding his weakness. He stood face to face with a clearly highborn Dornishman. A knight. One of the more dangerous enemies that would be faced in this battle. A smirk on his smug face.


He hobbled to the side, a minor limp lessening his speed just enough to be noticable. He quickly assumed a defensive stance, attacking clearly out of the question. The other was more than willing to oblige. They all thought the same, if they just got one lucky hit then the war would be over and they would be a hero. It seldom worked out for them. Their eagerness proving their downfall.


Aegon was by no means a master warrior, but he knew how to fight. Actually fight. Did this man? Would it truly matter in the end? He did not know. The Dornishman quickly charged, a scream in his throat. His sword pointed downwards toward his legs.


CLANK

A parry.

CLANK
CLANK
CLANK


Metal on metal as their duel continued. Men gathering around them to watch like they always did. A story they could tell their grandchildren. With each parry, Aegon inflicted another wound on his opponent, with each missed strike he cut open the Dornishman's body. It seemed to him like the battle had been going on for hours whereas it had been five minutes at most. Eventually an opening came to him, he struck forward.

Splat

His sword buried itself deep into the knight's neck. Blood spilling on his black armour, red seeping down his body. He collapsed to the ground, catching his breath. The man falling to the floor in front of him.

Another lucky win.​

 

[TheFool]

Ysilla Martell
Sunflower




​

Sunspear was a castle of ghosts.

The men who fought for her, fought for her House. For her father. They were all gone. She had sent many with Allyrion - to guard the pass. On her father’s orders. What a mistake that was, Ysilla thought to herself as she stood on the balcony.
Watching over the sea.
Watching the boats bob in the water. Boats with foreign sails. The majority of them had docked, out of Ysilla’s line of sight, but some remained. As so to mock her. To remind her that there was no way out.

Sunspear was a castle of ghosts.
And if she wasn’t careful, her ghost would too soon haunt these halls.

“My princess!” A voice echoed behind her. She twirled around to see him. Maester Mallador. She wanted to grab him by his chains and strangle him with them.
“Where have you been?”
He ignored her, “They’ve broken through the gates. We must get you out of here.”
Mallador approached her and placed his hand on her arm. She pulled away. Stupid man. “That’s obvious, Mallador. I feel like I would have benefited more from escaping an hour ago.”
He was silent.
She stared him down. “Where were you?”
He did not answer.
“Answer me!”
“Princess!” Another voice came from within the great hall. Nymella. The captain of the guard. Of her guard. Ysilla ran in to greet her. She stood with thirteen men. Several of them covered in splashes of red.
“How goes it?”
Ysilla asked.

Nymella took a breath before shaking her head.

“What does that mean?”
“They’ve already broken through our gates. Many of my men are dead, including my right hand. Olyvar. He was slain by the false dragon himself.”
“He’s here?” Ysilla asked, a gasp.
“He is.”
“Why… why are they doing this?” She asked a question. A question she already had the answer to, however. She knew well why. What better way to progress this seemingly never ending war than to attack the sands that the King’s hand calls home. It’s his fault.
It’s my father’s fault.
No!
She stopped, feeling faint. She placed a hand on the back of the great chair.

“Princess?!” Mallador put out his hands in case she was to fall.

“I’m alright,”
She said.
“It’s fine.”
She lied.

Ysilla felt something loom over her. Some sort of anxiety. A feeling she hadn’t felt since she was a young girl. Plump and angry at the world. Her father put his trust in her to rule Sunspear. “Don’t burn her down to the ground while I’m gone,” she remembered him telling her. A jest. A joke that could soon become a stark reality. She had ruled in his stead for years and years.
A peaceful enough reign.
All she had to do was smile. Smile to her allies and smile to her enemies. Something she herself thought she’d gotten fairly good at doing. The only thing to ever pester her was The Reach.

The Reach…
A thorn in her side.

Soon, it’d be a northern blade instead of a thorn.

I’ve failed him. She thought. I’ve failed my father - my House. He put her in charge and she was ever grateful for it but she never expected this. Never expected she would actually have to defend her charge against an army. Dorne is impenetrable.

Was.

She looked around at those around her. Their faces blurred. She did not feel well. Her stomach rumbled. It felt as if it was sinking. A great big pit was forming inside it. “Princess Ysilla,”
A voice said.
She couldn’t tell if it was Mallador’s or Nymella’s.

“It’s fine.” She repeated.

“We have to do something, princess.” It was Nymella who said that this time. She was certain.

“Defend the castle…”
Was all Ysilla managed to croak out.

“The castle is already falling. They’ve breached the gates, princess. Shadow City is in disarray. We’ve also heard of fighting in Planky Town.”
“Gods.”
Mallador butt in, “We need to get her away. The castle can be retaken. Prince Mors will assure that.”
“I agree - but how?” Nymella asked.
“The back stables. Get her on a sand steed and get her away.”
“In her current state?”
“There’s no other option is there?”

Ysilla stood up straight. Regaining her posture. Regaining her breath. She walked towards a small table made of palm wood. She picked up an empty cup and a flagon of wine. She poured. She gulped. Arbor Red. She didn’t care. She needed something in this moment.
She needed it to be calm.
To be cool.

“Princess?” Nymella said, sounding puzzled.

“I will not abandon this castle.” Ysilla said. “We fight.”

“You’ll die.” Mallador said.

“I am the blood of Princess Nymeria. The daughter to Prince Mors Martell. Death will not be an option.”

Nymella stepped closer, “You’re… tired, my princess. Under stress. Panicked. Please go. Please get out of this place. My men and I will hold the castle in an attempt to keep it under Martell control.”

Ysilla took another gulp.
Until the cup was empty. She poured again, not noticing that her hand was shaking. She spilled the wine over her hand - staining it red. Like how it looked after squeezing the blood orange. A red hand. Is this what I get?

Am I to die for all I have done?

The people who have been killed… because of me? Because of my love for my father?

“Mallador will take you to your horse.” Nymella continued. “Won’t you, maester?”

“I-I will.”
He didn’t sound so sure.

The room spun.
The wine was not helping. She put the cup down and took another breath. “Alright.”


Alright.


They hurried through the halls. Down several stairwells. Ysilla carried a leather satchel around her. They had stopped at her room beforehand, and it was there were she stuffed everything she could into the bag. Half written letters and a supply of wax seals. Ones with the Martell sun and ones without. A wineskin as well. Filled with the wine she could find in her hurry -

A vintage Arbor Red.

“Hurry, princess.” Mallador said. He was in front of her, shambling down the stairs. She hadn’t been in this part of the castle in years. It was used as a servant’s access. A way for them to come in and out of the castle without having to put themselves in the presence of the court.

It led to the northern side of the Shadow City.

Which was the part, according to Mallador, that had been untouched by the northern army. By the false dragon and his forces.

“Hurry.”
Mallador repeated.

She did. Stepping quickly. So quickly that she felt as if she was going to fall forward and hit against the marbled steps.

She didn’t though.
Instead she continued to run. To sprint. Occasionally taking out the wine skin and sipping from it. To help her be at ease. They eventually stopped.
A large door in front of them.
Mallador pushed it open and the sunlight blinded her. She could feel her eyes water with the sting. The door led to a garden path.
That garden path led through a small orchard.
Filled with limes and lemons and wildflowers. And sunflowers. Their heads following the sun’s gaze. They were tall but elegant.

“My little sunflower.”

​

Her father had called her, all those years ago.

Her heart was thumping while thinking of him. Of the past. Of safer times. Times when she didn’t have all this responsibility. Times when she was but a little girl. “The stables are just this way, princess.” Mallador told her - going ahead.
She knew that though.
This was her castle.
Her home.

Mallador was out of her view. Behind bushes and trees and a large wall that divided the garden and the back stables. She could hear the neighs of the steeds. She could also hear the screams. All of the screams. Her people were dying.
Her home was dying.

“M-Mallador?”
She called out. Her voice shaken.

“This way, princess.”
He replied.

She walked down the path. Her feet brushing against the gravel. She looked at her hand. Still red with the wine. She looked at her feet - nothing on them but loose silk slippers.

“Princess.”

“I’m coming.” She said. Her feet dragging.

She passed the sunflowers.
Passed through an open gate.

She saw the stables.
She saw the horses.
She saw Mallador.
She saw northern soldiers.

She stopped.

Mallador’s expression was one touched by sadness. “This is my brother, Mikken, princess.”

The sun shone down upon them.
The horses neighed.
The people screamed.

Ysilla Martell was frozen. She gripped her satchel with her red hand. “I… see.” Was all she could say.

“I am… very sorry.”
He said.

Fight.
She blinked.
Run.

She stood there. Still. Silent. The sun’s rays still blinding her. A snake without its venom. A lone sunflower.

Die.

 

[Hypnos]

Mikken Cassel​

It was a whirlwind. Everything. From the moment that the first ship had docked alongside the shores of the broken ridge of Dorne’s rocky coast, to the moment that the ram had achieved its earliest mark upon the castle’s stoic gates, Mikken had felt a great tension building up inside of him, a formidable stream, damed only by the incessant fear of failure or defeat, a fear that was all too known to the senior Cassel as a veteran of many of Lord Stark’s unsuccessful Riverlands campaigns. But this was different. Not some second rate holdfast along the Trident manned by a dozen fat guardsmen and their sons and lorded over by an aristocrat so lowly that he could scarce recall his own family name. This was the Hand’s keep, a prize truly worthy of a King, and as soon as the gates crashed open from the pressure of the last of the ram’s charges, Mik felt all the tension finally release.

It was over quickly after that. At least, he thought it was, for in truth the hectic and hurried nature of a battlefield was often enough to cloud a man’s judgement, and it was hard to determine whether the screams and jeers of the invaded Dornishman occupied the passage of several hours, or merely several minutes, as they were cut down by their Northmen foes, their light silks and bare apparel offering little protection against Northern steel. If they had not expected invasion, it was little surprise that they had been unprepared for an assault so large that it could challenge the very might of the Dornish capital itself. So far south, the Dornish were at liberty to forget that they were even warring with the Winter Wolves, but unfortunately for them, the North had a longer memory, and the gaze of the dragon did not end where the headwaters of the Trident ceased to flow.

Cassel carved his way through the castle with a purpose, the ram now unnecessary, and discarded by the gateside, allowing the Northman to draw his own sword and begin his push through the Sunspear. His eyes scanning for a particular prize. He took no pride in it. Cutting through men who had barely awoken from their slumber, rubbing the sleep from their eyes only to be greeted with a spear through the belly, or a sword through the head. At least those men got to die standing, however. For some of the Dornish were not quite as fortunate, butchered in their bed, perhaps thinking that the ringing of the bells heralded some royal death far away, rather than an encroachment upon their very walls. Yet Cassel felt no pity for the Dornishmen. This was war, and whilst the southernmost people of the continent had not received so much as a scratch in nearly two decades, the North had bled profusely, and now was time to take revenge upon those master puppeteers who profited so much from a conflict they had only now had to fight. Weak men. Green men. Foolish men. Fattened with years of Blackfyre’s false promises. But now the King had arrived, and justice was to be had.

‘Aegon! Aegon! Aegon!’ The people cheered, their voices hard and northern, soft and riverlander, or baring the poshunder tones of the Crownlands. Mikken himself had not seen the dragon since he had first crashed through the castle’s defences, but the sounds of glory and revelry gave him an idea of where his grace might be. Mik himself had a different mission however, and moved away from where the Red Dragon lived up to his namesake, and towards the castle stables, where he knew the reward that awaited him.

It was queer that so distant a memory would prove to be of such pivotal importance during a time like this. Mallador, a boy he had not seen since he was eight, sent to the flowery embrace of Oldtown, because his knocked knees and clouded eyes prevented him from becoming the swordsmen that their father had so desired. Yet the man that stood before him wielded a weapon mightier still than any blade.

‘The Prince himself will be hiding out in the Dragon’s Lair.’ Stark’s words had echoed before Dorne’s coast had been breached ‘but you’ll bring me his bitch?’ And here she stood before him. Gift Wrapped by the brother he scarcely recalled.

She was tall. Taller than most men, cowed only in Mikken’s mind by the Stark boy who turned traitor in the south, yet the way she carried herself did not lend to the idea of a she-wolf like the shieldmaidens who manned the cliff of bear island. Weak. Defeated.

‘The Old Gods bless you, brother.’ Mik nodded, though his kinsmen did not look best pleased. Remorse, perhaps? Pity for the charge he had just yielded? Or was it guilt for the oath of neutrality that Maester had broken? It didn’t matter. Not to Mikken. Nor would it be of consequence to Lord Stark who was just as like to embrace the man for his treachery than slide a noose around his neck. ‘I’ll take her from here.’

Take her, he did. Grasping the Martell’s arms in his own bare palms as he dragged her away from her last hope of escape, flanked by enough of his comrades that he saw little use in slapping her in irons. Clearly she could see that escape was a futile endeavour.

The majority of the battlefield had cleared by the time that Mikken half led and half pulled Ysilla Martell back along her previous journey, a prisoner in her own keep, leading her to where he knew that he would find someone of suitable authority to deal with the girl. His ears already revealing the rambunctious tones of the Lord of Winterfell several yards before the man entered his line of sight.

‘Our Aegon has done what the Conqueror could not!’ The walls cried in tone eerily similar to Walton Stark. ‘Dorne has been bowed, Dorne has been bent and Dorne has been broken!’

Cassel shuffled into the main hall, Martell still at his arms, as he was greeted by all the cheering and revelry of a Northern celebration, yet set to a backdrop to which it was not accustomed.

It was an unusual sight to see the Lord of Winterfell, a formidable man both in volume and in stature, inhabiting a seat intended for a much smaller woman, but there he sat. Walton Stark. The first, Stark, nay first Northmen, to ever occupy the great seat of Princess Nymeria of Dorne. He had an arrow, lodged in his shoulder, though through through his armour it was impossible for Mikken to determine how far it had lodged itself into the wolf’s flesh, yet the Lord seemed unperturbed by such a thing, his grin stretching from ear to ear.

‘And who would be joining us but the lovely Princess Ysilla.’ Mikken presented the girl. ‘I would call you the Hand’s daughter, but I am doubtfully the little man is your father. Your sire is no more Hand of the King, that Naemidon Blackfyre is the true King!’

From the corner of his eyes, Mik could see King Aegon occupying the twin throne of Prince Mors Martell, nursing his own injury, and watching over Stark’s mock court with a silent yet watchful gaze.

‘Ser Mikken. You have performed exceptionally, here today, and will have first pickings of the treasures of the day. Be hasty however, for the men have been instructed to seize anything that it not bolted to the ground, and half of the things that are.’ Mikken bowed to his liege lord respectfully, thankful for the recognition, though eager to be free from the Dornish heat.

‘You are too kind, Lord Stark.’ He replied, but the wolf paid him not mind, his singular eye turned only to the Dornish whelp who now stood before him. There was hunger in that eye.

 

[Mion]

Cassandra Arryn
​

The High Hall of the Eyrie, it looked as stunning as it always had. With Ser Ronnel by her side and two of her household guard she walked down the length of this ancient room. A hall full of austerity and pride, while the Crescents chamber filled itself with a sense of welcome and warmth. The High Hall had none of that, it was a harsh and humbling atmosphere. A place where one is almost forced to take on a more serious manner before the Lords of the Vale. The pillars of blue and white marble, the high arched windows with those fiery torches of silver and gold placed between them. There was some sense of nostalgia here, it was the place where her mother and father spent most of their time when they weren't in Kings Landing. Father even brought Artys here... He was so beautiful. The remembrance of her first meeting with her beloved falcon. It had been difficult but over the years she had managed to gain some sense of expertise in handling him. Well expertise might be taking it a bit far. She had some skill nonetheless.

Between two of the white and blue pillars there was not a window but rather a large door. It was a particularly narrow space between the pillars as well and the door was painted as such so it were to stand out in the room. The Moon Door. The heavy bronze bars held it shut. Just how many people had met their fates at the bottom of the drop? It was not something Cass could bare to dwell on. Even if they are to be executed... That is just too cruel.

Eyes were then turned to the end of the hall. To where the seat of the Arryns made its place. A throne of weirdwood. It was there that the Falcon Kings ruled over the Kingdom of the Vale during the time before Aegons Conquest. And since then it has been where the Lord Paramount of the Vale has continued to rule from. Nothing really changed there did it. Cass mused. Why the Kingdoms were once independent was quite a wonder to her. The Vale had only benefited from being part of the Iron Throne after all. Sure they lost a little of their authority but the plus of trade and protection seemed to outweigh that greatly in her mind.

"Ser Ronnel, please request Maester Kyries presence if he is not busy." She spoke faintly as she took her seat.

It was definitely not comfortable, however Cass had been getting used to it over time. My heart goes out to King Naemidon... That Iron Throne sounds a dreadful thing.

"Of course my lady." Ser Ronnel put succinctly as he set off to fetch the Maester.

I hope the raven has reached Kings Landing... His Grace is probably irritated with me. A look of disappointment crept across her face, although it was one meant only for herself. She had only just been appointed the position of Master of Laws and yet she had already been a bother. They deserve better...

It was several minutes before the return of Ser Ronnel and Maester Kyrie, with them came Ser Lyonel Corbray and Ser Gawen Grafton who had tagged along when they noticed that the Maester had been summoned. The rest of the lot are probably fooling around drunk somewhere. Well that is probably for the best.

"My Lady, is there something you wish to ask of me?" The Maester asked curiously.

"I am afraid so, it is more letters that I must request you to send good Maester."

"Of course. What sorts of letters?- If you do not mind me asking my lady that is." Maester Kyrie inquired.

"Nothing as important as the previous Maester do not worry. I merely wish to make our arrivals announced ahead of time for the Lords that we shall be visiting."

"My lady. Are you sure that is wise? To leave the Eyrie that is?" Ser Lyonel questioned with a worried tone about his voice.

"What do you mean Ser?" Cassandra looked puzzled.

"Well... With your condition and all... And the letter to Kings Landing we sent. Would they not be expecting you to move south if you were to start travelling the Vale or something?"

"Most likely yes. But I believe that my final decision on the matter will be during our travels. To delay further. That I think would be rather unwise." Cassandra responded.

"Well my Lady. Where would you like to send these letters to?" Asked the Maester.

"I do not think that a full tour will be necessary, we can say that we are merely stopping by to greet Lords on our way to our destination. We can send one to Redfort, to Iron Oaks. To Runestone and then to Gulltown."

"Gulltown?" Gawen spoke surprised. "You can't mean to-."

"I could mean to Ser. The point of it is to decide on that matter for good. Gulltown will be our last stop. If we are to go to Kings Landing we shall sail from there. If we aren't then we can extend our tour of the Vale. Perhaps we could pay visit to all of our kind Lords and Ladies." Cassandra spoke with determination. She had made her mind up on the matter.

She turned to Ser Ronnel. "Ser Ronnel if it is possible could you prepare the guard for our journey. I do not believe that it will be necessary but we can never be too safe."

"Hang on My Lady. But who will take charge of the Eyrie?" Ser Lyonel questioned.

"Well Maester Kyrie could see to that along with Ser Ronnel. You and Gawen can take charge of the guard can you not?" She looked back and forth at the both of them.

"O-of course." Ser Gawen thumped his chest with his fist. They were both competent men, there would be nothing to worry about with them by her side along with her household guards.

"And with that said it would be best if you two were to go with Ser Ronnel and help with the preparations do you think not?"

"Yes my lady." The two said in unison. And following a curt bow the two men left.

"Is there anything in particular that you would like to be said in these letters my Lady?" Maester Kyrie added.

"No I do not think so. I think announcing our arrival is enough, we can save the greetings and personal touches for when we are actually there I think." Cassandra did not feel up to writing another letter after her last to the King. Thinking about it made her stomach twist. Oh I probably rambled on too much. King Naemidon will think me a fool!

"Then I will see to the writing and dispatching of the letters immediately my Lady."

"Thank you Maester."

A brief sigh escaped from her once the Maester had left. Leaving only herself and a few of her guards.

I forgot all about the Bloody Gate... Oh well. I am sure Lord Redfort or Uncle Royce would be happy enough to take on that.

Cass had almost felt like closing her eyes for a few moments. To try and relax a little in this moment of peace. Ahh but this seat really is hurting my back...

 

[Arcanist]

Olyvar Redwyne​

The ceremony was so beautiful, both his mother and his half-sister remarked afterwards.

As beautiful as your own, Brea, his mother smiled, though, her smile sunk, a reminder of another wedding she had attended what felt like not so long ago. As happy as Rufus’s, too.

Olyvar had ushered the conversation along, explaining it would do no good for such a happy atmosphere. To frown or express morbid expressions at a wedding raised questions as to whether the occasion was something to celebrate in the eyes of the guests and the Seven. Or, so Olyvar had so claimed. To dwell on a death, no less Rufus’s, was not something he wished for any of them to do.

And that they did not. There was too much gluttony, drinking, spinning and dancing until your feet were red raw. Merriment took precedence over such thoughts. Happier, carefree moments in amongst the troubles of the Reach. Perhaps this was what was needed; a good excuse to forget it the bubbling pot that was the Reach, just for one night. Perhaps the Tyrells had a similar idea with that tourney.

Olyvar knew the downtrodden and the disgruntled wouldn’t stay down, not for long. Everyone knew the pot would boil over. When was the question lurking in the back of everyone’s minds. All a waiting game.

The longer that fiddle shrieked amongst those feasting, the more wine Olyvar took to in the hopes it could numb the discomfort of having to listen to it. There were at least other noises to drown out the awful pitch; the drunken laughter coming from behind him at another table, his mother chittering away to several other women at the next table to their left. The group’s continuous rising tones made him wonder what piqued their interests so. There was the odd passing comment or conversation from other guests he struggled to remember the names of, who had passed by, or stopped to speak to him or his mother for a few moments before moving on.

Part of him wished he was in the solitary comfort of his ship.

Though, the young Lord became more alert at a man making himself comfortable at their table. The styling of his moustache was the first thing he recognised of Lord Hightower, as he always seemed to have remembered first when he was younger. What more could he do but smile, respond to the thanks he had given him and the men around them at this table?

“It would be a shame to miss such a happy occasion. It’s something I believe the Reach needs these days,” Olyvar paused, sipping at his wine before he continued. “Though, do appeal to me on the bardic elements of such occasions if ever needed. I’m no master of the craft, but I’m not sure if I’ve ever heard this rendition in a lower key before.” The quip may have come off harsher than he intended, but music was forever a companion to him. He couldn’t be the only one to feel his teeth grind at the cacophony of sounds their ears were forced to open to.

Spoiler: Honourable Mentions

TheFool Optimus Princeps / TheAncientCelt

 

[Hypnos]

Daenys Targaryen​

Delicate fingers caressed the tiny wooden visage of the dragon before placing it gently upon the vast flat surface of the game board, a great behemoth of a beast that looked out over its domain like a noble tyrant, dominating all those lesser pieces that stood in its path, and standing tall and proud in the board’s most paramount position. Leading the rabble behind it, like any real dragon should. A true master of the game might question the strategy in this decision, for in the world of Cyvasse, the scaled beast was the most powerful weapon available to the player, and it was perhaps a more prudent decision to keep it protected and reinforced behind an army of its inferiors, so that it might be of greater use when truly it was needed. Daenys disagreed however, for what kind of dragon cowered behind sheep?

It was a common state of affairs to find Queen Daenys in such a position. Arranging pieces on a board for a game she was never truly going to play. Sitting for hours in quiet contemplation regarding how best to arrange her trebuchets and horses, merely to sweep everything away once she was done and place it all neatly back into its box. It was not that she had no desire to play, though in truth it was questionable whether she herself remembered all of the rules after so many years. But Cyvasse was a two player game, and it was a rare occurrence that she would be blessed with a second pair of hands to help guide her through such competition.

In days gone by, it might have been her brother who sat on the opposite end of the table, the gallant Prince Rhaegar, who was always so eager to bring his King to the forefront of the field, even if such a decision often put the rest of his pieces at risk. He had taught her to play, many years ago, a harsh reaction to their father, the King, telling her that a Princess should not concern herself with such silly games of strategy. It had always been Rhaegar’s greatest delight to find himself in opposition to the orders of their father, much to his chagrin. He had been a difficult child, no one would deny that, but he had always been kind to Daenys, and they had played together often, even if he never proved to be much of a challenging opponent.

Later on, it would have been her daughter, Vaella, who humoured the Queen in such interests. She had been small then, barely up to Daenys’ knees, and she had taken the girl’s hands in her own and guided them through every move upon the board. Perhaps not the most interesting of challenges, but Daenys had loved how Vaella’s face had lit up whenever she managed to take a piece, so much so that Daenys had been prone to letting the girl win most of the time. Those days were gone however. Vaella had grown older, and flowered into a true woman. Too sweet for her own good, and more interested in chasing boys than listening to her dear mother. Daenys understood, even if such a decision saddened her. Vaella was everything to her. All she had left. All that man had allowed her to keep. She deserved to live a happier life than her mother, cooped up in a tower and only paraded around on special occasions.

But now she spent most of her time in solitude. Sitting. Thinking. Pacing. He had sent her handmaidens to keep her company over the years, but they were all creatures of the black serpent, bred from loyal families to the Blackfyre regime, and rotated often if they ever got too close. Three of them stood around her bedside, watching her move pieces in muted boredom. They would fetch her wine if she asked, dress her, and collect new clothes from the tailors if she was so inclined, however they never talked unless spoken too, and Daenys rarely spared them any words. The oldest of the trio had only been with her for a month and a half: a tall and gangly girl with dark hair, and the black bat of Raventree embroidered onto her dress, the granddaughter of a mercenary, and so far below Daenys’ station that she would often have the girl searched by her companions for fear that she might run-off with some of the queen’s jewels shoved into her skirts. The other two were of similar stock: A Butterwell girl with a dour face, whose name Daenys could never quite place, and the youngest daughter of Lord Robert Rosby, who had once been the loyal steward of her father, yet now had his head so firmly up that man’s rear, that it was a surprise that he hadn't’t died from lack of oxygen. None of them were to Daenys’ liking, and she was quite certain that they were all far too airheaded to comprehend a game such as this.

Daenys sighed as she placed the last of the pieces on her end of the board, admiring her handiwork as she looked over the blank slate that was the opponent’s field. If only real war was such a one sided endeavour, then perhaps she would not be in such a situation in the first place, though such ponderings were useless regarding a war twenty years in the past.

She picked up a piece once more, a tiny representation of a trebuchet, complete with miniscule wooden men to man and fire the contraption. The Queen examined it for a moment, before placing it once more neatly back into its wooden container, turning her face once more to the board itself. She was interrupted however by a loud clatter, as the pieces that sat before her erupted in every different direction, a tiny wooden spearman landing gently upon Daenys’ lap.

As she looked up to see the cause of such comotion, a gentle smile formed upon Daenys’ lips, as her eyes landed upon a form of white frizz that now lounged lazily atop the board, clearly showing little regard for any dragon, or horseman that it might have slain.

‘Are you lonely as well, dear?’ Daenys cooed as she reached out her hands to stroke the form of Viserys the Cat, her hands reaching under the beast’s fur to lift the creature gently onto her lap, the cat purring lightly as she continued to caress its fur. ‘And where is Vaella?’ She asked kindly, though the cat offered her no answer other than curling himself into a more comfortable position.

‘You will clear this up?’ Daenys asked of her handmaidens, and the three girls hurried to gather all the scattered pieces, whilst the Queen continued to coddle the little cat. ‘Be careful with it!’ She warned ‘It was a gift from my brother, and worth far more than any of you.’

Viserys’ mewed gently in response, perhaps in agreement.

‘And once you’ve finished with that, you will get something for our furry friend here.’ A command, not a question.

‘We can’t my Queen.’ The Rosby girl answered meekly. She had red hair and freckles, traits curiously shared by neither her mother, nor Lord Robert.

‘And why is that?’ The Queen arched an eyebrow.

‘The Hands orders my Queen.’ The Butterwell girl chimed in. ‘Prince Mors has ordered the castle be looked down. Someone has killed the Grandmaester.’

‘Argrave?’ Daenys questioned, though it was unlikely to be a different Grandmaester who had been murdered. She frowned slightly. Argrave had served her father, perhaps one of the few who could still make that claim that remained in the capital, and whilst he had been an elderly man, whose time had long since come, it was still a sad sight to see him go. ‘Then fetch me a cloak.’

‘But Prince Mors, my Queen.’ The Raventree girls insisted.

‘Mors Martell isn’t your Queen. I said fetch me a cloak.’ The girls hurried off muttering something to each other, as Daenys moved the cat off of her lap so that she could stand. Troubling news indeed.

 

[Yarrow]

Erich Greyjoy

The Battle for the Arbor

Each time Erich looked at the horizon he saw the Arbor growing. For the last few days they had sailed past the Shield Islands and Blackcrown and now the Arbor was within their reach. Erich looked at the ships beside him, he noticed the Hammerhorn of the Goodbrothers, the scythe of Harlaw and his own Kraken among other banners on the ships. The Redwynes had no idea what was coming towards them. Just a few more sea miles and their fleet would split in three portions, just as Loron proposed.

When Erich and Hrothgar were still talking about tactics, back at Pyke, Erich had felt joy, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. His son, his heir, came with a solid idea to attack the ‘snake by its head’. It was like the plan Erich had proposed to his sons and Hrothgar the first time, but more precise and had a better rate of succeeding. Erich felt proud of his son, for the first time in many years. The boy talked like a real Ironman. However, Erich didn’t show his feelings, it wasn’t manly, but after this war he would congratulate his son. Hrothgar hadn’t been really happy about the plan, since he wanted to make some faint attacks. Hrothgar should learn his place was at Harlaw, not Pyke. Erich had given Loron the task to attack Vinetown, while Hrothgar would attack Starfish Harbor. The Reaper would raid Ryamsport himself.

The time had come and Erich blew on his warhorn. On all ships shouting commenced and the enormous Iron Fleet split in three sections, one heading to Starfish Harbor, one to Vinetown and one to the Arbor. Erich was excited. It had been a long time since he had raided the Greenlands. His axe felt heavy at his belt, but Erich ignored the weight. He noticed Hrotgar’s and Loron’s fleets go different directions. Hrothgar’s fleet was equipped with the fastest ships, since Starfish Harbor was the most south of them. Loron had sturdy ships, to deliver a heavy blow on the northern Vinetown. Erich had a mix, a mix of sturdy and fast ships. He had the most difficult job. Ryamsport was the most defended harbor of the Arbor.

Bells rang loudly when Erich passed the Mermaid’s Palace and entered the waters of Ryamsport. Erich enjoyed seeing the Redwyne fleet in utter chaos. Warships were trying to reach the ships of the Ironborn while trade vessels tried to get away from the fleet as far as they good, protecting their ware. The Redwyne ships were coming closer and closer. It was time for battle.

“Get those Greenlanders!”

Erich shouted as they rammed the first Redwyne ship. The Ironborn ships left and right of him also rammed the Redwyne ships. Erich stuck his war-axe in the air as he stormed to the other ship. Their ship had connected with the other ship and ironmen poured all over it. As Erich entered the enemy ship it was already soaked in blood of the greenlanders. A devilish smirk formed on his face, Erich loved it. He stormed towards the stern of the ship, hacking and smashing his way through the mass of poor greenlanders. However Erich felt his muscles tensing, was he getting too old? Erich quickly put away that thought as he blocked a dagger of a Reachmen. After a few minutes there was nothing left of the crew of the ship and Erich and his men quickly went back to their own after setting fire to the sails. On the top of the hill he saw the Keep of the Redwynes, his end-goal.

“Forwards! We need to reach the Harbor!”

Erich commanded his men as they got back to their oars and they quickly left the burning ship behind them. Erich steered his men through the sea of ships, even ramming a ship that it broke in half. Together with some other ships he broke through the Redwyne defenses and they entered the port. It was time to pillage this town.

Akio Hypnos ailurophile TheFool High Moon Mion Arcanist

 

[Yarrow]

Meryn Flowers

Meryn watched Mors as he inspected the room.

“Have I ever told you anything untrue?”

Meryn replied to Mors asking if he had confirmed his information. Up to this moment Meryn had never not told the truth. Meryn considered his father a good source, since he was prominent in the Reach. When Mors found the snake, which Meryn had totally missed the first time, he quickly drew his knife. He didn’t knew exactly why, it was probably a natural instinct. Meryn didn’t believe a word Mors said about snakes. The only good thing about snakes were their poison. Meryn had probably gathered a bottle of snake venom from the Grand Maesters desk, no one would miss it.

Mors got the snake from the ground and Meryn didn’t move. Meryn could see the resemblance between the snake and the Hand of the King. Both very poisonous and unpredictable. Meryn never understood why his father had been friends with Mors Martell. But maybe his dad pretended to be an ally to the Prince of Dorne. His father benefited enormously from the defeat of the Targaryens just after the birth of Meryn.

Meryn hoped his whisps would find the handmaiden before Mors his men would find her. Meryn had his own ideas to play this in his favor. The last few days Mors had acted more like a King than like a Hand of the King. It was never a good idea for someone to have that much power, let alone a snake from the desert lands down south.

It was easy to get irritated by the tone of the ‘Hand’ of the King. However, Meryn had to listen to him. Meryn thought about sharing another secret now the guards were on their way to secure the castle. It would probably upset Mors heavily

“Lord Hand..”

Meryn used his official title

“.. messengers say that the well at Whitegrove has been poisoned and that Nymeria is fighting for her life”

After dropping the heavy news Meryn went his way, working on the task Mors had given him. To each maid he saw he said that they should gather all in the kitchen. When he found the castellon he made sure that the man would take care of all the Blackfyre family members. At last, he made sure that all the small council members would gather. After sending out his little whisps to all of these people he went to his private quarters.

Meryn had a small room in the Red Keep. It was because he had other houses in the Capital. In the Red Keep he kept things he didn’t need to worry about if they were found. He put the things he gathered from the Grand Maesters chamber and placed them on a rack. He got a small booklet out of his pocket and sat down to write. Meryn kept track of all the things he had told certain people. The Whispering Flower had always been fascinated by how fast or how slow secrets would travel.

Akio

 

[Optimus Princeps]

“I wonder what Walt feeds that king of his, or Velaryon? I be bettin’ me own Pearl that they thar don’t crack their lips on thar meals.”
Captain Manderly​

Once the words left his mouth, Gregor’s hands went to his plate. The bread appeared stale and hard, despite the heat that wafted off of it. Tentatively, the Cap’n tore a piece of the loaf off and squeezed it between his thumb and middle finger. Barely, it scrunched in his grasp. ‘Lord Stark be stockpilin’ all the goods again?’ He thought with little amusement. Tossing the portion of bread into his mouth, Manderly crunched on it before swallowing. The next piece he tore off, Gregor dipped deep into the flagon of ale, looking as similar to a man being given the water torment he’d seen one too many times in the South. However familiar it was, Gregor found the bread softening pleasantly with his ale, holding a greater flavor once he swallowed his second piece.

The food in Walt’s halls were always lacking, Manderly thought for not the tenth time in his long life. Never had he been given proper chance to feast here, beneath the Wolf’s predatory gaze, before the war began. And after Breakoath fled North, everything started to be saved, put in reserve for times of crisis. Food, was unsurprisingly, one of these resources. In White Harbor, Manderly never felt the same pressures. The Royal Navy and its denizens were trouble feeding at first, but a few more hands out at sea made fish much more abundant. Manderly also was satisfied knowing that the Black Dragon had no fleet to sail North, thus he had no concerns of coming under siege or having to send his grain and salted meats into some barren hold deep under his castle.

Throughout the war, Gregor managed to eat whatever he liked, whenever he liked.

Save for when he came to Winterfell. He supposed the truly rarer meats and wines were saved for the Southron, who would fall into similar depressions as the late Lord Tully, if they had to choke on the same bread Bolton and Manderly managed to crunch on.

A reward for their loyalty. Their bravery for following their king North.

With another crunch of the bread, Manderly felt his mouth fill with blood. His eyes widened for a half second, he pushed two fingers past his lips where his tongue played with a surprisingly hard object. “Pardon, Lord-Flay-Me-Naht.” He interrupted the mentions of Alys Karstark’s bout of depression to pull from his tongue, his half broken tooth. Letting it clack on the serving plate, Manderly swallowed the blood that was collecting in his mouth. Surprisingly, no pain followed the fractured tooth. None that he could feel at the very least.

“I wonder what Walt feeds that king of his, or Velaryon? I be bettin’ me own Pearl that they thar don’t crack their lips on thar meals.” Gregor shook his head ruefully. He hated coming to Winterfell for precisely this reason. He should be the honored guest of Lord Stark. Women and strong knights should be doing all in their power to be recognized by him. Yet here he was, chatting with the skeleton of the North instead, Rogar Bolton. Manderly’s blue clashed with the green from Bolton for a moment longer, an intensity of disdain building in the Cap’n before he shook it off, burying deep inside himself.

There’d be a time for anger later. Now was a time to be pleasant. Listen carefully and respond accordingly to Rogar’s woes. “Forgive my distraction here, my lord.” He smiled, his lips tainted with residual redness as they puckered inwards. “If I shrank away from all men with’a tough exterior, I’d be down in the South. Ye’ve not lost yer edge, I see not one Southron willing to walk so close to ya yet.” Manderly gave him the reassuring words with his usual, melodic cadence. It wasn’t the gaunt cheeks or foggy-green eyes that frightened people from the Lord of the Flayed, but his reputation. One that Gregor was nearly confident was utter fabrication. A continuation of the stereotypes of the old houses. They bloomed every few generations. There’d be an Umber accused of being half-giant, a Mormont who could warg into bears and a Reed that could commune with the Old Gods. Manderly was certain Bolton was the latest victim of the Northerners imagination. To his credit, Rogar wore it well, perhaps reveling in the revulsion it won him.

His smile waned as he recalled Rogar’s mention of his wife. Alys Karstark and Wylla Ryswell were girlhood friends. Oft, his Wylla would talk about her childhood. Oft, he’d hear of Alys. Manderly supposed it brought some form of kinship to the two men, even if they spoke less than ten words each twelve moons. “I be sorry to hear that. About yer boy too. He was good, I hear.”

So good in fact, he died in what was considered an overwhelming victory for the North.

At least, it was for Manderly.

His own daughter imprisoned in Seagard by the Black Dragon. A cruel continuation of his own battle-time legacy of being taken prisoner, only to be freed by the Red Dragon and an angry host of Northerners. Gregor counted his fortune that she could still walk, once liberated.

It wasn’t the first time, in the two months since that battle, that Manderly confronted the kin of others who died for his Pearl. It wasn’t the first time he felt a simmering in his stomach, not quite guilt, but something equally unpleasant. An emotion he couldn’t pin down with enough accuracy to name. He knew it not to be guilt for certain, as he perceived any sacrifice acceptable for the safe return of Gillaine.

“Aye. I would do best to see ‘er, bring Lady Alys company. But alas, travel on horse back is not so easy for me these days.” As if Bolton needed reminding of who he sat across, Gregor reached out to grip the staff he left abandoned minutes earlier. “Uneven land jostles me’ leg. Carriages are worse yet with their wheels. Sailin’ up the White Knife is easiest, though Winterfell is practically me only stop on that voyage.”

Cap’n paused, seeing a new form drift into the halls of Winterfell, an auburn haired woman who all approached in recent times and wept for. The daughter of that bastard, Tully. Blue eyes burned with a fierce disdain, mayhaps not for the girl, but her damned father who dared to insinuate Manderly a craven or worse. “If it be agreeable to the great Lord Bolton, she could visit me instead? White Harbor may be a happy diversion for her grief filled mind?” His words slowed to a whisper as his eyes peered past Lord Rogar, the Tully girl now the immediate curiosity in the room.


Mentions;
TAC
TheAncientCelt
ailurophile
RayPurchase

 

[TheFool]

Matarys Blackfyre
Prince




​

It was Matarys’ turn to pick. The pressure was high. It always was when you were the picker. If he chose a game no one else wished to play - he would not hear the end of it. Not for weeks. It happened to Vaegor when he chose ‘come-into-my-castle’.

“Why that one?”
A little girl asked, silver haired. They all were. All but one. Vaella was her name, the eldest of the group. ‘Don’t trust that one’, his mother would say.
‘She’s nothing but trouble - like her family’.


“I like it.”
Another child said. A little taller than Matarys. Broader. A big head on his shoulders, which led to some cruel nicknames. Vaegor.


“It’s shit.”
The only child who did not wear silver locks spoke out. His brow cross. Arlan.


“No, you are.”
Vaegor retorted. Thinking he was witty. Matarys laughed at the two of them. He always did when they got into their fights.


“It’s a game for girls.”
Arlan said. His chest puffed out. He was the second eldest. He would be King - if something happened to their eldest brother, Maekar.
He was not present.
He never was.


“Vaella’s here.”
Vaegor said. Looking at Matarys, rolling his eyes.


“And I don’t like it.”
Vaella said, proudly.

​

Now, it was his turn.

They met in the garden, as always. Vaella was the only one there when Matarys arrived with little Aerion. He wasn’t that little. A few years younger than Matarys, but he was always so small. Aerion held onto Matarys’ hand. “I want to play hopfrog, Mat!” He said, his voice chirpier than usual.

I think he had just recovered from a sickness?

“There you both are,”
Vaella said when she noticed them. “I’ve been waiting forever.”
Matarys giggled, “Oh stop.”
“I am serious, Mat.” She said. Blank face. Though not for long. A smile broke. Followed by a singsong laugh. Matarys ran towards her with Aerion trying to keep up. “Today’s the day, right?” Matarys asked his sister. His only sister.
“It is. You better choose something good. Not ‘come-into-my-castle’, please.”
Matarys giggled again, a snort in between. He used to sound like a pig oinking when he laughed. Something he had thankfully managed to stop doing. To save himself the embarrassment.
“Hopfrog!” Aerion said, ecstatic.
“I don’t have the effort for hopfrog.” Vaella rolled her eyes.
“Neither do I.” Matarys agreed.
“Awww. Please!”
“You get to choose in a few days, Aerion.” Vaella smiled at him, “You can choose it then.”
“Okay, okay.”

They sat by the fountain for about ten minutes, waiting. Arlan and Vaegor showed up together, talking of sword fighting. Arlan’s birthday had been recently - and he had received his first proper sword from his uncle. Vaegor was obsessed,
“You can let me use it someday, right?”
Arlan laughed, “Of course. You can use it whenever - if you can pick it up.”
“Hey!”
The two hit one another, playfully.
Oh,
How I miss those times.

“Alright,” Arlan stood up. “Mat - let’s hear it.”

Matarys blinked. What would it be? Which game would he choose? He knew Aerion wanted ‘hopfrog’, but the others did not. He knew Vaegor wanted ‘come-into-my-castle’, but the others did not. He knew Arlan wanted ‘rats and cats’, but Matarys himself hated that game. He could choose ‘monsters-and-maidens’. That’d make Vaella happy but she would be the only maiden. Maybe Aerion would volunteer, since he didn’t like being a monster. Arlan and Vaegor would never not be monsters however -

Being a maiden, to them, was an insult.

“I choose…”

All of their eyes were on him. He was never a shy child but in that moment, he remembered feeling so anxious. He scratched his cheek. His heart beating. Pressure. So much pressure.

“Um, I choose ‘hide-the-treasure’.”

Silence.

“Oh, I like that.” Vaella said, supportive. Arlan nodded in agreement,
“I do too.”
Vaegor shrugged, “It’s alright. I don’t mind playing it.”
“I love ‘hide-the-treasure’, yes!”

Relief.

“Okay, it’s sorted. We’ll play that.” Matarys said, standing up himself. Vaella grabbed him by his arm however, tugging his sleeve -
“What will the treasure be though?” She asked.
Arlan nodded, “It has to be something really good.”
“Your sword?” Vaegor asked.
“No way.”
“What about… a big book?” Aerion suggested.
“What about,”
Vaella folded her arms. “I don’t know…”

“I got it.”
Matarys said.

Maekar’s room was empty. Quiet. He was off somewhere doing something. A lot was expected of him. So much so that he rarely had the time to spend time with his siblings - something he later told Matarys that he was regretful of. It was Vaegor and Matarys that snuck in,
Arlan agreeing to keep watch.
“Are you sure about this, Mat?” Vaegor asked. Trying to tip-toe across the room. Several of the curtains were pulled, blocking most of the sunlight from peering in through the windows. Thus the room was darkened. Warm. With particles of dust floating in the parts that were filled by the sun’s rays.
“So sure.”
Matarys assured him.
“If you say so…”
Vaegor responded, nervous.
Matarys was the younger of the two, however it always seemed, to him, the opposite way around. Vaegor always seemed more childish. More cautious. At least when we were growing up anyway.

“There.”
Vaegor spotted it. He pointed.

Light hit against it, making it glimmer.

A crown.

Maekar’s crown. Small, with jeweled red circlets.

“Our treasure.”
Matarys grinned at Vaegor. A devious one. They took it off of the dresser and ran. Reuniting in the gardens. By the fountain.

“What are the rules again, Vaella?”
Aerion asked as he splashed his hand through the fountain’s water, watching what it did to the way the coins at the bottom of it looked.
“So we each get a go at hiding the crown. Everyone else has ten minutes to find it.” She began.
“Only ten?” Vaegor raised an eyebrow.
“Only ten.”
“Do you need anymore?” Arlan asked.
Vaegor scoffed, “I can find it five.”
“Yeah right.” Matarys chimed in.
“Yeah right, Vaegor.” Aerion copied him.
Vaella continued speaking, “Whoever finds it the most times wins. If no one finds it within ten minutes, the hider wins.”
“Oh, okay. I get it.” Aerion said, smiling.
“Do you really?” Arlan laughed, ruffling his youngest brother’s hair.
“I do. It’s not hopfrog but I do. Swear it!”

“Alright then, Aerion. You go first then. You’re the hider.” Vaella announced, handing the crown into his wet hand. The others closed their eyes.
Matarys included.
And waited.

Waited for Aerion to tell them that it was done.
That the crown was hidden.

That it was time for them to find it.

For Matarys to find it.
For the reason he picked this game, was because he had never lost it.



-



The tavern was noisy. People laughed and yelled and slammed their cups on their tables. Ale and wine and who knows what else spilling out. Mat held his own cup. Firmly. The drink had only slightly taken him. A surprise to him and everyone who shared his company - as he was usually the first to down several pints in a row and boast about it standing on top of his stool.

Sometimes without a shirt.

This time, however. He was relatively sober. It was the reason why he told his story so well. He took a sip. The mead was a bit too sweet for his personal liking, but it did not bother him too much. Drink was drink. No one drank it for the taste.
Only for the times.
The good times.

“So… who won?” A girl asked, sitting across from him.
Matarys was pulled from wherever he was in his mind, “What?”
Lyn Mudd leant back, her eyes hitting the back of her head. “Who won?” She said, “Your game?”
Oh.
“That’s a good question.”
He took another sip.
“Does it maybe get an answer?” Lyn asked.
He grinned, “I’ll be very honest with you, Lyn. Very honest. I have no fuckin’ clue.”
“No clue?”
“No clue.”
Lyn frowned, “So you’re telling me this? Us - this?” She put out her hands, using them to point at the others around the table they sat at. A freakishly tall man, stronger than an ox, and another man - shorter but still lean - with a ridiculously handsome face.
“This whole story, and we do not get a conclusion? We don’t know the winner?”
Lyn finished.
“I think the prince is just a little bit homesick, no?” The handsome man, who went by the name of Tatters, spoke softly. He only drank water. Something that made Matarys respect him. He’s a stronger will than any of us. “We all are.” The big fella said.
Manfryd Darklyn.
“Right, Mat?”
“Right, Manly.”
“Some of you more than others.” Lyn said.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone in Westeros in two months. Maybe two and a half. He’d lost track of time. His uncle Tregar told him,

“No letters.”

He did not want the idle trivialities of Westeros getting in the way of his time here. His time at home in Lys. Home. Funny. This wasn’t his home and it never would be. No matter how much his uncle and his cousins tried to convince him. His mother tried the same tactic. The same convincing. She died trying. Lonely and loveless. Naemidon’s foreign ‘bitch’, was what they called her back in his real home.
Back in Westeros.
She was the forgotten wife.
The one that did not share the same blood as the rest of them - and for that she thought she was instantly better than them.
Superior.
A thought Matarys often had. A thought Matarys often suppressed.

“Ah well, we leave tomorrow. So be happy, brother.” Manfryd said, before downing his drink. A majority of his beer missing his actual mouth and spilling down his armour.
Lyn was sickened.
Matarys and Tatters laughed.
When he put the empty flagon down, he belched. “Come on, Tatters. Let's get you a drink!”
Tatters shook his head, “No thank you, Manfryd.”
“Then let's get me a drink!”
“How could I say no to that?”
The two stood up. Manfryd intentionally nudging Matarys’ arm as he did. That big fucker. They wandered off into the crowd - in hopes to find a tavern wench.

“So…” Lyn said. Holding onto a cup of wine.

Matarys grinned at her. A shit eating grin almost. His signature.

“Grown shy?” He asked her.
She rolled her eyes again, “Matarys Blackfyre, you’ve known me how long?”
“Too long.”
“Do you really take me as the shy maiden type?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’ve heard the stories.”
She raised an eyebrow, “Stories?”
“Arrogant bitch who’s not afraid of a fight.”
She laughed, “That does sound like me, doesn’t it?”
“A true Lioness.”
He said. Still grinning. He was knowingly being annoying.
“Don’t you dare!”
He burst into laughter. Without any oinking.
“It’s Lyn!”
He leant closer, “I know it is. I am teasing.”
She leaned in too.
They stared at one another and suddenly the boisterous sounds of the tavern were lost somewhere.

“So, do you know any other games?” She asked him.
“Oh. A few.”
“Interesting. Like what?”
“Well, I am wildly good at finger dancing.”
“Really? Who taught you that?”
“Who’d you think?”
“Shit, I forgot. That Pyke cousin of yours and what’s his face Greyjoy. Loren?” Her emphasis on the ‘e’. Matarys put his hand flat on the table. Kept it there for a moment or two, before he moved his finger close towards her and caressed hers - as they gripped the wine.
“Loron.”
He corrected her.
“Is there a difference?”
“Only when you’re one of my closest friends.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She smiled a thin smile, her eyes leering into his.

He continued to caress her.

“So, is avoiding slicing your fingers off the only thing you can do with them?”
Matarys stared, “I can do a lot of things with these.”
Wiggling his fingers.
“Also good to keep in mind.” She said, smiling.
He raised his hand and cupped her cheek, pulling her close. Pulling her in for a kiss. His sweet lips against hers.

Both of them knowing that the night would end well.



-



The smell of fish and clams was almost too much to bare.
Matarys was on the ship, still in port though about to set sail. He threw a crewman a rope and they hooked it up. To what he did not know. Ships were not his forté. He only did as told, pretending to know what it was he was doing.

“Thank ya, lad.”
The sailor spoke in Low Valyrian.
“No bother.”
Matarys replied.
He put his hands on hips and looked around. Looked at all the other ships in the port. All the other ships that belonged to him.
Well,
His uncle. His cousin, Aurion. Who was nowhere to be seen just yet.

Manly Manfryd hung half over the portside. Getting sick. Partly because of the smell and half because of the blistering hangover he had not shut up about. “How’s the head, brother?”
“Piss off, Mat.”
Matarys laughed. Patting him on the back. “I’ve asked Tatters to bring us some fine ale for the journey.”
“I’m not… fucking touching any of it.”
He continued to laugh.
“Never again.” Manfryd promised.
A promise that would, as per usual, be broken within a fortnight.

Footsteps.
Matarys turned around to see them. Lyn. Tatters. Their expressions solemn. Matarys’ the opposite.

“Ready for open water?” He asked them, cheerfully.
“Mat…” Lyn spoke.
He knew something was wrong. Something was not right. “Are you alright?”
She did not answer.
“I think you should read this, Matarys.” Tatters handed him a letter. One with a broken seal. Though he could still make out what remained of a blackened dragon with three heads.

Home.

“How did you…?”
He began to ask.
“Your cousin handed it to us there. Told us of its insides. Told us to give it to you before setting sail.”
What?
“I see.” Was all he could manage. He was confused. A strange sinking feeling had appeared in his stomach. A weird anxiety. One he had not felt in forever. Not since that game.
“I’ll wait until we’re on the ocean, I th-”
“Mat.”
Lyn’s words were crisp.
“Read it.”
“If you insist.”
He took it off of Tatters and opened it up more. So he could read the words.

The words.

The words.

He swore he could feel his heart stop for a moment. Completely. His stomach swirled. Knotted. He felt his lip tremble. His eyes itch. His top teeth carefully chattering against his bottom.

“He’s dead.”

Was all he could say. All that came to mind.

“My sincerest apologies, Matarys.”
Tatters spoke.

“I’m so sorry, Mat. I… I’m at a loss for words.”

“What’s going on?” Manfryd asked, appearing from behind Mat. Wiping his mouth of vomit.

“He’s dead.”
Matarys turned to face him.

“Who?”
Manfryd’s eyes widening.

“My brother. Maekar’s dead.”

He looked back at the letter, continuing on. There were more words. Though they were hard to read. He did not want to read them. He did not want to find out the gruesome way it happened. Thankfully the letter spared him those details.

Though it told him something else.

He looked up.
At Tatters. At Manfryd, who looked as if he himself was about to cry. At Lyn, who looked as if she wanted to reach out and hold him. And at a figure who had just came aboard. His cousin, Aurion Rogare.

The one who wanted him to have the letter.
Who wanted to tell him what had happened, unlike his father - Matarys’ uncle Tregar.

Arlan is not the heir?

He put his wrist to his eyes and wiped them. Wanting to continue. Wanting to finish.

Contest?

He looked back at Aurion.
Who nodded.
A face as hard as stone. As hard as steel.

Matarys crumpled the letter in his fist and threw it aside. It bounced off of the deck. His friends staring at him. His cousin not saying a word, but saying everything at the same time.

It was Matarys’ turn to pick.

And the real game was just about to begin.

Spoiler: Matarys' MENTIONS

ailurophile
Akio
Braddington
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