Fandom ♛ Blackfyre : A Game Of Thrones RP

[Yarrow]

Quentyn Allyrion

War

Quentyn only had a few memories of war. The first was his father going away with most of their men. When his father came back Quentyn often heard his father telling stories about the war to his younger brother, Doran. Sometimes he would listen to his father telling Doran stories, he would climb into the tree close to the window of Doran his room and then listen as quietly as he could. Doran got the impression that war was something glorious, Quentyn knew better however.

Now he was riding to war. For most of his life he has trained for this. They had passed Godsgrace, but it was empty and cold without his wife Arriane. She stayed in Sunspear with the children. The Prince’s Pass was just a few days riding. They would first arrive at Starpike, the main seat of House Peake, the ally of Mors Martell. From there they would find the persons responsible for the murder of Uller and Drinkwater.

Quentyn hoped that Gormon Peake would welcome him into his home. The Dornishman had never been in the Reach, he only visited King’s Landing once. Now he was going into enemy territory, which he had never visited, to revenge the death of his goodbrother, someone he had seen twice in his life. What was the point of all of this? His wife wanted it badly, his liege wanted it also, however they were safe in Sunspear and in the Capital. Quentyn mustn’t complain, but he couldn’t help it. Edric had been a pain in his ass for most of their journey, whining about nearly everything. Edric was a spoiled brat in the eyes of Quentyn.

 

[Braddington]

Daemon Pyke
Bastard son of Queen Daena Blackfyre


He called it a journey across the world, seeing places distant and foreign with tales of ancient peoples and lands to bring back home. Yet he would start with the Iron Islands of all places. Even as he mocked Westeros, even as he begged for something new, he dragged himself to a place he had been many times before. This land had an allure, if you could waft through the pigshit and cocksuckers, that brought him back time and time again. He had a ship, he could go anywhere. Yet he didn't. Not even to go with Mat. What possessed him he could not decipher, but there was a familiarity in the Blackwater, in the Sunset Sea that seemed to make all the worry and confusion of courts and nobles slip away like a whore that wasn't getting paid. And by the tits of Calla Waters it was a beautiful country at that. It was just full of ugly people. Though half of those must have been the gene pool of Lord Mudd. That man put rabbits to shame.


In the end, he knew deep down, he was lying to her. It was a sweet lie he almost believed himself, though he was often adept in the arts of self deception. He wouldn't leave. Not now. Not when everything was so exciting, when the oceans were so open and when he had finally mustered the balls to go out and do something. Qarth was all well and good for street magicians and dreamy harlots, but for him, Westeros was more than home. It was an adventure in the waiting. From the Sands of Dorne to the Snows of the North, from the Hills of the West to the Stones of the Vale. It was all his to take, to experience, to love.


“I’ll try not to if I have anything to say about it. Pyke is all well and good, but I prefer haddock myself. Much better texture.”


He hid the truth through his jokes, always had, why change strategy now? Besides, it did no one harm, the truth was much more boring than he cared to admit.


“If Naemidon asks where I am, tell him I am strangling Aegon Targaryen and conquering the North for him. Oh, and something about my mother, he’d like that. Tell him I will be fine.”


He arose from his seat, immediately wrapping his arms around the woman, tightly and full of nothing but love. He wouldn't be long, he could only hope. He didn't want this to be goodbye.


Releasing from the hug, like a breath of air above the water line, he turned his body and began to walk. The steps surprisingly harder than he had expected. He twisted with one last glance towards the Queen Mother.


“What’s the worst that could happen?”


TheFool ​

 

[ailurophile]

Arianne Uller​

"Listen to me."

Arianne looked around at the faces of her children, all in various stages of confusion and fatigue, groggy from being woken, afraid of their mother's wild-eyed look.

"You are going to go with Tyene now. On the way, you'll get your grandmother, and take her with you."

Tyene was a tall woman, close to Arianne in age. When they were younger, Arianne recalled envying her wild mane of curls and her fiery spirit. Nothing in all of Dorne had been able to sway Tyene, nothing had made her flinch or falter: she had always been, in Arianne's eyes, the bravest woman known to man. But now she stood, her expression grave, staring back at her friend. They'd been inseparable for years, friends as children, then Tyene had become a confidant, a handmaiden, a nanny, a bodyguard. Now? She had become Arianne's last hope of saving her family.

A murmur brought her gaze down to the bundle in her arms. Ryon, a boy who had only recently seen his first nameday, still a baby in many respects. Arianne held him there against her breast, feeling the warmth and weight of him. He slept on, unaware of the pain his mother was in, the wrenching agony she felt when she extended her arms to pass him over to Tyene. If there was any sense of justice in the world, she knew she would hold him again soon. With each of her children, there was always the point where she had to allow them certain freedoms, to live on without them tumbling at her skirts, and it was always hard. It hadn't prepared her for this.

"I want you to take some horses. Daemon, you will take Doran. Myria, you will take Moriah. Grandmother will take Gwyneth, and Tyene has Ryon. Are you listening to me, sweetlings?" Her words caught in her throat at the term of endearment. After a deep breath to steady herself, she delivered her next instructions to Tyene. "Ride to Lemonwood and don't stop until you're there. Explain the situation, and let Quentyn know where you are."

"Mother?"

Daemon, her eldest, a boy of twelve. A man to some, but not to her. She turned to him.

"Aren't you coming?"

Arianne had expected handing over Ryon to be the hardest part of the exchange, but her son's concern was like a punch in the stomach. Shakily, she laid a hand on his shoulder.

"I'll be right behind you." She promised.
"You don't need to worry." She lied.

With her thumb, she wiped away a tear that rolled down his cheek. So many words of inspiration fluttered in her throat, and then died again as the threat of a sob began to rise. Arianne straightened up and cleared her throat, drawing herself into the proud, confident posture that her children recognised. She looked around at them again.

"Now go. Be quick. Don't disappoint me."

They went, then, to find her mother. Ryon in Tyene's arms, Gwyneth half asleep on Daemon's narrow shoulders, Myria between Doran and Moriah, joined by their hands in an uncertain trio. She watched them until they hit the corner of the corridor and disappeared out of her sight. Her eyes stung, her chest ached.

Her blood boiled.

With her family out of sight, Arianne was alone. Contrary to popular belief, that made her much more dangerous. If there was nobody else to be concerned about, her actions could become much more reckless. Perhaps it was a suicide mission. But there was no way that she, Arianne Uller, was going to be the one to abandon Ysilla Martell without even trying to find her. The enemy who had arrived perhaps hadn't been the one that she'd been lusting for revenge over since her brother's death, but...

That night, in Arianne's grief-stricken mind, Northmen and Reachmen were one and the same.

 

[Braddington]

Daemon Pyke
Bastard son of Queen Daena Blackfyre


Shit.

Balls.

Fuck.


This wasn’t happening, it was a dream, he’d wake up and be with Arlan. Please Arlan, wake me up, please just wake me up. He begged the sky, pleaded with it, shouted at the top of his lungs for his family. For everyone, for anyone. Vaegor, maybe Vaegor would shake him back to reality, no, no, Aerion. A sweet boy, he’d help, he could stop this. Surely they could tell he was having a nightmare? Surely it was only a matter of time? All he had to do was close his eyes, let go of the wheel, step away from the chaos that consumed his illusion of a visage. He’d be fine soon, he’d be safe. He wanted to be safe.

He stopped, closing his eyes, holding his hands to his ears in a desperate attempt to make it all end. Please.

Then he felt the arms around him, shaking him. Daena. It had to be. He just had to open his eyes and he’d be in her arms once more. Like it was before. Before everything.

His eyes widened, soft words coming from his lips, a stark contrast to the sounds of war.


“Mother?”


“Daemon, we need to do something! Get your fucking act together! They’ll be on us soon if we don’t fucking act. What are your orders? Tell me!”

He escaped the grip of the man. His second. Stumbling away from the wheel, falling to the deck with a thump, consumed by the pressure. The stress. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know where to go. How could he? This was new, this was terrifying, it was everything he wanted to avoid. Nothing felt real. Was it real? Maybe it still was a dream?


“Daemon! Now!”


In the distance, he could hear the screams, the screams of innocents. There were snarls from Krakens, the lumbering beasts hitting into the sides of merchant vessels and surprised warships. Why were they doing this? What did the Greyjoys hope to gain? Hope to achieve? Erich was never a nice man, but this? And Loron-


Loron.

Were you with them? Did you do this?


The arms wrapped around him once more, dragging him up. He wiped the back of his head, staring at the red on his hands, blood dripping through the cracks. Did you do this?

With a struggle he took in the sight before him, desperately trying to think of anything. They couldn't help, they weren't a warship, they were not prepared. Was anyone on his ship even trained with a sword? He hadn’t bothered to check. They could flee, leave right now, sail straight to Oldtown, to safety. Was that the best course? He could end the dream. Awaken, safe and sound. Yes, they could escape.

“We’re...we’re getting out of here. Now. We have to get out.”

He took control of the wheel, spinning the ship around with a rough motion, sloppy and dangerous, almost slamming into a fishing vessel caught up in the mess. Daemon didn’t care. He had to get out. The ship charged ahead at full speed, the sail proud in the winds, fleeing from the carnage behind them. They were fast, it was their one advantage, no one else had their speed. Ships were destroyed around him, he ignored them. He wanted to be free.

And he was so very close. But it was not to be. A Drumm ship, the biggest he had seen so far, blocked their exit. There was no escape, no shortcuts. They were trapped. They were going to die.

“No, no, no, no, no. We have to…..we can’t. Please. We can’t. I don’t want to die.”

He stumbled once more from the wheel, down amongst the crew, throwing up over the sides. A bitter, horrible taste filling his mouth. His second immediately taking the wheel, shouting at him.

“We have to get to the port! It’s our only hope!”

The ship turned back towards the carnage, Daemon begging the man.

“No, anywhere but there. There must be another way.” Tears streamed down his face. “I...I am a coward Dick. I can’t go there. Just fucking please.”

“We don’t have a choice.”

They sailed, hitting many objects they had no choice but to put out of mind. Barely avoiding monstrous ships adorned with every banner, the Kraken himself visible in the far edges of the port. A monster that he couldn’t imagine any man felling. Eventually, land was struck, no docking maneuvers available so a full on crash being their curse. The ship groaned at it’s treatment, throwing some men off and into the sea, others onto the land and with a few moments of salvation. Daemon jumped over the edge, hitting the beach, his face covered with sand that stuck to the blood weeping from his head.


He ran forward, past all his men, screaming at the ocean, his voice course and rough. Cursing it, pleading with it, striking it with his sword, and begging it for a sign of hope. No one came to his side. Men he had sailed with for years left him on the beach, running for their own safety. Even his second, without so much as a glance, ran deep into the island and away from the oceans edge. His proud banners torn and crippled. He didn't blame them, he didn't even notice them.


After minutes of inane aggression and desperation, he began to walk. Stumbling towards Ryamsport. At least what he assumed to be Ryamsport. He did not know anymore. It did not matter. The blood on his head, slick and mixed with sweat, dripped onto the sand. Every step seeming like a marathon. His vision getting more and more blurred as the buildings came into full view. As did the fire. Krakens seemed as good as Dragons in that regard.


When he did reach the port, it made the seas seem tranquil. Ironmen poured onto the streets of the innocent port town, ransacking, raping, pillaging. Taking what they thought was theirs. The Iron Price. He drew his sword, though he doubted it would be of much use. The thing had cost more than a horse, yet he would have traded it for a mule in that moment without question. He was not a fighter. Something he regretted more than anything.


A boy, maybe fourteen, maybe younger, charged towards him. A child. Axe in hand, swinging for his head. How many children had been turned to killers this day? He didn't even resist. His sword barely rising, exhaustion setting in. Luckily for him, he didn’t have to. A guard, a man in his thirties, stabbed the boy without pity. Without remorse. Screaming at the body as he pierced it over and over again. A brutal sight. Something he did not stop. Something he couldn't stop. He staggered onwards, into the mess, no destination.


It was clear who was winning, children aside, and it was not House Redwyne. Civilians poured out into the streets, desperately running inland only to be chopped down. He had given up on escaping. There was no escape.


Another Ironborn charged him, a group this time. He raised his sword once more, swinging wildly before falling into the mud. Screeches of laughter piercing his ears as one of them dragged him up and stared him in the eye.


“You’re highborn, aren't ya? I can tell with you greenlanders. Skinny and weak. What’s your name, pretty boy?”


He didn't reply. Receiving a punch in the stomach for it.


“Your name, Princess.”


He spat at the man. A mistake. The beast drew his knife, connecting it with Daemons ear, and with a swift motion carved deep into it. Daemon screamed as his ear fell to the ground, blood gushing from the hole left.


“I asked your name, don’t make me take the other.”


“Daemon, my name is Daemon Pyke. Please, no more. I beg of you. Please.”


“We got ourselves a bastard, boys. I am sure some Lordling will pay for im, a couple of dragons goes a long way. Come on, report it in. Red, carry the cunny.”


Did you do this?


Hypnos Yarrow ​

 

[TheFool]

Ysilla Martell
Sunflower




​

She found herself back home in the great hall
- surrounded by strangers.

The strangest of them sitting atop Nymeria’s throne. Her father’s throne. Her throne. The great chair. A man with the palest of skin and tired eyes. She had never met him, but she knew who he was. There was no denying it. A direwolf had come south.

Lord Walton Stark.

Beside him was someone else.

Someone Ysilla, also, instantly knew. The red dragon himself. Licking his wounds like a mountain cat. Like his lion kin who’d been trapped under Casterly Rock.

She wanted to run at them. To beat them to a pulp. How dare they come here?
How dare they take my home?
She stared at them.
I couldn’t stop them.
I have failed.
Forgive me, father.

She felt Mikken’s breath on the back of her, as he held her by her irons. Tightly chained around her wrists. Her hand hurt already. She looked over at Mallador. The disgrace. A maester of The Citadel was supposed put aside his family - his House.

Instead he had played her like a small Dornish harp.
Plucking every little string.

It all started to make sense to her. Her head was spinning but she understood. Did we receive word of the fleet sailing our way? If we did, who did it go through?
She felt herself sink.
The rat bastard.

She watched as Mikken bowed. Bowed to his lord paramount and to his King. When he stood back up, he shoved her forward. Ysilla tried to avoid eye contact with Stark. With Aegon Targaryen. Her gaze darting around the room - trying to find a familiar face.
To find Arianne or Elia or Nymella or -

Nymella.

She saw Nymella. Her body lying in a pile of other bodies. All with familiar faces to them. All dead. Covered in red. In blood. She felt sadness.
She felt anger.
She looked at Stark.
She looked at the Targaryen.
A scowl on her face.

She spat at them.

“You are not a wolf,”
She said.
“You’re a Northern mutt. Aging and fading. And you -”
She studied the red dragon.
“Your family’s reign ended twenty years ago. You are weaker than any of the true dragons. The black dragons. How you managed to slay Maekar… I’m sure you cheated him. Dishonoured yourself by doing so.”

“If you had any honour to begin with.”

She froze for a moment and looked back at Mikken. He had let go of her to go kneel. To go bow for his masters. She could not escape, they would catch her - but she could take vengeance. As a final act.

She leapt. Over to Mallador. Faster than she ever thought she could move. Her slippers falling off her feet as she ran. When she got to him, she grabbed the old man by his chains. His links. Bronze and black iron. Silver and brass. She gripped his chains and spun around him -
Causing them to pull against his neck.

Strangling him.

He choked, his eyes bulging.

“Stop her!” Someone shouted. Likely Stark Or Aegon. Or Ynys - fucking - Yronwood for all she cared.

She pulled harder on the chains. Hoping it’d somehow decapitate the traitorous maester.
It did not.
And it would not. Hands grabbed her and pulled her off. Someone’s elbow connected with her stomach. Winding her. She fell back, clutching her stomach with her chained hands.

Looking up at the mongrel in her seat and his false King.

“Leave us.” Walton Stark spoke.
His eyes daggering hers.
“All of you.”

The men cleared out of the room. Mikken with his arm over his brother - who gasped for breath.

I’ll kill you yet.

Spoiler: Ysilla's MENTIONS

ailurophile
Braddington
Hypnos
TheAncientCelt ( There you go, bitch. )

 

[TheFool]

Gerion Lannister
Lion




​

Marriage.

Was this some unfunny jape? He was dumbfounded. His jaw slacked open, like a toad catching flies. Clearly he isn’t… serious? Clearly. He looked at his father - who had a humbled smile on his lips. That foolish fucking cunny. He looked at his bride to be.

The great monstrosity.

Gods be good.
Don’t let me marry this beast.

Robert spoke first. The red lion. His words were eloquently put and he -
He rejected Lynora?!
Or at least postponed an answer.

Gerion found his hand in Lynora’s, his palm slick with sweat.

Then Gwynesse spoke.
And she rejected him.

If his jaw widened anymore, it would have fallen off. What in the seven fucks? Dannis Marbrand’s eldest son? She would rather marry Dannis Marbrand’s eldest son than me?! I am Gerion Lannister. Heir to The Westerlands - and this… this fat hag would rather a….

What?!

Just….


What?!


“I see. I see.” Jaime spoke, his smile had lessened. It was obviously not the answer he wanted to hear. Gerion and Lynora’s mother rolled her eyes. Uncle Emory let out a long sigh. Gylbert picked something out of his teeth, half oblivious. “Well,”
Jaime continued.
“Take all the time you two need. My offers will stand until I know for sure your answers.”

Gerion felt it.
His face had gone red. Redder than his clothes. Flushed and hot. He could not believe this. What lordlings did not immediately accept to marry the two heirs to their liege. It made no sense to him. He wasn’t even angry at the fact that his father had made the proposal without telling them anymore -

He was angry at Robert Reyne.
He was angry at Gwynesse.

The gall.

“Alas, the night is still young and we have a whole market ahead of us. Trinkets from afar, good food and amazing street performers. I will take my leave to enjoy it. As all of you should.” Jaime stood up. Gerion could have sworn that he heard his father’s back creak as he did.

Gerion looked at Lynora, as everyone else began to stand up as well.

He gave her that look again.

Those fucking idiots.

Spoiler: Gerion's MENTIONS

ailurophile
Arcanist
RayPurchase

 

[ailurophile]

Alyssa Tully​

Not a day had gone by where Alyssa Tully had been free of curious glances and stares, not for years and years. It had gotten worse since the death of her father. Before, she'd been a Southener, of course, and also an eligible woman who was pleasant to look at. Now, she was those things, but also bereaved. They looked to her to see how she was coping, to see any change in her demeanour, to see if there was anything about her worth paying attention to. The thing about Alyssa was that she only let people see what she wanted them to see. Beneath her surface, since she was a young girl, there had always been something brewing, something grotesque that crept into her ordinary thoughts and twisted them, yet rarely made an outward appearance.

Often she considered herself to be separated into two people, perhaps more. The voice that screamed at her when things were out of place, for example, was not her own. The woman with long auburn hair and great tits was familiar, but familiar in a distant way, like somebody she'd known a long time ago and had grown apart from. The monster that had taken over to speak when she was tormenting his father in his final days was different again. So, in a way, Alyssa Tully didn't feel like Alyssa at all: Alyssa was just the person who tied everyone else together. Not that she would ever dream of trying to explain that to someone. She herself doubted it.

It wasn't as if anyone would understand anyway.
Fools.
Close-minded pricks.

Alyssa lingered in the doorway, trying to see if she could count the pairs of eyes on her. This quickly became tiresome and she scanned the room. That morning, she wasn't in the mood to sit alone and brood, or, gods forbid, try and entertain whoever felt themselves brave or deserving enough to come and offer their condolences or compliments. No, she had decided that she would try and work her way into a conversation independently. These people had been familiar with her father, but Alyssa herself had always kept to the sidelines, only involving herself when she had her father's ear all to herself. It was easier to pour poisonous whispers and suggestions in when there were no other distractions.

While scouring the room, her gaze locked with one pair of eyes, and that was enough of an invitation.

"Captain Manderly. Lord Bolton."

Internally, she scrutinised her own voice. Prim, too formal. Many people would prefer that, granted, but informality was something she'd picked up during her time in the North. Her father, she had noticed, had sometimes altered his speech to try and match a particular dialect, though of course he'd always sounded like he was doing a poor or insulting impression of somebody. That sort of modification would take time, and she decided then not to bother. She was, after all, a stranger: words and physicality mattered more in a first impression.

"I hope you don't mind my interruption. Sitting on my own gets dull, I'm trying to find some... quality company. That is, if me joining you isn't too much of an inconvenience?"

It didn't matter if it was, and she knew that. She smiled, gently, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

RayPurchase TAC

 

[Hypnos]

Loron Greyjoy​

Sweltering heat belted down from above as the sun hung cheerily atop the shoreline of the southern reach, the humid summer air causing a general daze of sweat and laziness to exude from the forlorn sailing vessels, their ominous and warlike visages looking remarkably out of place in such a calm and serene atmosphere, a dark blot on an otherwise picturesque image. It was certainly not the scene that Loron had been imagining when he thought of the slaughter of hundreds of innocent men, nor was it reminiscent of the phantoms of his youth, when his father would drag him, kicking and screaming, out into the harbour to witness the latest batch of unfortunate souls who had been captured daring to oppose the might of the Iron Fleet. In his memories, such scenes were always marred with rain or storm, dreary and downcast, as the Storm God screamed from above. In his mind this was the tenor that accompanied each of the Ironborn’s voyages, be it to the rocky shores of the North, or the sandy dunes of Dorne, for how could any deity not warn of the oncoming advance of the Ironfolk, rapists, murderers and pillagers? Such thoughts were merely childish fantasy however, for the Iron Fleet was no different to any other such army. No more favoured and no more hated by any god. Perfectly, and perhaps aggressively, ordinary.

That was the first thing Loron had noticed when he had first boarded the ship that his father had gifted him. Just how small it seemed to be. Sealegs had been something that Loron had been forced to develop at a very young age, for he had sailed his first ship before he could even walk, and climbed his first mizzen whilst still at his mother’s teat, at least that was how it felt. Back then, everything had seemed so vast. The foremast had been the highest tower that Loron had ever seen, and the figurehead the scariest beast. Now everything was so tiny, so quaint. It was to be expected, he supposed, for Loron was a man now, not an infant boy, however in the back of his mind he had always revered the Iron Fleet, and seeing the sad little vessels sailing forwards towards battle, some of that mystique had seemingly disappeared.

He rested a hand atop the front of the ships bow, the other clutching onto a Far-Eye that had long since gone unneeded as they gradually drew closer to the Arbor’s shore, approaching the harbour of Vinetown with growing apprehension. Loron was no true commander. Nor had he even claimed to be. He thought that a great deal of common sense, and a working knowledge of the ways of the greenland set him apart from his kinsmen, though such things were unlikely to prevent the force of a sword swing aimed directly at his skull. If it were up to him, he might stay aboard the vessel whilst his comrades worked between themselves to ravage and destroy all signs of civilisation upon the lush isle, however he knew that wasn’t something he could do. As strange as it sounded, he needed to prove himself in this battle. To who? His father, he supposed, for it was the Old Kraken whose words were required to confirm him in his inheritance, but it was something more than that also. This was a risk. A betrayal of most of the ideas that Loron held close, and if he were to stumble now? This would be his legacy. How he would be remembered. A failed pirate who ultimately lived and died a pawn of his father. What would Mat think?

‘We’re quick approaching the shore. You better be readying yourself.’ Loron turned his head to see the face of his appointed first mate, Quellon Drumm, a man hand picked by his father to help things run smoothly along the voyage. Loron himself had requested the aid of his good-brother, Nute Merlyn, with whom he had a certain level of familiarity, however such a petition had simply gone unheaded. Loron disliked Drumm, though it was not for the reasons one might suspect, for to hear others tell it, Quellon was a fairly reasonable man for an Ironborn, and Esgred had been quick to comment about the man’s bravery and skill at arms, Loron could see why. He was a handsome man, Loron would not deny it, with strong features, pale blonde hair, and a small scar atop his upper lip. He was strong too, and built like an ox, though he was still notably Ironborn, and his bawdy comments made Loron question his character, especially those regarding his sister. Not that Esgred would have minded.

‘Aye. You better prepare yourself too, Ser.’ Loron shot back.

‘I’m not Ser, Loron. You’re with real men now. Not those sissies from the greenlands.’ Drumm offered him a smile, sincere but unappreciated by the Greyjoy heir, clapping his captain upon the back as a sign of camaraderie before himself drawing his sword and yelling orders at the crew to begin the boarding process.

Loron mimicked his actions, drawing his own blade, a pretty little thing that had been a gift from his closest friend, one that had never before seen the light of battle.

He shot one last look through the Far-Eye before positioning himself before the ship’s gangplank, ready to be one of the first to board the Arbor’s shores. They had the element of surprise upon their side, and for that he was thankful, for had Harlaw got his way, they would like be fighting an array of heavily armed guards instead of the odd sailor and vineyard worker, though in that case Loron would have been a lot less morally conflicted.

‘Ready to board!’ He vaguely heard Drumm should from somewhere to his right, and he echoed the sentiment, but louder, reaching down to the horn that hung loosely around his neck to grab the attention of his crew and placing it to his lips and allowing a loud call to emanate from within.

‘What is dead may never die.’ He shouted, and though the voice was his own, the words were not. ‘We do not Sow!’

By now, those on the shores had began to get a glimpse of the fate that was about to befall them, and Loron could see straggling sailors running to man their ships from the oncoming attack. Too little. Too late. As the men of the Iron Fleet finally breached the ground of Vinetown and began to do what they did best to the town and it’s people. Attack.

Loron was one of the first off of the ships, though his stride proved too slow for those behind him, and he was quickly overtaken by the more excitable of the Ironborn, many of whom were excited at the prospect of winning glory, or perhaps earning a pretty penny in such a prestigious battle. The fighting at sea was scarce, for few of the Redwyne ships had managed to gather enough crew at short notice to launch themselves into the sea, and the merchant vessels that had been docked at port seemed far more interested in saving themselves and the goods that they carried than protecting

Those ships that did attempt to combat the Ironborn ships were dealt with with swift precision, as a host of pirates and raiders quickly took the opportunity to jump aboard these vessels and start murdering the crew where they stood, unready and unprepared to fight back, though they valiantly resisted till the very end, the best amongst them managing to take down at least a few of their foes before they eventually fell. These were the luckiest amongst them, able to die on their feet, for as they had boarded the shore, Loron had noticed that one of his companions had set ablaze the ships that remained in harbour, and the Redwyne sailors were left with the choice to either burn inside their very ships, or risk being drowned or crushed in the harbour by the Ironborn. Most chose the latter, though the haunting sounds of men being roasted alive still perforated Loron’s ears.

‘We should stay in formation!’ Loron yelled at no one in particular, well aware that very few of his own crew were willing to listen to anything other than the calling of their own greed, as they cut down anyone that stood in front of them, taking tokens and souvenirs from corpses that were still warm, or in some cases, still alive.

Loron merely sighed, attempting to hide his conscience from the worst of the atrocities he saw committed and reasoning with himself that his father was to blame for such vile acts, not himself. ‘It was your plan.’ The voice at the back of his head scolded. ‘Father only wanted to attack Ryamsport. Every death that occurs here is your fault.’

He did not have much time to dwell however, for fighting was still occurring all around him, as he struggled to keep his head above the combat, his sword covered in the blood and guts of friends and foes alike, as he thrust and lunged wildly into combat trying not to get himself killed.

‘Greyjoy!’ He heard a call echoing from somewhere behind him. ‘I see that Kraken on your breast! Fight me like a man, and let's end this.’ Loron turned to see a form he recognised no more than the voice, though the golden flagon upon the man’s surcoat told him that he was off House Redding. A knight? Perhaps the son of the Lord of the Town, though Loron could not place a name to the face.

He was thankful for the challenge however, for it would give him a great foe to face than simply the rabble of the town, and perhaps offer a way to numb his bleeding conscience by fighting someone who might actually fight back.

Loron lifted his sword in way of acceptance, though he did not offer any words of acknowledgement, the two men circling each other for a moment as they moved around the battlefield.

The Knight lunged first, to which Loron was forced to parry, immediately placed into a defensive position as the man continued to hound him with his sword, pushing Loron further and further back. In theory, Loron might have waited for the man to tire himself out, like the old tales of the boy and the giant, however he was not quite accustomed to the heat of the Reach, and he himself was already sweating under the rays of the sun.

‘Fuck you Greyjoy!’ The man spit as Loron was forced closer and closer towards the sea from whence he had come, swiftly running out of ground on which to stand. He managed to return a far blows to the Knight, but perhaps it was adrenaline, or perhaps simply pure rage, but the other man seemed unstoppable in his advance. ‘I’ll string you up and tie you to.’

Loron coughed up blood. Or at least he thought he did. For he coughed and blood soiled his armour, though it did not seem to be his own. He looked up at the man once more, watching the face of the Knight whom he had previously been fighting open up as a spear shot right through the back of his head and out of his left eye, blood spilling everywhere as a part of the Knight’s brain seemingly left his skull.

‘I thought you needed a hand,’ said the voice of Quellon Drumm, though blood obscured him from Loron’s vision. ‘Here.’ He offered Loron his hand and pulled him away from the shore and back towards the battlefield. ‘Lord Erich might skin me if I let his son die on my watch. Though I suppose I’d be able to console that lovely sister of your in her time of grief.’

Drumm laughed, and for once, so too did Loron, for the man had saved his life, and on the brink of calamity, he was able to witness the humour in the situation.

‘Thank you, Quellon.’

‘Quell.’ The man corrected him. ‘That’s what everyone but my mother calls me.’

Loron returned his gaze to the battlefield, though it seemed in the time that he had been occupied by his foolish duel, most of the field had begun to clear, with bodies from both sides littering the floor of the town. There was no great keep in Vinetown, so nothing to storm, and nothing to capture, and it seemed the only winning condition had been to slaughter as man of the town’s inhabitants as possible, a talk which Loron was quite certain they’d achieved, as he observed the blazing train of vineyards for which the town had garnered its name stretching far off into the horizon, beyond where Loron could make out. ‘We’ve done it them?’ Loron half asked, half affirmed. ‘We’ve won.’

‘I think so.’ Quell replied, both men scanning over the town to watch the damage. It seemed that most of the Ironmen had gathered into a circle in the town center, where they cheered loudly, and made bawdy japes at something that Loron could not see. The Young Kraken sighed, wiping his sword on the ground before placing it neatly back into its sheath and moving close to see what all the commotion was about.

In the middle of the gathering rested three figures, one of which seemed stagnant and unmoving, scarlett fluid seeping quickly from a hole in her head, with the smaller of the remaining forms hiding carefully behind the larger: a man and a woman. A father and a daughter.

Loron could see the pair trembling as he approached, the older man, clean shaven with ruddy red hair that matched the blood on his surcoat, standing defiantly in between the ironmen and his daughter, yelling out obscenities as he held aloft a sword that it was unlikely he had ever wielded before in his life. ‘Get off me! Stay away! King Naemidon will have your heads!’

‘Not before I ‘ave a go with ya’ little one.’ A snarl came from a man whose name Loron recalled as Pykewood. Pykewood Pyke. A stupid name for a stupid person, and a bastard of either Sunderly or Saltcliffe, though Loron could not remember which one.

His gaze turned to the girl cowering behind her father. She couldn’t be any more than five and ten, and she trembled at even the slightest glance. ‘You’ll do no such thing!’ Loron called, attempting to stand tall in the face of a command he knew he wasn’t truly qualified for.

‘What?’ The other man squinted. ‘Lord Erich promised us a dozen salt wives each, when we breached the Arbour. He said we’d have more cunny than…’

‘Not this one.’ Loron replied, sternly. ‘Clap the man in chains, and bring the girl to my ship. I’ll have no arguments!’

‘You heard the man!’ Quell backed him up, though his voice was louder and carried more weight. ‘If the Kraken’s boy wants to claim her as his own, I would hate to be the man that stood in his way.’

Pyke grumbled a second but relented, spitting upon Loron’s feet. ‘I lose a girl to a boy as green as grass? Yer lucky ye got Erich’s blood in yer veins, or I’d be spilling it all over this town.’

Loron ignored him, turning instead to the rest of the Ironborn gathered around. ‘We’ve won a great victory here today. You should all be proud!’

A general murmur of ascent followed. Screaming and cheering.

‘Get yourself cleaned up, and scavange any gold you can. For we sail to meet by father at Ryamsport to tell him of our conquest.’

Erich’s name garner a larger cheer.

At least it was over, now.

 

[Yarrow]

Jacaerys Velaryon

Jacaerys stood in the corner of the great hall of Sunspear. People didn’t notice him. The Lord of the Tides was hooded, his Valyrian features were hidden in the shadows. He watched the scene in front of him. Ysilla Martell, the daughter of the traitorous Mors Martell, was brought in after she had been captured by the forces of Lord Stark. Lord Stark had done well while capturing the city. On land, Jacaerys followed his King. He never felt at ease while he was on land.. The tides were his territory.

The son of the Seahorse had always been a master at sea, not land. Sailing was one of the few things Jacaerys was good at. Words came out of his mouth in the wrong order, people always tried to stay as far as possible from him. But, his knowledge was comparable to a Maester, especially his knowledge about sailing. Most people know Jacaerys was smart, but they never asked him for advice, simply because they wouldn’t figure out what he was saying.

At sea it wasn’t a problem, there he became a totally different man. Shouting orders didn’t took much effort. The Fleet of the Martells had been well equipped. Normally it wouldn’t be a problem for the Royal Fleet, but they never had fully recovered from last sea battle which drove them up north.

The battle at sea had been marvelous. It had been a long time since Jacaerys had seen such battle. He noticed directly that he still had it. The plan had been simple. Break through the defenses of the Martell Fleet so the ships with men could land. After that, they set fire to as many ships as they could. Arrows dipped in oil and set on fire were shot towards the Salty Dornishmen. They were no match for the power of the Seahorse.

Once the Fleet was taken care of, Jacaerys shadowed his King through the streets of Sunspear. They were now in the Great Hall, but Jacaerys didn’t matter here. Without anyone noticing, he left the great hall and ventured through the halls of The Old Palace. In the corner of his eye he noticed some kids getting away, they wouldn’t cause any trouble. However, he saw a woman who could mean harm. She was of noble descent, he could see that. A pin in her hair revealed her house. A hand in fire, probably a combined arms of Allyrion and Uller. She hadn’t noticed him. He took his dagger from his belt and hid it in his hand under his robes. He silently walked up to her but then someone screamed behind him.

Braddington ailurophile

 

[ailurophile]

Arianne Uller​

At the sound of a scream, Arianne's head snapped around in the noise's direction and her body followed. She scolded herself for not being more vigilant: the stranger had been getting dangerously close while she'd been unaware. The glint of a dagger caught her eye.

Their eyes met.

For a moment, Arianne didn't move. Slowly, she reached to her hip and retrieved her flask, still half full of wine. Earlier, before they had gone to bed, she'd been drinking with Ysilla and had taken the remnants of her final drink with the intent of sipping it first thing in the morning to stave off the inevitable headache. Without taking her eyes off of her would-be assailant, she pulled out the cap with her teeth and drank deeply, until the flask was mostly empty. She tossed it to one side.

A final drop, blood red, dribbled out onto the floor.

"It's not polite to sneak up on people. You gave me quite a fright."

It would have been ridiculous to ignore the man's obvious physical advantage. However, Arianne was relying on her own advantage: that her opponent would underestimate her. From childhood, she'd always been nimble, and her fiery temper and penchant for bold words had led her to become far more than competent in fist fights. Why, when she was only twelve, she'd knocked out two of Ulwyck's teeth in a simple play--

Ulwyck.
Her jaw clenched.

By some miracle, the red mist that threatened to descend was being kept at bay, at least for a while. Kept back by the thought that her mother couldn't lose another child, her husband couldn't lose his wife, her children couldn't lose their mother. Not now, not like this. She wondered how many had already been cut down by indiscriminate blades, mutilated, raped, beaten.

Her jaw unclenched.

"It's cowardly, don't you think? To try and creep up on a lone woman?" She knew her dagger was on her person, she could feel the metal, cool against her thigh. But she did not draw it. Confident as she was, there was no guarantee she'd win this fight, and there was no point in taking a risk so great when her only reward was possibly living until the next brute came along. Arianne had no intention of dying that night, but if she had to, she wanted it to be for a good reason. Something the children could be told about when they were old enough, something they'd understand. Something her mother would be proud of. Something Quentyn would retell to his men with at least some sense of gratification.

Hostages were worth a lot more than the dead. After a pause, she spread her hands in a sign of surrender, never taking her eyes off of him. Poised, but defenseless in appearance.

Because that was Arianne's second advantage: cunning, and intelligence.

"Tell me, now. Princess Ysilla, is she..?" She couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence, and wasn't sure how she could. Dead? Alive? Escaped? "My name is Arianne Uller. I do not wish to fight you."

The truth.

"But I will. If you're not the logical sort."

Yarrow

 

[Yarrow]

Jacaerys Velaryon

Jacaerys froze as she turned around. She froze too, but quickly reached for a bottle of wine. Jacaerys did not move. He listened and observed her. She must be insane. No men who had a right mind would drink before going into battle. Maybe she was already giving up? Her body signs didn’t say so.

She accused him of being impolite. Was he? She just didn’t notice him. With one hand he removed his hood, his blonde hair fell sideways and his purple eyes shone brightly. He looked her in the eyes

“Creeping up on you I am not, you just simply did notice me not” Jacaerys said.

In his head it sounded perfectly, but he knew she would laugh at him.
She asked about the princess. The last time he saw her she had broken loose, trying to kill the maester.

“Fine, the princess is” Jacaerys replied to her question.

When she told him her name he approached her “From the sea, I come..”

She did not need to know his name. He didn’t put the dagger away when she surrendered, but he got a small robe from his belt

“Dagger, put away, around you turn” He commanded her.

He tied her hand between her back and placed the tip of the dagger in her back “Walk, throne room”.

She must think that he was some mute, but Velaryon was one of the wisest here.

ailurophile

 

[RIPSaidCone]

Dannis Marbrand
Ashemark Forest

The sound of an arrow was a curious thing, how it was loud and sudden when you released it, and how it was loud and sudden when it hit its target. But in-between those two points, there was a brief period of silence, despite the speed that the arrow was travelling at. Dannis often caught himself wondering how such sounds came about, pondering about what otherworldly forces compelled such noises to emit from a straight piece of wood being released by a string and propelled through the air like a bird of prey swooping in for its next meal. When he thought about it, he often wondered about many forces of the natural world, how was it that water turned to ice, or that in a similar vein, water turned to steam when heated up. Smiling to no one but himself, Dannis subsequently caught himself wondering if it was his curiosity that had led to his father preferring his older brother in their younger years. His brother, Lord Carron was a smart enough man, but it was worth noting that his talents laid more with his sword than with his mind. Dannis himself on the other hand, although more than capable of killing numerous men on the battlefield, did tend to focus himself more on what he could garner from a book than his abilities with a sword.

Pulling himself from his thoughts and into the world once more, he lowered his bow from his face, and squinted his eyes to see the game that he had caught in the distance. Through the dense, tall woodland that covered the hills and mountains that surrounded Ashemark, he could see his intended target, a lone deer that now laid still by a body of water, his arrow stuck in the side of its torso. Standing up from his crouched position behind a long since fallen oak tree, he quickly made his way towards the downed beast, his legs tactfully skipping and manouvering between the uneven and obstacle-ridden forest floor, careful not to trip or fall into any previously unseen holes, yet still surprisingly swift and light in their movements. Particularly for a man of Dannis' age, perhaps it was the fact that he rarely chose to wear any armor on his forest outings, despite the dangerous creatures that roamed the Ashemark Forest, or maybe it was the devotion that he held to a healthy lifestyle where other men of high birth would forsaken such caution, and eat and drink to their hearts desire. Regardless, he soon found himself by the collapsed animal, its breathing now stopped, and its still eye staring up into nothing.

Running his gloved hand over the still warm corpse, Dannis was satisfied with his catch. It was certainly a large find for a deer, and as his mind lingered on the subject, it would serve as both good dinner for the night, and an equally good reminder to his sons that their father was still exactly that, their father. Of course young men tended to get ahead of themselves at that age, thinking that they were suddenly in-charge now because they'd stuck their cocks in a few birds here and there, or because they'd cut down a few glorified peasants during some minor battle in the Riverlands. No, a good, strong deer on the dinner table would remind them that so long as their father breathed, he would be the one to provide for them, their mother and their sister, and that the hierachy of respect would follow in just that fashion. Putting his fingers to his lips, Dannis let out a more than noticable whistle that to the ignorant observer would appear to have been directed to the surrounding woodland, though in reality was directed to his small company of troops that accompanied him on his hunts. Staying far enough away to give the lord peace, but remaining close enough as to protect him in the event of some unexpected attack. From that whistle, two cavalrymen would ride down to assist him in gathering the deer and slinging it over Dannis' own horse.

Like the sound of an arrow, being a lord of his age was a curious thing. As a younger man, he had always been expected by his father to go on his own hunts and to kill, and take home any game that he caught, all by himself. But now, as an older nobleman now, he always had a company of men wherever he went, even though he would much rather not have them there. Much like his father, the very same man who had preached the holy word of catching one's own dinner, with no assistance at all. So what was the difference between a young nobleman going on his own hunts, and an older nobleman having to bring twenty or thirty men with him everytime he went out to shoot a deer? Was this just something that he had noticed in his own house, or was it a common coincidence? Maybe it wasn't even that important of a question at all, and he was just--as always finding things to keep his overly active mind occupied.

Or, perhaps--he thought as he and his men embarked on their short trip back to Ashemark, he was finding things to keep his mind off of far more concerning topics.

(This is an NPC post, may make him a character sheet at some point)​

 

[Hypnos]

Walton Stark​

A devilish grin decorated the scarred and mangled face of Lord Walton Stark, a grin that stretched easily from the ear upon the left side of his head, all the way towards the other, neither fading nor diminisihing throughout insult or abuse, merely persisting, in all its smug and cheerful glory. Victory had become a scarce commodity in the North throughout his tenure as Warden of Westeros’ most Northern Kingdom, and even when triumph was achieved and steps were taken towards their goal, it always seemed that they would soon be forced to take just as many steps in retreat. This felt different however. First Maekar had been felled by the blade of his own, Egg. Now the Hand’s little girl stood before him in shackles, battered and beaten just like the castle they now claimed as their own, though in truth the woman that had been presented to him was far from little.

Walt felt almost giddy. A feeling that had not been replicated since he was a young man launching various escapades in the kitchens of Lord Umber, though this time, there was no Greg, Al, or the Giant Toad to sate the more wild nature of the Winter Wolf. To take Sunspear would be an impressive feat for any Lord, though he doubted any could claim paralleled pride to what Walton Stark felt today. From the furthest reaches of the North, to the lowly abodes of the South, this old dog could mark his territory anywhere within the continent. Perhaps next would be King’s Landing.

So it was that Walt let out a loud guffaw as the girl made her petty attempts to insult him, for it was doubtful that anything less than a sign from the Old Gods themselves would be enough to bring him down from the great high which he was feeling at that moment. Arrogance? Perhaps. But for a man who had remained chipper throughout many of the harshest years for his Kingdom, it only seemed fair that he be allowed this moment of smugness when victory was so close at hand, barely batting his single eye as Ysilla attempted to strangle the very man who had awarded them this victory, though that was in part due to the fact that he knew that no real danger would be present. Merely the last twitching of a dying corpse.

‘Leave us!’ He called out to the hall, his hands gesturing for the assembled crowd, though his eye was transfixed upon the Martell girl. ‘All of you!’

He stood along with the crowd, lifting himself from the traditional seat of Princess Nymeria will all the grace that could be mustered from the larger man occupying a chair designed for a much smaller woman, a searing pain present within his shoulder where an arrow still stung from the previous battle. A flesh wound. Or so Walt hoped, for if he was to lose his left arm as well as his eye then people might start to call him cripple. A fate that had befallen the ever loyal Lord Gregor, and one which he did not much envy.

They were alone now. Just Walt, the girl, and his King. It seemed that all the strength had been drained from her form after the previous attack, for which Walt was grateful, for he was not eager to risk wrestling the big woman with an arrow lodged in his shoulder blade, especially since her height was almost on par with his own.

‘I am truly sorry about this, Princess. I wish this could have gone another way.’ If there was a note of sincerity in his voice, then it had gotten lost in the passage from Walt’s throat. A hearty chuckle followed, tailed by an even more garish grin. ‘Your father has been our enemy for twenty years, yet we’ve never seen his face. It seems odd that I would acquaint myself with the daughter, rather than the fabled Prince Mors himself.’

His eye turned for a moment towards Aegon, his voice momentarily adopting a more serious tone. ‘We send a message, Egg. Like we planned?’ A hand reached down to clasp the wrist of the Martell Princess, the other finding its home upon the hilt of Stark’s dagger, which had rested upon his hip throughout the entire battle.

‘You have done me no wrong, Princess, but your father has stolen many things.’ He twisted her wrist. A momentary glance to Egg. For reassurance? Perhaps simply to see his face. The King needed to be strong. A Northman, perhaps not by blood, but by force of will.

Stark cleaved the dagger without looking, a foolish move, perhaps, but the Lord of Winterfell was not experienced as a butcher.

A momentary scream.

A thud to the floor.

A forming puddle of blood.

Walt’s gaze rested for a moment upon Aegon. His King. The boy he had raised as a son for the better part of a decade. He wondered. Was this what the lad imagined when he thought of reclaiming the throne? Many saw the vicious men of the North as little better than savages an animals. They were wrong, the North was so much more than that. But this was war. A war that was long and vicious, and like those kitchen adventures all those years ago, sometimes to get what you wanted, someone needed to get hurt.

He knelt down for a moment, the knife discarded to the floor.

His hands reached for the bloody form.

Covered in blood.

A single hand, severed and bloody.

In a second, Walt took off his cloak and tossed it towards the Martell girl. ‘You’ll want to apply pressure to that to stop the worst of it. I’ll send my own Maester, for I fear even in your current state you’ll stangle poor Cassel.’ A bitter laugh told them that Stark would not remain dour.

‘And this?’ He waved the bloody hand in his own. ‘This is for your father.’

Walt did not have long to revel in his own self-satisfaction, for a moment later two other figures burst in. Velaryon and a Dornish girls. ‘Gods don’t tell me I’ve maimed the wrong girl.’ Was his first thought, though if such were the case he knew that there would be a greater sense of urgency in Velaryon’s stride. ‘Jace?’ He questioned, for a moment. ‘What gift have you brought us?’

 

[Mion]

Rosamund Goodbrother
​

The Amber Eye had broken away from the bulk of the Iron Fleet, accompanied by a few other ships they had made their way around the back end of the Arbor, it was not that Ros was avoiding the bulk of the action. But rather there was a place around the waters of the South East of the main isle that peaked her curiosity. A haughty grin was displayed openly on her face as she looked at the map she held in her hands. Don't go disappointing me now you poor bastards.

"Captain! Looks like a few of the greenlanders caught the fear eh?!" One of the sailors yelled at her as he was squinting off in the distance. There was a small group of galleys that must have been trying to escape the carnage.

Ehhh? And to think I tried my best to avoid them buggers. Ah weeeelll... At least it will stop the men from whinin' later.

"Aye looks like it! Shall we go and grab them by their tails eh?!" Ros blurted out enthusiastically.

"AYE CAPTAIN!" The Iron Ships began to pick up speed as they raced towards the slower and more vulnerable greenlander vessels.

Ros looked like a wolf eyeing up a wounded deer. They must have stored up good. She licked her lips in a rather ridiculous fashion.

"Sorry lads, I doubt there will be many lasses for ye to fuck! Unless you are fine with settling with some of the prettier sailors hehe! I am sure there will be some that could please you just as well. These greenlanders are a queer folk after all aha!" By now it was clear that the Iron Born were going to catch up. Up on the decks of the greenlander vessels things were getting more and more hectic, men running around frantically, almost like if they were thinking of just jumping overboard and letting the sea take them instead. I don't think the Drowned God will welcome you folk that well haha!

The bow of the ship collided with that of one of the galleys, as did the rest of the Iron Ships that had joined them. It took the Iron Born only a few moments to prepare the boarding before they started to climb up onto the opponents deck and begin the slaughter.

"WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!!" A ferocious war cry from the reavers as the sounds of steel and iron cutting into flesh filled the air along with shrieks of pain and death. Ironborn axes and swords sliced into the crews of the galleys, there was even some drowned men with their wooden cudgels bludgeoning the heads of those who managed to escape a clean death just to run into a messier one.

Ros was not among the first to board, but neither was she the last. And it would seem that she was just in time for the greenlanders to realise that the only hope of survival they had was if they were to miraculously fight off the reavers. Either you picked poor ships or poor sailors... Oh well, it's your fault no matter what it was.

She let out a haughty laugh before proclaiming "Well then! Who wants to go first?!" as she took the axe that had been resting on her belt into hand.

A young man who couldn't stop shaking rushed her with a dagger, Ros easily moved out of the way of his wild slash and took hold of his wrist before giving the lad a knee to the gut. Crumpled over and holding his gut he had dropped the knife. Ros brought her axe down on the back of his neck and the lad collapsed lifelessly to the floor. Like a puppet whos strings had been cut.

More Iron Born began to rush past her and began to take their part in the bloodshed. Ros found herself almost half cleaving the face off of an older gentleman who happened to be carrying a decently made sword. Think I will take that for myself if you don't mind gramps. Soon enough she had ran through another man with the very same sword.

The battle had been quick and brutal with little resistance. And now the small detour of Iron Ships had managed to add 4 galleys to their ranks, with their stocks full of wine, spices and other goods. Hmm not half bad. Ros looked rather proudly over the men she had fought besides.

By the looks of things a few of the men had taken her up on the suggestion earlier, they were pounding away at the greenlanders to their hearts delight, big sweaty hulks of men grunted like a band of drums as they had their way with the more flowery of the greenlanders. Those who hadn't had a very perplexed, perhaps disgusted look on their faces. Ros found the situation rather humorous, she hadn't expected them to actually do it but it would seem that the reavers would continue to surpass her expectations.

"So Ros... Where is it we are goin exactly? Should we not go back and regroup with Lord Greyjoy now?" Asked Sygfryd Wynch, one of the Captains who had followed her off on this expedition.

Ros snickered loudly as she took out her map once more to show him. She pointed the place out in a rather over the top fashion.

"Good thing we caught these galleys Siggy! We will be loadin them up even more soon enough!" Her eyes were full of glee.

"Now we make way to Isle of Pigs!!!! We will be bringin' a feast to that old Kraken and his men, they will be might hungry after today!"

"Now come on men wrap things up!" She clapped her hands. "I want all of you to catch as many of the little piggies as you can so don't go tuckering yourself out or getting yourself drunk!"

 

[ailurophile]

Arianne Uller​

Her first thought when the man removed his hood was that his appearance was rather striking. Unique. Her second was that perhaps he was the Targaryen. But no, that seemed unlikely. He did not seem the sort of man anyone would follow into a war, let alone the type to try and claim a throne that wasn't his. It appeared that Arianne had gotten lucky, that her one piece of fortune that night was that she had been happened upon by this stranger, one who seemed uneasy, reluctant to attack. Perhaps he was just tired. Though she hadn't witnessed it, it was naive to expect the night's bloodshed to be minimal.

The man spoke in an odd way. As though his brain and his mouth didn't communicate properly. Could he be simple? It was too dangerous to assume such a thing, and if there was one thing Arianne wasn't going to do, it was let her guard down. While he tied her hands, she stood still, patient, confident. Back straight, head held high.

When she felt the point of the dagger against the small of her back, she didn't flinch.

They walked.

Being in Sunspear, she felt it fitting to repeat House Martell's words in her head.
Unbowed, unbent, unbroken.
Though they weren't her own, they gave her courage.

She did not exchange any further conversation with the man as they headed through the corridors. Only days ago, she'd chased her children along this particular path when they'd been itching for a game. Later, she'd hurried along, laughing with Quentyn on the way back to her room, barely able to keep their hands away from one another in their passion.

Hours ago, she'd walked with Ysilla Martell.

The man had told her the Princess was fine, but hadn't elaborated. Arianne had inferred, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, that that meant Ysilla had been caught. But perhaps she would see her soon: she'd faced an enemy, and was currently living to tell the tale. That didn't guarantee she'd continue to do so for much longer, but there was no use dwelling on such things. She was reminded of this when they burst through the doors into the throne room.

"Princess!" All Arianne registered was a familiar form, not crumpled, but very much alive. Her heart soared. "I tried to find you, I--"

Suddenly she became aware of other details of the scenes. The bodies. The figures stood before Ysilla.
The hand.

Her carefully maintained composure broke and she began to struggle, yet caught herself before her kick connected with the man -- Jace? -- when a sharp prick reminded her of the blade pressed to her body.

"I hope the only gift you get is the King's justice, you filthy savages." Arianne spat, giving her arms another yank, not to free herself, but to assert her objections. She stopped then, her lips curling into the mimicry of a smile. "The true King's, I mean. We don't recognise Aegon the Pretender around here."

She couldn't look at Ysilla. She had to keep ranting.

"When my husband hears about this he'll gut you. When Prince Mors hears about this, he'll do worse."

Don't look.

"Cowards and savages. Animals. Mongrels."

Keep going.

"Get this bitch to take his hands off me."

Look.
Bowed, bent, broken.

Yarrow Hypnos Braddington TheFool

 

[TheFool]

Ysilla Martell
Sunflower




​

Her hand.

Her hand.

The wolf had took her hand. She lay on the marble. Blood pumping out of a stump. It was not a clean cut, no. Far from it. Bits of bone and hanging flesh were visible. The sight of it - the feel of it. She felt herself throw up in her mouth. Holding it on for a moment -

Not wanting to make a mockery of herself.

Before she couldn’t any longer. She spat it out, orange in colour. Like an unripe fruit. The vomit mixing with a pool of blood that had formed around her.

Orange.
Red.
Like a sunrise.
Like a sunset.

She tried to stand, but it was to no avail. Her body was shaking. Her feet refused to work. She heard a voice. A woman’s voice. Arianne. She couldn’t look at her, however. If she looked at her then it was real. It was all real. Maybe I am but still dreaming?
She thought.

Maybe I will wake.

It was no use.
She was awake. So awake that everything felt so surreally clear.

She thought of her father. Sitting in The Water Gardens. Chastising her. Shet thought of her siblings. Lewyn, especially. She thought of their sweet faces. Her father’s supple arms. She missed them. She wanted them.

Using her other hand.
Her only hand.
She reached out for Stark’s cloak. Gripping it. Until she stopped. She would not use a mutt’s clothing to save her life. Not at all.

She let go.

Arianne’s words still ringing in her ears. Run. She wanted to tell her.

She let out a moan instead.

And shut her eyes.

 

[Arcanist]

Gwynesse Crakehall

​

Gwynesse had forced a degree of stoicism in her expression thereafter, careful not to let slip the relief that was taking over her at getting away with such an untruth. Crakehall's toes grazed the leather inside of her boots at seeing the heavy disappointment settle on Jaime's lips. The small sense of shame she felt was akin to a time when she had stolen a soldier's sword when she was little more than a child, lost control of the swing, whacking a vase and sending it spiralling to the ground. She remembered staring at the evidence of her crime shattered across the floor, and could remember a piece with a boar etched onto it, broken in half. Her mother had pulled her by the ear to her room, shrieking at her how it was a precious wedding gift, made entirely by hand for them. Yet, her mother's banshee shrieking wasn't what made her feel a hot flush of shame when she thought back to it.

It was the heaviness in Lord Crakehall's eyes. His wrinkled brow, the frown under the tangled bush of a beard. The disappointment.

For a moment, Gwynesse felt sympathy for the man. That was, until, her gaze had found his son.

The horror in his visage was clear. The way his jaw hung so low it could just graze the ground, the way his face grew hotter, redder, more crimson than the Lion that flew on House Reyne's banners. The heat of her shame that had been crawling up the back of her neck had dissipated. Watching the Lannister boy's expression twist and contort made her own nose twitch. Staring at him, she hadn't regretted the answer she gave at all.

Brat.

Gwynesse pulled her gaze back to Jaime, attempting to temper the intensity burning in them. She rose from her chair as the rest of those present did. The words laced with silk had passed the woman's ears without even being considered. That was all they were; pleasantries, words with no weight. Her eyes couldn't help but move back the Lannister heirs, the disdain clearly etched on Gerion's mug as he looked to Lynora. Good. Let them see that they're not perceived as the mighty Pride of Lions they believe themselves to be.

There was a pause in Jaime's flow, one that indicated his spiel of dressed-up words were finished. Gwynesse bowed her head. "Thank you, my Lord." She could have scoffed at the hollowness of her words. She wasn't even sure what she was thanking them for anymore. She was about to take her leave, like the rest of them, before her eyes found their way to Robert. There was a look of relief in her eyes, that they could finally be finished with this.

And a look of urgency, warning that this was only the beginning.

Spoiler: Honourable Mentions

TheFool ailurophile RayPurchase

 

[Yarrow]

Jacaerys Velaryon

Jacaerys entered the great hall. Most people had left the room. Only Aegon, Walton and Ysilla were left. Jacaerys frowned when Walton called him ‘Jace’

“It is Jacaerys” Jacaerys said in High Valyrian.

Valyrian wasn’t difficult for him to speak, with his parents he spoke Valyrian, if he had to talk to his brother and sister he spoke Valyrian. With outsides he talked the common tongue, but his brain had a difficult time processing the words, so they came out in a different order.

Arianne began to struggle, but Jacaerys pressed his blade in her back and she stopped. She tried to escape again and Jacaerys let her go, she wasn’t going to cause trouble.

“The King is Aegon” Jacaerys said in Valyrian “The False king is Naemidon”

He continued in the common tongue “Uller she is, married to Allyrion”

He did his best to sound like a wise man but if was difficult. Ysilla vomited, she was a total mess. Jacaerys knew Aegon and Walton would make fun of her for some time. Jacaerys felt a little sorry for her, it was her fathers doing “Walt, she is better use alive, get the Maester, before she dies”

Jacaerys knew Walton wouldn’t really listen to him, Walton didn’t know Jacaerys well. He hoped however that Aegon would listen to his advice, since he knew Jacaerys better than anyone else alive. Jacaerys would love to go back to the way things were before the war, or just go back to Driftmark. His little brother would be somewhere there. He hadn’t seen the little guy in twenty years. Aegon had to become king, so everything could go back to what they were.

 

[QuirkyAngel]

Lady Lilana Stone
(Ironoak, the Vale)​

Finding her mother wasn’t very difficult. Every morning and every evening, Lady Waynwood prayed at the exact same location, at the exact same time of day. She was dutiful like that. Diligent. In faith. In everything she did, really. In that sense, Lilana could never compare. Rituals and monotony bored her. She couldn’t study too long without finding an excuse to stretch her legs. Couldn’t stay trapped in a castle without feeling the need to explore.

But her mother could.

For as long as Lilana had known her, Matilda Waynwood was the image of propriety. Faithful. Virtuous. A perfect lady in every sense of the word and a standard that Lilana could never hope to beat.

Truthfully, Lilana never thought she would have to.

“How do you know the gods are listening?” she asked the figure kneeling in prayer at the altar.

“I don’t. I just have faith.”

Faith. A controversial topic for her. It was something she was taught growing up in the Vale, but could never truly grasp. How could she have faith in a God that blasphemed Conrad’s birth into the world? In a God that had never once helped her? That might even punish her husband because of his parents according to the Lynderly sisters? However, Lilana bit her tongue and switched gears, not wanting to restart an old argument. Religion is a sensitive topic anyway. “Mom…I…may I speak with you? Privately? ”

“Of course, Dear.” There was a hint of surprise in her mother’s tone, but it was mostly constrained. “Shall we go to your chambers then?”

“No, here’s fine. I have something to confess anyway.”

The prayer house was a fairly new addition to Ironoak castle—at least, compared to the other chambers in Waynwood ancestral home . It had been built for her mother according to Maester Arwick. A small, yet beautiful sept dedicated to the Seven so that Matilda could attend to her prayers and find solace in her first years of marriage. However, it was used by all members of the family, and even guests, when needed. Lilana was often sent there in her younger years whenever she got in trouble to confess her sins. Knighting ceremonies sometimes took place there. It was also, in that very room, where she married Conrad.

Therefore, in a way, it was special to her as well.

She led her mother away from the altar and towards one of the pews, waiting until they were both properly settled before revealing her mind. “I lied.”

Her mother patiently waited for her to continue.

“To everyone. My friends, Father, you…” Lilana played with her thumbs. “Nothing happened on our wedding night.”

“Pardon?”

“We held each other. He made me feel wonderful, but the…pillar…never entered…”

The awkwardness of talking about such things with her mother wasn’t lost on her.

“…then all the times you prayed to the Mother with me?”

Lilana glanced away.

“I don’t understand. Did he not want you?”

“I don’t think so…”

“Did you not want him?”

“No! It would’ve been everything I’d ever wanted!”

“What was the problem then?”

“I…I’m not sure. I’d liked him for so long…all I my dreams were about to come true…and then I thought of Nick, the reason for my happiness, I…,” Lilana’s face dropped to her hands. “I got scared. We ended up just sleeping next to each other.”

She wasn’t scared of climbing trees. Or bandits. Or mountain clansman. Or getting hurt. However, the thought that Conrad married her, made love with, for her family’s sake paralyzed her. “He went along with the lie for my sake, but I wonder if he hates me now. He hasn’t said anything about it. Hasn’t written to me at all.” There were tears in her eyes now.

“Did you talk things over with Ser Conrad?”

“No,” Lilana replied bitterly. “I didn’t get the chance because Dad sent him to Highgarden, but wouldn’t let me go. Why does Uncle Anton get to with him and not me? I’m his wife! What if he finds a pretty, older Reach girl to lie with instead? What will I do then?” She tugged on her mother’s sleeve. “Please convince Dad to send me to Highgarden. He’d listen to you.”

Matilda sighed. “You know I cannot do that.”

“Why? Don’t you want me to be happy?”

Lilana found herself in her mother’s embrace. “It’s what I pray for every day. But we can’t risk losing you like we did Nickolas.”

“What should I do then?”

“Have faith,” Matilda smiled at her daughter’s expression. “Not in the gods, though a little piousness could do you some good—whether it’s an old god or a new one—, but in the young man you chose. Do you think Ser Conrad would break his vows to you?”

Lilana shook her head. “I still miss him.”

“Then write to him. Explain things to him. Just because he doesn’t write to you doesn’t mean you can’t write to him. But I implore you to not do anything reckless. You aren’t a child anymore, Lilana. You have responsibilities now. You shouldn’t have lied to us either. What have I taught you about our family?”

“Always upright,” Lilana echoed the family lines.

“That’s right, Love.” Her mother took her hands. “When you become a lady things won’t always go your way. Sometimes the wheel will break, sometimes the path forward will be murky, and sometimes others will conspire against you, but you must always stand tall. Don’t look down. Don’t do things that would make yourself look down. Square your shoulder. Keep your head raised and your gaze straight. You’re still young. You and your husband still have many chances to make an heir. If Conrad can’t accept that then he’s not the knight I thought he was. ”

Lilana squeezed her mother’s hand. As boring and nagging as she found her mother at times, there was no one that supported her more. “By the way, I also came down her to tell you that Maester Arwick was looking for you.”


Ironoak castle was in a mild uproar at the news that the Lady of the Vale was coming. Servants rushed about to tidy the castle and prepare rooms for the lady and any guest she might bring. Cooks made their finest. Knights shined their armor. At the head of it all, her mother remained as composed as she always had. A messenger had been sent to deliver the news to her father who was overseeing the construction of a new windmill he financed at the edge of their lands.

Meanwhile, Lilana was back to studying with Maester Arwick.

“Why do you think she’s coming here?”

She had naturally gotten a peek at the letter before it got delivered to her mother. Her curiosity couldn’t be contained, though she’d been mostly keeping an eye on the ravens in hopes of hearing from Conrad. If he loved her, wouldn’t he have written already? Since childhood, she’d always been the one chasing him. She’d never once thought about how he’d felt in their relationship. And now, now that she’d finally gotten what she wanted, she wanted more.

Humans were greedy like that.

“Many reasons, I’d imagine. A good lord or lady keeps check on the lands in their domain, provides support where it is needed, and ensures their people are well fed and happy. Happy people do more work and pay more taxes. In turn, the land prospers. I trust you are writing this down, Lady Lilana.”

Lilana nodded, her hand going through the motions though her mind was wandered away from the lecture. She’d seen the Arryns once or twice when they visited Ironoaks, and heard they had a daughter two years older than her, but she had never once met Cassandra Arryn in person. Therefore, she had no idea what to expect of the new Lady of the Vale. Was she stern? Well-read? Was she like the Lynderly sisters? Did she like to talk about boys?

Lilana didn’t need any lecture to tell her that befriending Lady Arryn would be advantageous. For herself. For her family. However, what little she knew about Cassandra she learned from her brother who served the Arryns as a knight. And Nick was now dead…along with Cassandra’s parents. The Lady of the Vale was an orphan. Just like Conrad. The connection drew a bit more pity from Lilana, who couldn’t imagine what she would do if her own parents were gone. Though, if Cassandra were anything like Conrad, pity would only make her uncomfortable.

"...during the Targaryen reign."

Smoothly dotting the last line with a period, Lilana glanced out the window of her chambers. Writing was almost as natural to her as breathing, such that she could do it without much attention or thought, but that was because she was raised that way. Thinking about it again, she'd never once seen Conrad write or read anything in all the years he'd lived with them. Did he even know how to write?

(mention: Mion )

 

[TheFool]

Domeric Stark
Traitor




​

I do not know.

He blinked. Gods, I do not know. Was all he could think when Calla asked him how Princess Vaella acted around him. On the night of Maekar’s funeral, she had been… cheerful enough towards him. Flirtatious even. Domeric did not know what flirting really was, however.

She likely was only being nice. Because she’s nice.

No?

He did not know.

“She’s happy.” It was all he could manage to say. “Even when everyone else is grieving, she seems happy to talk to me.”
It hurt his mind trying to think back to all of their brief encounters.

Thinking of her,
Of her delicate face and her shiny silver hair, made him smile.

“Have you… ever loved someone, Lady Calla?” He asked.
Love.
He wasn’t sure if that was what he felt for Naemidon’s only daughter. Love was, mayhaps, too strong of an emotion to feel at this point.

He chewed on a bit of toasted bread. The butter melted into it.

Awaiting her response.
Hoping he wasn’t prodding too much with his questions.

Spoiler: Domeric's MENTIONS

ailurophile

 

[TheAncientCelt]

Gurn son of Gurn
The Fire Finger​

From the distance between his perched tree and that of the great stone fortification, the chieftain of the Burned Men could barely make out the individual, flapping flags that covered the great keep’s walls. If he wasn’t so familiar with their design, they’d be blurs of blue and white to him. Instead, they were detailed, if only thanks to his memory. The bird of House Arryn. Bitter enemy to the Clansmen all throughout the Vale, who for generations fought to remove them from their native land. Those who wielded steel and rode great horses, trampling and cutting down all opposition to their cruel tyranny.

And also the House to the woman he was bewitched by.

Lady Cassandra Arryn.

He’d first seen her years ago, when she was barely flowering into a woman. One of the last times he’d seen Lord Arryn or his wife, before they fled to whatever existed to the far South of the Vale of the Burned Men. She’d been stunning, in the cold morning air, her beautiful auburn hair reminded Gurn of his fingers, when they were blazing so many years back. It when then, he decided that he would not fight this woman. Nor her clan. Not conventionally, by the standards of the Clansmen.

No, Gurn would make her his wife. His equal in all matters related to the Burned Men.

Though she held his heart, Gurn could not stop the endless conflict with the other Clans. Clan Royce was a bitter enemy of the Burned Men, they traded blood on many low lying slopes that the Vale consisted of. The dreaded Chieftain of the Clan and his one armed son were etched into the very lore of the modern Burned Men. It didn’t help that their holy sites were disturbingly close to that of Clan Royce’s holdings.

Even with this struggle, Gurn had attempted appeasement. He had attempted to offer deer, cut in the ceremonial fashion (or so Carrot the Wise had told him) and given two barrels of (stolen) wine to the very doorstep of Clan Royce’s imposing outer-town.

For his efforts, Gurn son of Gurn couldn’t remember Clan Royce returning the kindness in any way. It was always a knife in the back. Others thought the Burned Men slow, for trying this, instead of cutting the bastards throat whenever the opportunity was present. And, mayhaps to the others such as Waynewood, Gurn’s disposition would not be too dissimilar. However Clan Royce was of their blood. Estranged, but kin.

And if warfare between the Clans was seen as a negative in their constant struggle with the Andals, why would warring Clan Royce be much different? Although, he had other reasons to try and make friend of Royce. Those he was loathed to tell any. Those that intertwined with why Gurn was now dangerously close to the mountain fortress of House Arryn, perched atop a tall pine tree.

Royce was kin to Cassandra. Killing the man would only upset his love.

“Gurn.” A voice broke the Burned Men’s leader from his utter, three hour devotion to the distant castle.

His eyes peered downwards, through the thick of branches, to see one of the few men who dared accompany Gurn on his foolish quest . “Aldwyn.” He acknowledged him. “Is there trouble? Steel horses on us again?” Atop the tree, Gurn doubted any would see him. His men couldn’t climb as well as Gurn, even with his burned finger. They’d have to run.

“Movement.” Aldwyn, a man of the middle of his years with fair, blond hair and a nose broken ten too many times. “A march from the base. We should go before scouts find us.”

Gurn grunted. No doubt a few of the steel horses would pass by them soon, if there were visitors to Lady Cassandra’s keep. The Arryn’s didn’t allow their lands to go unpatrolled, even the lost woods that settled between the steep slopes of mountains. Yet, his eyes remained focus on the structure so far away. His expression one of determination.

“Chieftain.” Aldwyn urged. “We leave now or they may catch our trail.”

Fighting back bitter disappointment, for he had not even caught sight of Lady Arryn at this distance, Gurn lowered himself on the tree. “Fine, Aldwyn, fine! You deprive me of the single joy in my life!” He shot to the man.

“Single joy?” Aldwyn’s brow raised in muted humor. “Besides drinking.”

“Aye. I do enjoy the wine of the Andals.” He admitted. “Of my two pleasures, you deprive me of one!”

“And,” A new voice, that of a scrawny man. Burgess the Blunt. For his dulled axe could still claim any life. “You enjoy hunting. Especially the steel horses.”

Nearly reaching the ground, Gurn accepted defeat on that front, too. “Three joys, and I am left with only two, thanks to Aldwyn.”

“What of swimming?” Burgess turned now to Aldwyn, who’s casual smirk was enough to bring a dark rage over Gurn’s face.

“Enough. Do not take of your Chieftain’s dismay as if it were your entertainment.” He felt the ground beneath his feet and closed the distance to the smaller of the two, Burgess. With his left hand coiled into a fist, Gurn laid him out flat with a single punch to the temple. “We go some distance, but I am not done yet.” Gurn growled as he made his intentions clear.

He’d simply go up to the hills, where he’d be too far to make out individuals, but Gurn could see if Lady Arryn was accepting guests from outside the Vale of the Burned Men or from her subjects. It had been some time since the former happened, almost as far back as when her father ruled still. Direly, Gurn hoped that the foreign Andals remained at the Bloody Gate. They were not welcomed here and Gurn was frightened some puffy bird from a House that dressed in colors Gurn only heard rumors of, would make off with his love.

Maybe, he’d go send for Jaggot. That man was smart, he’d recognize any foreign flags.

Mentions:
Mion
Braddington
Hypnos

 

[Mion]

Cassandra Arryn
​

A soft sigh was let out by Cass as she anxiously held onto the reigns of her mount. A chestnut brown horse, she couldn't remember the last time she had ridden one and it seemed like it wouldn't quite come back to her for a while back. And so the Lady of the Vale was reserved to awkwardly trotting along as the men in front and behind her made sure that the party was safe. They must be looking out for those mountain folk. It had come to a great shock to all of them when they had came across a pair of dead deers laid out in the middle of the path on their way down from the Eyerie. Was it a warning? Or just an odd way of letting themselves be known? Only the gods know why they did that to those poor things...

But ever since then Ser Gawen and Ser Lyonel had been making sure to ride close to her, just in case. Lanna and Rhea must have been at the back of the group with Norbert and the others. The whole lot of them were bundled up in cloaks and furs, for the journey down the Giant's Lance and then the Mountains of the Moon was a bitterly cold one. Something that her companions knew all to well already for it had not been long since they had climbed up the thing before they found themselves fumbling their way back down.

Well at least it was very scenic... Apart from the interruption.

Her companions did not look to be too upset however, in fact most of them looked as if they had regretted putting on one too many layers. For as cold and harsh the Mounains of the Moon are, the Vale Proper was cool and agreeable, what was once a forceful gale that bit into the skin like frosty daggers had become a soothing breeze with a hint of warm to it. On their journey they had been able to witness just some of the beautiful, fertile fields that the Vale had to offer and even managed to take a break on one of the more well known Pumpkin farms. The strange old woman who had felt that it was her duty to make it certain that absolutely everyone knew that she was the grower of the largest pumpkin in the entire known world!

"Thank the seven that ordeal is behind us, I thought the bloody wench would never shut up!" Gawen let out his frustrations that he had been holding in.

"My my that is rather unbecoming of a proud and honourable knight such as yourself isn't it?" Ser Lyonel said in jest, his chuckle seemed to agree with him.

"I don't think I will be able to last if we have to stop by one of those fucking barley farms Ly." Ser Gawen shook his head, he genuinely looked like he would give up in life if that were to happen. "I couldn't bare another old fucker ranting and raving about their bloody crop yield. I couldn't." It had almost turned into sobbing by the end of it.

"Gawen... These are the people that fill our stocks you know. Show a little respect for them." Cass felt like she had to say something in defence of the poor old woman. She had been pretty excited but that was because it has probably been so long since she got a visit from any of the Arryns. I wonder if that is where father got that old Pumpkin joke from... She pondered that for a moment, he had made mention of a particularly good pumpkin farmer before.

"F-forgive me my lady... I didn't mean any offense to them by it." Ser Gawen was not a very convincing liar.

And so the merry troupe plodded along the path to their destination. To their first stop on this brief progress.

When the great red fortress came into sight it was the sign that they had reached the end of the first step of their journey. The Redfort... Of House Redfort... Cass always thought there was something very endearing about Houses who had their House Name the same as their seat. She wasn't quite sure why, something plain and simple about it.

As they drew closer to the fort a small group of men rode out to meet them, at the front of the group led Lord Wyman Redfort himself and his son Ser Robb Redfort.

"Cass. How long has it been? It is great to see you." Lord Redfort beamed his greeting.

"Likewise My Lord... It certainly has been a while." Cass nodded her head in response. "I wish I could stay here for longer, there is much I would wish to discuss. However circumstances force me to be brief My Lord. But even so, may we take rest in your halls for now?" She asked courteously.

"Of course. Of course. I already read that much from the letter Cass you don't need to worry about that. I am happy to play my part as host for as short as it may be." Lord Redfort had been one of the few Lords of the Vale that could call himself a true friend of the late Lord Arryn. And so the manner in which they spoke with one another was a particularly friendly one... But even so it would appear that Ser Lyonel had taken the Lords manner for a slight against the Lady Paramount of the Vale... Cass gave them a gentle but serious look, telling them to relax themselves. Lord Wyman was like an uncle to her, she welcomed his jovial good nature at this time.

The party then moved their way into the holding of the Redforts. Ser Lyonel and Ser Gawen had regrouped with Norbert and the rest while Cass made her way to the Lord's Hall with Lord Redfort and Ser Robb,

"Alysanne! Can you please tell some of the maids to bring us some wine, and something to drink!" Lord Wyman shouted out as he made his way into the warm hall. Alysanne Stone was his one and only bastard daughter. A mistake from his youth... But even so she had been raised among his other children. She gave a curt bow and made her way off to let them now.

"So... Master of Laws eh my Lady? I have to say, that title sure is an honour but I sure wouldn't want that one for myself." Lord Wyman rubbed his hands together as he spoke.

Cass nodded, that wasn't very subtle although she hadn't been expecting much of that from this man.

"I would have to agree with my Lord father there my Lady. And also Kings Landing... It might be just a hunch but my gut tells me that place isn't safe." A warning from Ser Robb.

"Thank you My Lord, Ser. I have been cautioned rather thoroughly about that matter. But before that..." Cassandra pulled out a roll of parchment that she had been keeping close to her, which she handed over to Lord Wyman.

With a curious gland to his son Lord Wyman unrolled the parchment and nodded his head as he read along.

"Aye. I could do that my lady. I could send a raven to Lord Waxely and Ser Templeton by the morrow." Lord Wyman spoke with a bit more self importance about him. His chest seemed to puff up a little.

"Thank you My Lord."

"No need My Lady, we are your leal bannermen after all!" Lord Wyman made gestures with his hands as he rolled back up the parchment. He was very full of energy now.

"Alysanne! Alysanne!!!!" Lord Wyman began to shout. Had he forgotten he already sent her off?

"Robb! Go get her! Tell her to make sure a feast is prepared. A feast fit for our guests!" Lord Wyman sent off his son.

Cass made conversation with Lord Wyman while dinner was being prepared. It had been decided that Ser Robb and a group of Redfort guards would be accompanying the group that came from the Eyrie. From Redfort they would be riding North to Ironoaks and then East to Runestone, and then finally South to Gulltown. But for now her and her party could relax in the company of friends and allies.

 

[ailurophile]

Calla Waters​

“Perhaps you’re helping, then. A distraction from her grief might be what she needs, no?”

Calla studied Domeric as he considered his reply carefully. It was interesting to see the ways different people reacted to pressure, though she regretted putting it on him in the first place— it hadn’t been her intention. As easy as it was, she tried not to play with people too much, unless the situation called for it and it was well deserved. Some men were much too confident and she sometimes liked to remind them of their limits. Because it was rare to find a man who could match Calla in wit.

Domeric was not a man she wanted to mess with, however.

His question caught her off guard and she pursed her lips. Paused.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Domeric, with his earnest face and his kind heart, but she’d never taken the time to dwell on the question. Calla supposed she’d been in love before, or at least, she’d thought she’d been. It was easy to mistake lust or admiration or dependance for love. There had been many men she’d... something-ed.

Jon, with the red hair and the freckles and the muscles.
Robin, with the wry smile and the intelligence.
Meryn Flowers, who’d pulled her from the bottom of the heap.

There had been others, too, who’d taken advantage of the naivety of youth. Too many to count. That was probably why she got so protective over her girls: she knew the way the world could work.

She realised then that she hadn’t answered.

“I suppose I have, but it didn’t work for me. But then again, I’m not the right sort of girl to be someone’s wife.” A soft smile.

Then, a more mischievous one.

“Why? Are you... in love? Would you tell her that?”

TheFool

 

[RayPurchase]

Robert Reyne​

It said a lot about this Lord Lannister that Robert and Gwyn’s heads were not struck from their shoulders within this very pavilion. They should not even have been able to contemplate an answer, aside from a hurried and compliant yes, lavishing salutations and thanks for such a gesture. However this Lion was weak, balding, and from the look on Gerion's face, surrounded by pacing males within his own pride, eager to leave him by the wayside. His and Gwyn's answers had clearly taken Jamie by surprise, but he had managed to somewhat recover from the shock.

Robert himself had managed to suitably recover from his own moment of shock, his face stoic and calm, much the opposite of Gerion’s own raging features, it appeared there was a new Red Lion within the pavilion. Already his mind was racing however, his calm exterior hiding the whirring cogs within, a hotbed of activity. What Jamie had done here, with only 2 sentences could possibly have changed the whole course of the Westerlands. It would be a powerful set of marriages indeed, but Jamie it seemed could not see the strife it would cause within his own family, but he would surely hear it once Robert and Gwyn left the pavilion. For Robert a marriage to Lynora would not necessarily be a bad thing, politically anyway, but it still left the situation of her father and brother, it may bring him closer to the West, but 2 steps from the West is no difference to a hundred for all the good it does, and all it would take was for Gerion to sire offspring and those steps would steadily increase.

He turned his head slightly as he rose with the rest of the assembled nobles, meeting Gwyn's eye. His right eye dropped in an ever so slight wink. Already several ideas were rushing past him, half formed and malnourished, but alive with potential.

“Of course My Lord Lannister, we shall not keep you waiting,”

With a dip of his head, and all but ignoring the other Lords he swept from the pavilion, and stood in the cold night air. The oppressive atmosphere of the pavilion instantly gone. He took a deep breath, the cool air filling his lungs, and exhaled. Feeling Gwyn's presence alongside him, a grin slowly formed on his face, and ever so slowly, like the first pebbles rolling down the hill, dislodged by a mountain breeze , the seeds of a mighty avalanche, a bellow of laughter escaped his lips. His eyes flicked open, the cold blue alive with excitement as they drank in the clear night sky. His voice was hushed, but there was a tremor to his voice.

“My Lady Crakehall, I do believe that plans will have to be accelerated, lest the old Lion be devoured before the night is done,”

He glanced towards the other tents, his eyes flicking over sigils and coats of arms before settling on one. A mighty burning tree, seemingly alive as the wind tugged at the fabric, a burning glow against the backdrop of the city.

“Tell me my Lady, your dear Cousin Marbrands. How fare your relations with them? Aside from the hastily arranged nuptials,”


(Interactions: TheFool Arcanist ailurophile )

 

[Arcanist]

Gwynesse Crakehall​

Somehow, Robert's eruption into laughter eased the tightness she had felt build up in her chest. She tilted her head back, feeling her short curls stick to the back of her neck as the cool night air brushed past them. Gwynesse could only smile, maybe chuckle in relief, as she wiped the sweat away with her hand. Curse these summer nights. She refused to acknowledge the tension, so thick her sword couldn't pierce it, had caused the stickiness. All the while, she stared into the darkness, cast like a blanket across the sky.

Gwynesse lowered her head, raised her eyebrows at his hushed words. Bold. Already jumping to the point, and right outside the Lion's den. "Part of me wishes for the latter, to speed up the process," the Crakehall chuckled, clearing her throat. It was hoarse from the lies she had spouted before. The problem with the Bronze Lion finally keeling over meant that brat took his place. Under no circumstances could he be allowed near the claim he based his pride on. Gwyn's head turned to where Robert's gaze had landed. The fire of the Westerlands. The fire that she hoped would fuel the bloody wrestle for power to come.

Aycella...

Gwynesse felt the corners of her lips lift. "Well, my Lord Reyne," she began, glancing over her shoulder to him, before her hands clasped behind her back. "Shall we go find out?" She asked, though, didn't intend for Robert to answer, as her stride to the tent was brisk. Of course, she knew what the end goal was, why they were visiting the Marbrands in the first place. Gwynesse simply had other ideas before they got to that part.

Gwyn practically blanked the guards flanking the entrance to the pavilion, her gaze fixated straight ahead. She released her clasped hands, pushed both arms out in front, and swept back the curtains of the pavilion.

There, in the centre as she had hoped (otherwise suffer extreme embarrassment in the presence of her uncle, no doubt), Aycella Marbrand sat at a desk, with Westeros laid bare upon it. For a brief second, she took in the appearance of her cousin. The bitch had grown taller. There was a time where Gwynesse cast her eyes down upon the Marbrand, but it seemed the tables had turned somewhat, with Gwynesse falling behind a couple of inches. Her hair was much shorter than she remembered. Was it longer before? She struggled to remember. Classically, the woman found herself abandoning dresses in preference to her armour; though, it lay by her side. A wise choice, considering how stickier the night was becoming.

The Crakehall froze at the entrance. In a moment, she felt a childish, girlish giddiness take hold of her. She simply smirked, walking further into the pavilion, right up to the desk. "Lady Marbrand. I see you're finally sitting down to study the maps of Westeros. Allow me to give you a hand," the smirk seemed to grow ever encompassing with every word. Gwynesse's finger landed on one section of the map. "This gigantic hunk of land is Westeros," she explained, before her finger trailed across the Narrow Sea, and landed on another section of land mass. "And this, is Essos. Don't get them mixed up, whatever you do," Gwynesse's cheeks flowered a bright red, threatening to burst into laughter. Her manner was too relaxed, almost insulting to any other who would have joined them in the pavilion.

But what's a jab between old friends?

Spoiler: Honourable Mentions

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