Fandom ♛ Blackfyre : A Game Of Thrones RP

[Akio]

Mors Martell
Hand of the King and Bereaved Father

​

Mors mind was already on the coming small council as he found himself deep in thought. As Meryn said he had never given him false information before. He was reliable. Years ago he had pushed for his appointment to the small council more out of a favor to his father but in his time in the position, he had been capable enough. He certainly wasn't anything like the more ineffectual member of the council like Butterwell. He did his duty and that was all he usually had needed from him. And his father had appreciated the favor of getting a direct voice on the council. They were allies and perhaps even friends depending on your definition of the word. He would have not have married his daughter into that line if he didn't trust him and his son had been good to his daughter. Though of all of them, he found it amusing that Nymeria was the first to make him a Grandfather given how bold she had been in her youth. Still with matters at hand Lady Florent would need to be called to the capital. He had never favored the Florents nor the Tyrells but they were not insignificant lords. He would have to move carefully if he wanted to bring things his way.

However, all action paused as he Meryn called out his title, something he did rarely enough given Mors had allowed him to address him however he liked as a show of familiarity though he still inclined to the title of Prince. For him to refer to him by his position as Hand it was enough to get his attention and his pause kept him vaguely unsettled. For a moment he felt something cold run through him and he didn't know why. It was like a tremor, a warning that things would never be the same. And then in that moment, his carefully constructed thoughts were blown out of the water and all he could do was stare blankly for a moment at Meryn. His hands tightened and the snake hissed in anger at his painful grip and without hesitation sunk its teeth into the Martells Prince hand but at first he barely even noticed. "What?" He could only say almost stupidly to Meryns retreating back but got no answer. He tried to rationalize that couldn't be possible, she was safe. No one could touch her, Peake was one of the most powerful much in the Reach, who could have? Then he remembered, slaughtered guardsmen, Uller dead, Drinkwater dead. The White knights. There seemed to be a flash of his mind of understanding, and an overwhelming fear it almost consumed him took over his mind. Not for himself but his family left in the Reach. Nymeria... Lewyn. Then suddenly he felt his hand tighten and he looked down to see the snake digging its teeth into his arm to make him let go while its tail lashed against him.

His grip slackened and he found himself swarmed in memories. For a moment he wasn't in Kingslanding, in this palace of lies and duty but instead thought of more peaceful days. He could feel the warmth of the Dornish sun caressing his face, warm but not with the burning intensity that often came from the southern sun. He wore a simple robe that comfortably hanged off his features and he sat on the ground taking in the sights ahead of him. Three children were playing in the pools. The oldest couldn't have been older than 9 and the youngest just a little over six. There was Ysilla, a little larger than most even at that age with gangly limbs but a measure of her fierce and proud demeanor already set on her face. Alongside her with Nymeria, her fiery red hair already evident as she swam in the pools alongside her laughing as she and Ysilla played in the pools. Ever adventurous even as a child. Dyanna near them, trailing a bit behind but not far as she went to catch up to her two sisters as they bathed away the heat of the day.

He felt a smile stretch across his face watching them as he sat content to watch their play when he heard footsteps behind him. Even in this memory, he felt as if he wanted to cry out but his mouth didn't move. He felt a hand come to rest lightly on his shoulder as she individual stood behind him. As much as he wanted to turn around, and see her face he could not, as he remained looking out into the gardens. "The children are enjoying their play. The gardens are a little less dangerous than running around the streets of Sunspear don't you think?" He asked the woman behind him with an amused and satisfied tone. This had been soon after they had caught Ysilla fighting with some of the guardsmen children when they tried to sneak into the kitchens and had ended in a chase that had from what he heard gone halfway around the castle. When he got the letter he had taken leave of the capital and went back to Dorne to take them all to the Water Gardens. They had spent a summer there in happiness but it was destined to end in tragedy as the woman who answered him now would not live past the year.

"I try to take them here when you aren't around but its never as peaceful when you're not here." The soft voice said mired with some amusement to match his own and he would feel her hand squeeze down on his shoulder. Even in the memory, he couldn't stop himself from almost trembling at her touch. How long had it been? How long had it been since he had seen her face, would he even be able to remember all her features? To capture all her beauty and kindness after all this time. Even with how deeply he missed her still. "I'm sorry I've been away, its-." She stopped him by laying a hand on his head and lightly stroking his head. "I know." Was all she said and in an instant quieted his unease and silent grief as he calmed with the movement and her words. That's how it always was, she never needed more than a few words or a quiet gesture to make him feel at ease and her love. "You protect them in your way, and ill protect them in mine. They are our children and it's our job to love them and defend them. Till the end of our days and beyond." With that, the image in front of his eyes turned hazy and when he refocused he found the snake's fangs still digging into his hand.

He reached for the snakes head and rather than trying to force it off and rip his skin further he grabbed behind its head and pinched which after a moment made it release his hand and look at him almost as if accusation. It didn't bite him again, however. The Hand found his eyes moist with unshed tears at the memory but bit them back. He still could not firmly believe his daughter was poisoned but there was no way he would ignore the possibility. He quickly strode from the room and with his two guardsmen gone his way to his guard's main chambers with long strides to the point of running. He would stay for the small council and seek Nae Naes permission to leave, he needed to see his daughter. The guards in front of the door got no little shock seeing their prince almost running up with a snake in his hands but he ignored their surprise to speak forcefully to them. "Guardsmen prepare my Garrison to leave, I want them ready to leave the castle at a moments notice." He ordered commandingly and while he did not explain himself he did not need too and his guards almost jumped to do his bidding as one went to tell those inside and another to find those scattered. However, he had already moved on to his room nearby. He didn't quite have anything like the Maesters case but there was less chance of the snake being harmed in here. He would eventually lay it on his bed and leave it to settle itself before leaving his room for the Small Council chambers. He would wait but he would not wait long, by mid-afternoon his soldiers would be ready to march and he would leave with them. He would not abandon his family.

 

[RIPSaidCone]

Aycella Marbrand
Lannisport

"Dear Father, I write to you from the night market at Lannisport to bring you the excellent news of my efforts at expanding our forces. My officers tell me that we have levied a thousand additional men and half as many horses to support them. These troops will be trained and equipped immediately, and I require no assistance in this. Furthermore, my contacts inform me that multiple gold deposits throughout the northern mountains are open for acquisition at your command. I wish you the safest of travels on your journey back to Ashemark. Love, Aycella."

If there was one thing that Aycella Marbrand hated about being in her position, it was writing letters. The young woman had lost track of how many times the maester had hit her hand as she wrote 'too informally' or with 'too little respect for the lord that she was writing to' as if such a thing could exist as too little respect for a lord. Respect was earned, no man or woman could expect a Marbrand to respect them if there was no reason to do so, you didn't deserve someone's respect for simply existing. But alas, apparently this was the way that letters were meant to be written, although in all honesty she had little issue with writing in this fashion for her father, as her father was quite obviously a man who had earned her respect early on in life. Still, she couldn't help but think about all of the other lords and ladies she'd written to--and feigned respect to in the past. Holding her face in her palms before stretching back in her chair, removing her hands from her face and releasing a long, drawn out sigh into the blank ambience of the tent, Aycella had been about to dry and seal the letter when a figure had abruptly entered her tent with no announcement, Aycella quickly but carefully placing the letter in one of her desk drawers.

Aycella couldn't recall the last time someone had done that.

As she saw who said figure was however, the abrupt entry made sense. Gwynesse Crakehall, Heir to Crakehall and without question Aycella's favourite cousin. Her lips presenting a smile to the woman soon after her arrival, Aycella was almost lost for words, yes this was a night market and yes she should have expected to see relatives from other houses. But there had just been something almost mystical, in that childlike sense about her older cousin, the woman who she had looked up to as a young girl, mystical in the sense that it seemed wrong for her to just appear like that, so anti-climatically. Although her still relatively new life as a fully grown woman, however young still, had taught her a lot about the blandness of reality. Not to say that she wasn't.. Well, excited to see her favourite cousin of course. And Aycella would freely admit it, she was excited to see Gwyn, why wouldn't she be? It had been so long since their last encounter, and with the mind numbingly boring nature of the other lords and ladies present at the night market, Gwyn's arrival was akin to a blessing from the Gods themselves. A much needed relief from her boredom, and a much needed reminder of more enjoyable times in her past.

Sat still in her place with that same, simple, pleased smile spread across her features, Aycella watched as her now seemingly shorter cousin approached her desk. Placing her finger down on the map and making a well-intentioned jest towards her younger cousin's geographical knowledge or lack thereof.

Letting out an amused chuckle, Aycella gave a slow, understanding nod to the lesson that she was being given. "Of course, Lady Crakehall, what would I ever do without you there to guide me. Honestly if it wasn't for you I'd probably be at the bottom of the Sunset Sea right now looking for King's Landing." She joked back casually, so yes she may not have been the smartest girl growing up, and yes she may not have had the most in-depth knowledge about the continents of the known world. But she was no longer that young girl, and it was that thought that had her curious as to what had changed with her favourite cousin, if anything that is.

Pushing back her chair and getting up from it, Aycella shifted herself around the desk and wrapped her arms around Gwynesse, pulling her close for a hug that was perhaps too warm for both of their likings given the humidity of the night. Patting the older of the two on the back, she pulled away with yet another smile. "I've missed you." She said, before returning to her seat, looking up at Lady Crakehall with a still ever-so pleased expression. A surprisingly comfortable silence lingering for a few moments, the two simply enjoying one another's company before Aycella simply spoke up with.

"I think I'm taller than you are now."

Not long after that however, a second figure entered the tent, approaching from behind Gwynesse and taking a place by her side. Lord Robert Reyne.

Arcanist RayPurchase ​

 

[Hypnos]

Viserys Butterwell​

The light rapping of a lone gloved hand against hard oak was the only sound that perforated the chamber of the King’s Council, a subtle echo offering the illusion of companionship despite the stark and bare nature of the room itself, almost solitary save for the singular occupant who sat forlorn at the table’s edge: occasionally standing up to pace the length of the chamber, or to adjust his own sitting position, as his body failed to find comfort in the full-backed oaken chairs that were periodically scattered around the room. The table’s head remained vacant, a comfortable yet imposing looking seat that was carved with the likeness of the Black Dragon upon its center, snarling and glaring. It was not an unusual occurrence to find it like this, for in the wake of Prince Maekar’s demise, the King had made a habit of excusing himself from such meetings in his time of grief. Understandable. For Maekar’s death had shook the entire realm, and the Gods knew no sorrow greater than a man mourning his son, though Viserys Butterwell could not help but miss the usually stalwart presence of King Naemidon. Miss his friend.

He sat to the King’s right, as he had grown accustomed to doing over the course of the past two decades, or rather, sat to the right of where the King should have sat, his fingers tapping patiently and rhythmically against the table as he awaited the arrival of his colleges. It was common enough these days for Prince Mors to call the council without prior warning, for the man seemingly put his duty above all other personal commitments, biting into his work with the same voracity that a larger man might devour a banquet. Viserys had found him amiable enough. A capable man to perform the particularly difficult task of managing the realm in these trying times. Long evenings and sleepless nights had become the norm for the King’s most trusted advisors, a pattern that had not persisted so thoroughly since Naemidon had first conquered the throne twenty years ago.

Several goblets had been laid out throughout the table, one for each member of the council, barring the recently deceased Argrave, whose death had only become known to Viserys several moments ago, when his haggard and beleaguered squire had rushed to fetch his lordship and inform him of the iminent council. Viserys would spare little grief for the old man. He had been an antique, long past his prime, a vestige of Targaryen power that should have been purged from the capitol years ago. And his eyes. Mean, beady little eyes that had followed Viserys wherever he went. There was a man who hadn’t forgotten the Dragonsbane. A man who hadn’t forgiven him for what he had done. It was unlikely that many had, though sometimes when Viserys closed his eyes he liked to imagine himself free from such harsh judgement, though when he opened them once more, the haunting feeling of failure always returned.

His squire, the Mudd boy, had filled each glass to near spilling point with clear Butterwine, even leaving some optimistically for the King, though it was likely to remain undrunk throughout the course of the council. Viserys himself didn’t drink. A queer annomoly for alocohol was supposed to strengthen a man’s resolve, and calm his nerves, two boons of which Butterwell was in great need, though Viserys had long ago disvowed public consumption of any substance or beverige, a lifestyle originally mocked for the sheer paranoia of a man not wishing to be poisoned, though with Argrave’s death so fresh in everyone’s memories, it would mayhaps be a trend which would begin to catch in the capital. ‘Which one of us shall be next.’ Viserys couldn’t help but ponder, looking upon the phantoms that occupied every other chair in the room. ‘And why is it like to be me?’

Butterwine was sweet, or so he had been told, with his brother Maggy having a particular fondness for the substance, that same brother whose letters he now clutched in his hands along with a series of other notes and documents that he had brought along for the council, detailing the tides of the Northern campaign. Stagnant, as it often was. A calm following the storm of Maekar’s death, and the beginning of the ritualistic routine that always followed a Northern victory. Maggy had promised to have Seagard returned to royal hands by three moons hence, and the Twins a few moons after that, a sentiment accompanied by a desire for more coin, and more resources. But such things were in scarce supply, and it was unlikely that there would be funds to spare atop the crown’s other copious amounts of expenditure. It was at least worth asking, however. For what could the Master of War do but facilitate such war. Another hollow honour. He scratched the note onto some parchment.

Several more moments passed with little commotion, though after what seemed like an eon to Butterwell, the rest of the council finally started to slither in, coming from their various duties to hear the Lord Hand’s newest petition, Butterwell offering a nod and a courteous smile as his colleges trailed into the chamber, still holding out slight hope that the King might be amongst them. To little avail.

@LiterallyAnyonePleaseComeAndStartThisMeeting

 

[JPTheWarrior]

Durran Baratheon
Master of Coin's Chambers

​

The morning came early for Durran, who had been awake since the very first peek of the sunrise. He was at his round desk, a wooden circle that was covered in many towers of sheets of documents, some old, some new, contracts and deals made between Durran and a great number of important individuals, some from Westeros, most bankers from Essos. Durran had a long silver feather in his right hand, its tip soaked with black ink. His hand moved quickly, his body used to this 20 year old kind of work, and in less than five minutes, he had written a letter to the Lord of the Rogare Bank, a wealthy man which Durran had visited multiple times during his travels as Master of Coin. Since the two had created a warm friendship that surpassed a relationship between two business partners, the letter was more personal, more informal.

'Thank you for your attention, old friend, the Crown will soon pays its debts at the date we set as promised. Tell young Aeror his godfather sends him a hug. With the best regards, Durran Baratheon'

Durran finished and curled the sheet of paper, sealing it with his own wax stamp seal: a deer similar to the one found in House Baratheon's sigil, but with its antlers adorned with seven gold dragons. Durran pushed his heavy chair away from the table with his feet and then got up, seizing the opportunity to strech his arms, his bones sending off little clicking noises. With a tired and prolonged exhale, his looked to his window, or actually, what was beyond it. The entire port could be seen from his tower where his quarters were located. This view wasn't a mere coincidence, since he always wanted to see for himself the arrival of the many essossi ships, fruit of his deals with the country of the East.

With the letter still in his hand, he showed his back to the sea and walked towards the door, putting his jacket in the way. This fine piece of clothing was probably one of the most expensive attire, since it had real coins, from many origins, some westerosi, others essosi, as buttons. The jacket itself was a very dark grey, adorned with golden lines that drew a silhouette of the frontal side of a stag's head right in the middle of his back, its antlers wide and majestic that covered his shoulder plates.

Right was he was placing his hand on the knob, the door shook and two quick knocks came, followed by a loud and alarmed voice. "Lord Baratheon, it's Ser Robert!" Durran quickly opened the door, which kinda surprised the stormlander knight by how fast Durran had reacted. The Master of Coin noticed the startle from his loyal servant and responded "I was about to leave anyways. What is it?" The knight nodded and took a few steps back so Durran could leave the room "It is the Grandmaester, my lord... he has been found dead, the higher ups believe he has been poisoned."

Durran stared at the soldier for a few seconds and only answered with a nod "I... see, that's most unfortunate. Ser Robert, from now on, any order and task will be performed by only men of my own court. Do I make myself clear?" Durran stated. The knight gave a nod and added "Also, Lord Hand has declared for a council meeting and requests your assistance" with that last piece of information, Durran made a little movement with his head, stating silently that the man could leave and he did as so, bowing first before turning his back to the Master of Coin and quickly walking in the direction opposite to where Durran was going, that is, the Small Council chamber.

'That old geezer finally bit the dust huh? But gotta say, the timing is completely off. Why, why would they aim for the grandmaester when you have other members of the council with way much more weight in this game. Could it be Argrave knew something that if out to the world, someone would be in a real dangerous position? One thing is certain, Vaella and her hag of a mother couldn't have been the killers, Argrave was one of the few who still had close ties to the late Targaryen King.'

Before starting his brief travel to the chamber where the most powerful men of the South would soon gather, Durran entered his own chamber one more time and took from his round table "The Bank of Westeros", a really big and dense book, with hundreds and hundreds of pages with written information about the economy of Westeros. Since Durran has passed his eyes on its pages more times than the any amount of other books he read, he had memorized every number, every letter and place it mentioned.

He was now ready for the meeting, though he had a feeling his presence as Master of Coin would not be of any use. Most likely, the Hand wanted him as the Lord Paramount of Stormlands.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Followed by eight bannermen of his House, Durran made his way towards the chamber, passing through the great hall where the infamous Iron Throne stood. It was empty, but Durran took a glance at it anyways, his eyes shinning for brief seconds, before he turned away and got lost in his thoughts away 'Could any of the children done it? Not Arlan, he wouldn't make a move without coming to me first. I taught him better than that. I already concluded Vaella couldn't have done it, as it would harm her mother. Aerion doesn't have the balls to kill an insect, much less the grandmaester. Matarys or Vaegor? Well, the last certainly has the wicked brain for it, tho as proven, he lacks intelligence, so maybe he did have the stupidity to kill Argrave. What about the bastard Daemon? But what could he hope to gain from killing an old geezer? He wouldn't gain any favor from his father... What about the Small Council members? Again, even if the man had a seat, he wasn't someone of importance, his presence amd opinions were void in the matters'

Durran finally reached the chamber and ordered his guards to wait outside. He entered the opened room, noticed two seats already taken: Viserys Butterwell, the shipless Master of Ships. Durran nodded to both men "Morning, Lord Viserys" he simply said before choosing the chair closest to the King's and putting his book in the table with a loud "bang" that echoed through the room. This century old object was too heavy for the common folk, but for Durran, "Bank of Westeros" or a pillow were the same. Durran sat down and put his elbows on the table, his fingers interwining and serving as a place to rest his head, as his chin layed on his hands and his body slightly curved.

Hypnos

 

[RayPurchase]

Rogar Bolton

Lord of the Dreadfort

​

Bolton glanced down at the shattered tooth resting on Manderly’s plate. He was right, the food was not up to much, he may not have been expecting a royal welcome, but if this was a sign of the current food stores in the castle, Lord Stark had far bigger problems on his hands. Given the size of the combined Northern and Southern loyalist forces, if they were already down to near inedible bread, it did not bode well for any upcoming campaigning season. There was of course another option, perhaps even more worrying that the first, and one that Manderly had touched on. Perhaps Lord Stark just didn’t favour them anymore, the Salt Lord and the Flayed Lord, left to rot in this draughty hall with hard bread and scraps from the table. It would have been not that long ago that Lord Stark would have welcomed the pair with open arms. And yet here they were, alone in his hall, 2 relics of an old world, one before this Southern King and his gaggle of southron lords had come north. The green of his eyes met Manderly’s blue for a few moments. Was that anger below the surface of the jovial nautical lord, a dangerous place for anger to lurk, unchecked and unnoticed, room to fester and grow before being unleashed as an inferno.

He smiled softly, looking to either side of him at Manderly’s comment of his hard edge. It was a reputation that he had been happy to keep up, whilst those Northerners properly acquainted such as Manderley knew enough about him to know that not quite all the rumours were true, these southerners only knew of the tales round campfires and maester’s lessons in their youth. Of the old Red Kings and their halls of flayed flesh, living nightmares stalking the Land. It was indeed a useful appearance to keep up, and Rogar’s naturally gaunt features, made ever leaner in his advancing age, only added to the image. He had see one young riverlander knight taking in his pink lined cloak with a look of horror and revulsion, clearly trying to see which unlucky lord now made up Lord Bolton’s wardrobe. The reality was far less interesting.



“A very useful skillset to have. And one that you have managed to hone as well Lord Manderly, the fearsome Northern Lord of the Seas, kin with the Mer folk of the deep and able to communicate and shape the very storms themselves. Or so the rumours go…”


He chuckled, tearing off a piece of bacon. A lot of power in stories, whether they were true or not didn’t matter, only the effect that they ended up having on people. He paused for a moment as flashes of Royce paraded their way round his mind, a procession of hurt and pain, stabbing deep even now, not that you would know it as he methodically chewed at his meal. All part of the charade, Dread Lords do not weep, they do not mourn, a burden to be carried. It had been Manderly’s Pearl, rescued from the confines of Seaguard, a pettier man may have blamed him in some way, his daughter was safe and sound now, whilst Rogar’s was dead. There was no point, or logic in such a thing however, a second son of a High Lord, for the taking of a fortress such as Seaguard, Rogar would have made the same sacrifice if it was anyone else’s son.


“Fear not my Lord, I would not want you bogging down in the Lonely Hills on a doomed reunion. The journey and fresh sea air of White Harbour would do her some good, perhaps myself as well.”

He looked up as a shadow was cast over his tankard. The sheer size of the hall and the flickering torches made it seem almost demonic in visage, twisting and changing, growing and shrinking in size, fingers like talons, and every part of it misshapen. Turning his head, the caster was thankfully far more human than the shadow would suggest. Perhaps one of the most recently elevated nobles with the death of her father, Lady Tully. Another Southron Noble, but perhaps different this one. From talk at court, not that he put too much faith in such a gossip mill, she appeared to have her own vicious streak, talk of missing cats and pets as a child, difficult to marry that character up with the simpering figure that had been at her father’s funeral, perhaps he was not the only one using his house’s history and something as simple as an outward appearance to his advantage.

He inclined his head slightly, sweeping a hand towards the free seats on either side of himself and Manderly.


“I’m afraid the quality of company must be lacking if you’ve reached the point of coming to two forgotten Northerners. The food is also somewhat lacking, I would chew the bread somewhat carefully. If that doesn’t put you off however, then choose a seat freely, this is still Lord Stark’s hall, even if he has been noticeably absent of late,”

( Optimus Princeps ailurophile )

 

[RayPurchase]

Robert Reyne
The Red Lion

Robert took pause before entering the tent. Allow Gwyn to go in first, break the pleasantries, they were cousins after all. A useful connection, the Marbrands may not have been as powerful as the Rayne’s or the Crakehalls, but if they were rallied to the cause it would leave most of the northern Westerlands under their control, a powerful base to operate out from no question, and another of the great Westerland houses behind them lending gravitas and weight, Lord Marbrand was a war leader, that counted for much.

With little more than a cursory glance in the direction of the guards, little more was needed, Gwyn may have been a cousin, but he was the Red Lion, it would have take a brave.. nay foolish man, to stand in his path, he entered the pavilion, the tent flaps waving in his wake. His arms spread in greeting, and a welcoming smile on his face, he even sunk his head in a bow in Marbrand’s direction. The entrance could have been further from that given to the Lannisters. But what was the point of scraping your knees to a House that commands no fear or awe, a house that as it turns out, who’s head will give you anything out of fear of his little house of cards falling apart. He was not as acquainted as we would like with Lady Marbrand, especially for the purposes of such a visit, he would have to rely more on Gwyn and her familial connections. He was hoping for her father Lord Crakehall to be present, but heirs were just as good, an ever present esr as to the sway of the lordship.

“Lady Marbrand, both your sigil and yourself have illuminated this dark affair, you must apologise if I have interrupted your reunion here. I will be out of your hair soon enough. How fares your father and yourself? What do you make of this... quaint gathering the Lannisters have put on for us?”

An innocent enough question for any ears lurking within the confines of the pavilion.

( Arcanist RIPSaidCone )

 

[Arcanist]

Gwynesse Crakehall​

Gwynesse couldn't hold back any longer as she snorted at Aycella's response, a few hearty laughs following thereafter. She was glad Aycella had retained the sense of humour they both shared when they were mere girls, thrashing wooden swords at one another, rolling on the ground after they had been brutally felled by one or the other. Alas, such times had passed by and disappeared like dust, much like the contact between one another.

So, naturally, when Aycella had approached and wrapped her arms around her, she was quick to coil her arms around her younger cousin. Her tunic pressing against the woman's made her aware of the sweat that had built up in her body on this particularly humid night, but she paid little heed to a trivial matter in relation to the reunion. As Aycella pulled away, so did she - though her touch lingered on her arms for a few moments. Dimples dotted her cheeks as she regarded her with an affectionate smile. A smile she had afforded only a few in her lifetime. "And you, cousin. I had hoped to find you here tonight," she admitted, before she let go of her, and Aycella returned to behind her desk.

Gwyn scoffed at her comment. That much was true; as a girl, she could have leapt over the Marbrand. But she had Lord Marbrand's blood. She shouldn't have been surprised at how much she had sprouted. Her lips parted to pass her own comment, something about how swollen her head had gotten compared to her own, until Robert's words had stolen the floor. Of course, Aycella's stare had turned to Robert. Naturally with the gestures and the bravos of his entrance, anyone, from peasant to the King himself would willingly give their attention to him. In fact, the entrance had served as a reminder of what they were here for. The short-lived reunion would have to be postponed until another time.

The Crakehall licked her bottom lip, her lips curving up into a smile once again - admittedly, not as wide in its childish way as it had been a few moments before the interruption. "Aycella, you remember Lord Reyne, don't you?"

Spoiler: Honourable Mentions

RIPSaidCone RayPurchase

 

[QuirkyAngel]

The Black Woodsmen
(King's Landing, the Crownlands)​

Releasing the black bird that carried his message, a blonde man, with a scar on his nose, watched it fly away before returning to the kitchen area where his female companion was cutting up some onions. Decked in a simple dress, doing simple chores, in a simple home, she looked every bit like the simple wife of a smallfolk husband.

A simple, nondescript couple in King’s Landing.

That was the role they were asked to take on. That was what they would do. The Black Woodsmen took their jobs seriously, regardless of what it was. Guarding. Fighting . Killing. It wasn’t as if a ragtag group of sellswords like theirs could afford to turn away many job offers.

Least of all one from one of the Vale lords himself.

Though why such an important person would give a small band of misfits like theirs the time of day he could only guess. It likely had to do with a former member of theirs.

Conrad.

He’d always found it amusing how the youngest and least ambitious of them ended up climbing the highest. Knighted by the Waynwoods. A vassal of Ironoak. And now married to the young heiress and set to inherit the land he served. It was the sort of thing you’d hear from fairytales.

To be honest, he’d thought Conrad a fool at first when he’d chosen to leave the Black Woodsman to live in Ironoaks. Knighthood was an empty title. The words of nobles were cheap to people like them. It was better to take what money he could from the Waynwoods and move on rather than be tied down to a single lord who was less likely to care about a lowborn than he did his own horse. He still thought that to a degree. However, now it was tinged with a bit more respect.

Perhaps Conrad knew what he was doing after all.

Perhaps he was the cleverest of them all.

“Have you sent the raven, Clint?”

“I have,” Clint took a seat at the table and watched his companion toss the onions into a pot. “Though I haven’t a clue what sort of information our wealthy patron is looking for so I wrote everything I could think of.”

“He didn’t say, so it doesn’t matter. We just do what we’re paid, nothing more, nothing less.”

They were paid to live in King’s Landing and report to Waynwood the ongoings of the capital city. A street urchin could do the job they’d been tasked with and for much cheaper as well. Yet Waynwood had gone out of his way to hire a group of sellswords. It made him think that there was more to the job than meets the eye. “I suppose only a fool would trust important information to sell swords.”

His companion snorted. “It’s a fool that gets themselves entangled in the shenanigans of noblemen in the first place.”

“Are you calling your father a fool?”

“I’m saying we’re all fools—ruled by a fool king that can’t unite the people and will be eventually replaced by another fool looking for power.”

“Well, aren’t you in a chipper mood.”

“It’s the stench of this city. It’s getting to me.”

“What did you expect? We’re in the largest, most overpopulated city of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Six. May yet be five from the whispers I hear down the streets.”

There were many, many rumors that could be heard down the streets of King’s Landing. The death of Grandmaester Argrave. The lock down of the Red Keep that prevented people from entering and exiting the castle. The extravagant ship that docked at port. The number of dornish soldiers sighted. The gambling ring in flea bottom. Stark’s incredible abs. Prince Aerion’s affair with the sorceress Kinvara. Deciphering the truth from the lies was a job best suited for Boris. Or maybe Rat. However, neither of them were here at the moment. It was just him and Iva.

“Regardless, you should just take it easy.” Leaning back against the chair, Clint rested his legs on the table and assumed a relaxed position. “It’s rare the Black Woodsmen get an opportunity like this. Paid by a Vale lord to do absolutely nothing, but watch a stinkin’ city and report back every once in a while.”

“So we can sit on our ass and let our skills rust away like the Golden Company?”

“Aren’t they what every merc group aspire to nowadays?”

Iva clapped his ear.

 

[Hypnos]

Rohanne Lannister​

The shadows of Casterly Rock were thrown wide over the bustling city of Lannisport, the ancient mountain keep that had once housed a thousand generations of Kings looking almost eerie as it loomed in the near distance, a monument to the fate that awaited those who stood in opposition to the Black Dragon of Blackfyre. A dozen abandoned halls were still somewhat visible beneath the rubble, debris making the castle near inaccessible for anyone but the rats, though occasionally it might play home to the bravest of Lannisport’s many impoverished squatters, those who did not fear the tales that were told, even to this day, of the ghosts that haunted the storied holdfast of House Lannister. A hundred specters were said to roam the keep at night, each baring golden locks and emerald eyes, still screaming their muffled screams as they’re crushed beneath the weight of their own vanity. A cruel jape, for Lord Stafford Lannister had oft boasted that the mines of Casterly Rock housed enough gold to fill the Narrow Sea, or drown an entire city, an irony that was not lost upon the many poets and bards who had made a muse of House Lannister’s great tragedy.

Songs of the lion’s demise came ten-a-penny, be they sad and stoic tales of heroes who were lost, or bawdy and rowdy tunes that saw Stafford Lannister attempt to dive into a pool of gold dragons as if it were an ocean through which he could swim to safety. Such ballards were often fanciful exaggerations, though that had not dulled the rise in their popularity, and any Westerlands boy with five fingers and a lute was like to be able to play ‘Fallen Pride’, or ‘A Sea that Glitters Gold.’

It was the second amongst these fables that currently serenaded the last of the Golden Lions, a sombre tune, though one whose haunting timbre had quite endeared it to the ears of Rohanne Lannister, a lady twenty years widowed, though one who liked to be reminded of her youth, regardless of its melancholic nature. Especially when such dulcet tones came straight from the tongue of a young man quite so attractive as the bard to whom she currently offered patronage.

The Night Market was an exceptional tool for making discoveries of such interesting talent, and already Rohanne had sourced three new cooks for her kitchens, two new bards for her accompaniment, and a particularly skilled tumbler whom she hoped to make a fool. Of course, it was merely a pale imitation of the great balls of Casterly Rock, in which her late husband would show off the wealth and influence of House Lannister, but it was nonetheless a welcome breath of levity in these trying times, with the death of Prince Maekar still so fresh in people’s memories. It was a tale less sung about, though for the right price, a few ambitious musicians were willing to debut their personal interpretations of the Ballad of the Black Dragon. Crude and distasteful at best, and at worst lacking all semblance of tune. Not a set of songs which was like to win any favour. Rohanne knew that pain that was caused by the death of a Prince, for she had outlived maybe half a dozen. More acutely than that however, she felt the pain of a lost son, and now she looked to King’s Landing with interest to garner the Dragon’s response.

She had often her own condolences to the Blackfyre King. A raven carrying sorrowful words that might come off as hollow, though they were sincere enough. Pity was a weapon not employed enough, in Rohanne’s opinion, for it could oft sting as hard as any blade. It was the same pity that had been employed against her near twenty years past; Roger Reyne, Balon Crakehall, Carron Marbrand. Of course, its most accomplished wielder had been Lord Jason Lannister, a man whom she had once called cousin, who had been present during her very own wedding ceremony and ripped her skirts in his haste to carry her up to the bedding ceremony. The strongest of her husband’s lickspittles, and the most capable, even when he was lying through his teeth about remorse for her husband’s demise. She missed him, in some twisted way, for he at least had been daring and fun. His boy Jaime could barely look her in the eyes without shitting himself. The apple had fallen far from the tree it seemed, though if the idle gossip around old knitting circles were anything to be believed, it was questionable whether such fruit was even born from the tree to begin with. An amusing thought, even if it lacked sufficient credibility.

It wasn’t just Jason either. For an entire generation of Westerman had passed her by since the falling of her Stafford. They were all young now, and so full of themselves and their little ambitions. No class.

The Westerling pavillion was somewhat empty compared to those of the great lords, and Rohanne perhaps mourned her influence as much as she did any son. Her nephew Lord Harys had gone to fraternise with the Copper Lions, for he had long ago married some Lanett or Lantell (she could not quite recall which) which gifted him some distant kinship with the Lions of Lannisport. It had been below his station at the time, and still was, to hear Rohanne tell, though it had managed to keep the Westerlings from fading completely into obscurity, as had been the fate of many of the other favoured courtiers of the Golden Lion.

All this left Rohanne alone with her bards and her music, occasionally tossing a coin or some trinket to the overly excited lad to encourage him to continue his songs, though in truth she had stopped truly absorbing his voice near thirty minutes ago. If she squinted she could still see the flapping lions that heralded Lord Jaime and his brood, flying sadly and pathetically, though she could neither make out the exchange that was had, nor the words that were being said. How she longed to be down there herself. A lioness at the head of her pride, though long ago she had forced to resign herself to the fate of an unwanted aunt of one of the Westerlands less prestigious families. A region she used to rule.

 

[RIPSaidCone]

Aycella Marbrand
Lannisport

"And found me you have." Aycella smiled plainly before her attention had turned to Lord Reyne, her cousin introducing him and inquiring as to if she could recall him, which she could, if only barely. Like most of the great Lords and Ladies of the Westerlands, she'd seen the man a few times throughout her life, mainly when she was younger, and had less of a decision in what boring social events she attended. Though she couldn't recall a time that she'd ever spoken to the man proper, aside from a greeting here or there while the actual conversation he held with her father. Shifting in her seat to garner a more comfortable position, she returned Lord Reyne's nod in acknowledgement, and took the man's compliment and introduction in a similar manner. It wasn't that she had any overtly negative opinion of the man himself, it was more just that she had always had a distaste for the formal pleasantries that noblemen and women engaged in, life would be so much easier she thought if people were just honest about what they were thinking, albeit more awkward.

"I do think I recall seeing Lord Reyne once or twice." She replied first to her cousin, before turning again to the Lord.

"It's a pleasure to see you too, and me and my father are doing just fine, thank you for asking." Now what is it that you want, she asked herself, though she didn't have to wait too long for the answer to her question to present itself.

"What do you make of this... quaint gathering the Lannisters have put on for us?"

Ah, so that was what he wanted. She should've had that guessed the moment he'd entered her pavilion, to someone of low birth it may have seemed like a curious question, an inquiry as to what someone thought of the event being held. But there was intent behind the question, there always was. He was fishing for an opinion on the Lannisters, a stance that if the Heir to Ashemark holds, then the Lord of Ashemark must hold too. If it had been up to a younger, less responsible Aycella, she would have taken some time to think up some kind of mixed response, some vague, nonsense words to buy herself more time to think of a permanent answer that she could then give as the conversation progressed. But her father had sent her here to represent their house, and part of representing her house was to have these kinds of conversations it seemed, though Aycella knew she was right to be cautious when engaging with the Reynes, as their secret disdain for House Lannister wasn't that much of a secret in actuality.

"Well, it's my first time being the representative of my house at one of these markets, so its been a.. New experience." She paused, looking around briefly.

"As for what I think, I'm not too sure, I hear the gatherings at Casterly Rock were far more entertaining back in my father's earlier days, but at the same time that could just be my father's nostalgia." Aycella smirked lightly down to herself.

"What about yourself, Lord Reyne, have you and my cousin been enjoying the night so far?"

Arcanist RayPurchase ​

 

[TheFool]

Vortimer Hightower
Beacon




​

Vortimer chuckled at Lucas’ remark, even if it was not meant to be a humorous one. He had known the man for twenty-something years - and in those years they’d drank and laughed - yet he still did not know the old knight’s intention. He was always a mystery to him.

One I do not think I will ever solve, I’m sure.

He tilted his cup,
Showing off the little of its innards left. “No offense to my lords,” He started. Looking at both Strickland and The Redwynes.
“But I drink neither Arbor nor Rouge. I was in the mood for an old ale. Though that mood is waning.”

“You can neveh’ go wrong with an ale, my lord.”
Osman Mudd agreed, grinning.

I swear, whenever I see that man smile - a maiden screams somewhere.

“Too true, Os. Too true.”

The young Olyvar made mention of the music, which prompted another chuckle to be leased from Vortimer’s lips. That was also true. He has already noticed the boisterous banging noises that the bards believed was sweet music. It is utterly ridiculous carry on.
Again,
He blamed Lord Serry. Father to the bride.

The Shield Isles are not known for their musical talent, and Aubrey’s father is definitely not the exception.

“It may be a lower key.” Vortimer said.
He took a short sip from his cup.
That’ll be my last.
“A lower key,” He repeated. “Or mayhaps no key at all? It’s shite.”

“My lord,”
Osman spoke.

Gods, here we go.

“Yes, Os?”
“I was wonderin’ if you gave my father’s offer anymore thought? My half-brother Mander is eager to marry, and we’ve all heard the great things ‘bout your little Lia.”
“I am still thinking it over, good friend.”
Vortimer lied.
His decision was made the moment Mudd asked.
“We will talk of it soon but let's not sully the celebrations of one wedding with the talk of another, yes?”
Osman nodded,
“Of course, my lord Hightower.”

“Here, here.” Dorian broke his silence, wearing a thinning smile.

Vortimer looked at him.
They had not talked properly since the examination of Ulwyck’s corpse.

“So, my lords.”
He looked at Olyvar.
He looked at Lucas Strickland.

“If I may talk about something… more solemn.”

He put his cup down on the table and rubbed his mouth so to rid it of ale flecks, his moustache tickling his skin as he did that.
“What is to be done about The White Knights?”
He asked.
A single question.
He wanted to follow it with another.

“What is to be done about The Dornish?”

​

But he did not.

Even at a Reachman’s wedding. Even with music so deafening. Who knew where Mors Martell had his eyes and had his ears.

Spoiler: Vortimer's MENTIONS

Arcanist
TAC / TheAncientCelt

 

[TheAncientCelt]

"Be naht me seat to give'ya. But Lord-Flay-Me-Naht has seen fit to accommodate our king's pretty pet already."
- Captain Manderly​

Despite the topic between the two war battered veterans, Manderly’s cheshire grin was wider than it had been in days. Upon Bolton’s agreement on the usage of his own reputation, and an off hand mention of Manderly’s, the crippled lord couldn’t resist a deep bellowing laughter. “Oh, be that not so, Lord Bolton.” Gregor’s blue eyes focused intently on the mossy tones in the Bolton’s skull. So vibrant, compared to the rest of the man, it was difficult believing that the gaze Rogar threw around was his own and not some stronger, resilient lord. Even with his bum leg, Gregor kept his weight on, his musculature was not forfeit to misuse. Yet, Bolton seemed to be living off of scraps, if the spindly limbs were anything to go off of. “Th’boys don’t fear me nor me sigil. No man truly does. Otherwise every fish monger and crab wife wouldn’ta have dreams of some fanfical merfolk draggin’em off to some Greyjoy paradise.”

Manderly finished with a snort, his smile lopsided at the tale. It wasn’t fear that Gregor noted in the eyes of his peers. Nor was it always admiration, not from his equals at least (and those who held great admiration for the Captain were oft below his notice). It was pity that Gregor caught in Walt’s secret glances, or the way the Great Toad had last regarded Cap’n, offering to help Manderly into a proper chair at their dinner. Still, Greg rode the compliment. Rogar’s words warmed his heart, at the very least Bolton thought he was formidable still. No victim or weak greybeard who was reduced to being helped, rather than helping.

“Aye. Aye.” His words were still strong, loud enough to draw eyes from the few other occupants in the room. Not that Gregor minded the extra eyes. It was good if they saw two natives together. Eating, laughing, whilst their lord hid behind some door. No doubt with that Southron ship captain, Velaryon. “Me doors be open ta’ye’ always, Good Lord Bolton. What’s mine may be yer’s for a few weeks, should ye’ like to stay for so long. Only give me some time ta’ make the city presentable ta’ a man of yer standings.” He chuckled, eyeing the ale at his side. He gripped the flagon tightly, “Tidy up, if ya will.”

Then he drank, the offer out there. Stronger ties to House Bolton would assist Manderly in his climb up this social pyramid. Glory on the field of victory was out of his reach, but there were many other ways to make others bow lowly before you than blunt murder. Amidst his drinking, Manderly’s musings were cut short. The figure he locked eyes with a minute ago approached them, an appealing smile and soft, placating tone draped over her words. A fine wench, dressed up in all the proper pacifying politeness one was taught in the South. Were she not a Tully, and he not sitting with an ardent Lord of the North, Cap’n would freely let her sit next to him. Exchange stories and mayhaps even draw her into his chambers.

It was unfortunate that she was a Tully. And Lord Rogar was next to him.

Readying his tongue to give a ‘Northern’ response to the girl, Gregor’s blue eyes narrowed in slight confusion at Bolton’s unexpected, open invitation to the girl. ‘Now thaaat was unlike him.’ He found his lips pressing downwards, twisted into a thin and feral expression. He quickly put it away, offering a strained smile to the girl and then Rogar. "Be naht me seat to give'ya. But Lord-Flay-Me-Naht has seen fit to accommodate our king's pretty pet already. Sit'n enjoy the company of miserable ol'men like us."

Reaching for his flagon, Gregor wished to drown himself in the ale, only to find that the tin container was empty. Devoid of all joys Lord Walton would give him. Eyeing a servant girl approaching them with great haste, her hands holding a plate of food for the newest noble arrival, Gregor stretched upwards on both feet and snatched the tankard of ale before either the wench or the auburn haired foreigner could stop him. “Thank ye’ for this generous gift, Tully. Me throat be parched, with all th’talkin’ Bolton here has me doin’. Should I need ta’ repeat me stories, I’ll be needin’ this.” With a self satisfied look in his eyes, Manderly sipped on the new tankard, the ale tasting oh-so much better now.

Gregor wondered what the girl would do. Would she retreat up the stairs, shocked and appalled by his lack of hospitality? It would suit him if she did, then maybe Manderly could test the waters, so to speak, on a few matters he had drifting his mind like a sailor in a cloud of fog. Mayhaps she’d cry. Tears seemed to cling to the Tully trout during her father’s funeral. That wouldn’t be the worst outcome, either. ‘Let’er feel unwelcome. As unwelcome as her father made me feel in those council’s.’

"Have ya' any good news to speak of, Lord Bolton?" Gregor shifted, working to actively exclude the wench from the conversation. "I hear oh so little outside th'North. Mayhaps a man like yer'self has resources beyond our great lands?"

Mentions:
ailurophile
RayPurchase
TheFool
Mion

 

[ailurophile]

Vaella Blackfyre​

She leaned against the wall just beside the doorway, one cheek pressed against the cool stone. Listening, eyes closed, to her father telling her brother about the pet he'd had as a child-- a story with a message about responsibility, but at it's heart, a personal anecdote.

He'd never told Vaella that story.
Why hadn't he ever told her anything like that?

It was wrong to eavesdrop and she knew it, yet she couldn't tear herself away. Initially she'd come seeking her father, but hadn't wanted to interrupt his current conversation. Then, a sense of longing and jealousy, and a creeping desire to feel closer to her father, had clouded all logical thoughts of leaving and returning later on. So Vaella stood, tracing one fingertip over a groove in the brickwork, all but holding her breath. It'd been years since she'd done this.

Years since she'd done this, and overheard things she wished she could forget.

They were speaking again, Arlan and their father. The tone of the conversation had changed. Vaella could hear Arlan's voice, as quietly furious as ever, and then--
"He got a sword put through him because of you, father. Because of you."

Despite having lost the thread of the conversation, Vaella knew what -- or rather, who -- he was referring to. It hit her like a punch to the stomach, and she knew it must've hit her father a thousand times over. Her heart ached for him.

Though she was glad she wasn't the only one that particular thought had occurred to.

The slap came next. It was then that Vaella had decided she'd heard enough, and decided it was time to intervene. The threat of escalation was minimal but there was no way she could stand outside and listen to them bicker any more. Not when the mood had turned so ugly.

"Arlan. I'd like to speak with father, now, if that's alright."
Vaella heard her soft, yielding voice, and corrected herself.
"It's time for you to go now."

As she watched him leave, she stood her ground halfway between her father and the doorway. She locked eyes with Arlan as he passed, but only for a brief moment.
For once, she wasn't the one to break away.

With her brother gone, Vaella padded tentatively forwards to narrow the gap between her and her father. Subconsciously, she adopted the submissive air reserved just for him. Never would she back down to her brothers, to the people at court, to anyone.

Except Naemidon.

It was a peculiar relationship, she thought, the one between father and daughter. On so many occasions, she'd heard Dyanna sing Mors Martell's praises, and tell her how valiant he was, and how proud of her he was. Vaella often wondered if her father was proud of her. She hoped so, no matter how much she tried to build her resentment of him to the point where his opinion didn't matter. To the point where his pride in her would make her sick.

She was yet to succeed.
And she wanted so, so badly, for her father to take her in his arms and apologise.
Perhaps not even apologise. Just acknowledge.

Her own apology caught in her throat, and she realised she'd frozen, dazed, in her own thoughts.

"Father." Vaella began, tentatively. It seemed unwise to bring up his confrontation with Arlan, and so she delicately skirted around the issue. "I... I've been meaning to apologise. For my behaviour, at dinner the other night. I didn't mean to embarrass you, and I know I did. Please don't be angry with me, I can't bear it. I'll do better. I swear it."

Shakily, she took a breath to steady herself, eyes desperately scanning his face for some trace of affection. Something that would allow what she planned to say next to come easier.

Maybe her intention was the thing that would make him proud of her.

Another breath.

TheAncientCelt
Credits to TheFool for Arlan's line.

 

[Mion]

Cassandra Arryn
​

The journey from Redfort to Ironoaks had been a well welcomed change of pace for the party that had made their way down from the Mountains of the Moon. No longer did they have to protect themselves so much against the bitter winds or the harsh road. Or worry about potential attacks from the Mountain Clansmen for that matter... Although there is always the chance that some of the bolder among the mountain chiefs ventured even this far into the Vale of Arryn. Cassandra came to be very relieved that the group of Redfort guards led by Ser Robb and his younger brother Wylis had joined them in their progress. Because...

I am no expert on birds... But I have been around them enough to know that whatever that was... Definitely wasn't a bird...

Ser Lyonel Corbray had taken Norbert Sunderly and Ser Harys Hunter along with five of the Arryn guards off to investigate the situation. But whatever had been the source of that noise was had somehow managed to vanish without leaving even the smallest trail behind them.

Since then Cassandra had been rather nervous as the party made their way through any of the forested areas. Although she would be too embarrassed to admit that much.

Riding alongside her now was Ser Robb and Wylis Redfort, as well as their sister Rhea who had been excited for her family to join them. Ser Robb was a large and well built man, he must have stood at least six foot tall and despite a rather hard look about him he was quite a gentle fellow. Wylis was rather meek compared to his brother, but he was a restless boy who was eager to impress his elder brother whom he was squiring under. All of the Redforts shared their dark brown hair and coal black eyes that they had gotten from their father Lord Wyman.

"I am sure you got an earful of it from my father my Lady, but I would just like to express the gratitude that our House has for your belief and trust in us." Ser Robbs deep, smooth voice matched his heartfelt smile.

"House Redfort have been good friends and leal lords to us Arryns for generations, there was no doubt in my mind that your Lord father would fail me or the people of the Vale." She wondered how many times she had repeated a variety of that line to Lord Redfort... It had not taken long for Cassandra to run out of things to say to that jovial man, so for the most of their conversation she had merely been sitting quietly and listening. Although that was not a particularly bad thing, Lord Redfort had been the Lord of his house for a few years even when Cassandras own father had first taken over from her grandsire. And so the nuggets of wisdom that could be taken from her conversations with Lord Redfort were rather useful.

"Will we really be going to Kings Landing?" Wylis asked while trying his best to hide his excitement from his voice.

"We may be Wylis. Lady Cassandra was named Master of Laws after all. By King Naemidon himself." Rhea responded.

"King Naemidon... Rhea, you know what father thinks of King Naemidon right?"

Rhea did know what her father thought of King Naemidon, most of the people in the Vale knew. But it was not something to be said so casually.

A bastard and a usurper... Cassandra recalled the same words as the others, the words that Lord Redfort had spoken so many times in these past years.

Bastard and usurper... Those words did not mean much to Cassandra Arryn. The supporters of the Red Dragon said that about the Black while the supporters of the Black Dragon said the same about the Red. In the end King Naemidon had won the Iron Throne just as the Conqueror did. The Conqueror who was the ancestor of both the Blackfyres and the Targaryens no matter who was the 'bastard and usurper'.

Even if the Targaryens had the right of it. She had sworn no vows to a Targaryen King, her father had bent the knee to King Naemidon and there had been no word from the North for near twenty years now. Cassandra had her duty to fulfil, her loyalty had been pledged to King Naemidon.

And yet... My people have no love for him. But perhaps that was not necessary. As long as they would follow her... Would that be enough? She recalled the arguments that her father would have with her uncle, Lord Royce. He had said that if they wanted to flee north and declare for the Targaryen King then they were welcome too. But none of them had... For as much as many of the Lords had disagreed with her father it was perhaps in large part due to it revealing a hard truth. That it was not a cause the Lords of the Vale were willing to back. Cassandra hoped that it was another possibility though. That the Lords of the Vale were loyal to the Arryns first and foremost before any dragon.

"The Blackfyre invasion was over before the Lords of the Vale saw a battle. Many believe it to be a stain on their honour for them to have lowered their banners before even seeing conflict. But I am sure just as much saw it as a blessing." Cassandra responded for Rhea who was carefully trying to pick out the words that would cause the least offense.

"Thanks to that we saw no blood shed, none of our fathers, brothers, uncles or cousins were slain. Our people could tend their fields, their businesses their trade uninterrupted." Rhea added, agreeing with Cassandra. The invasion had been a swift and decisive war but even so it had brought hardship to other regions all the same. And some regions have not stopped experiencing such hardships with the North and the Riverlands being at odds all throughout this 'peace'.

As they spoke the seat of House Waynwood came into view, Ironoak castle that sat with its many towers overlooking their land and the peaceful lake to their east. Ser Robb reached into a sack that had been tied to his saddle and retrieved a letter whose red wax had been sealed by the Maester of the Redforts. It was a message for the Waynwoods that Cassandra had written with Lord Wyman and his Maester. Ser Robb carefully passed it over to Cassandra. She tightly gripped onto it as their party drew closer.

As Cassandra arrived at their gates, Ser Lyonel had already been conversing with the Waynwood guards, they had been notified of their arrival beforehand just as the Redforts had. Although Ser Lyonel was the second son of his lord father he was a man who spoke with great authority. His fiery red hair and clear blue eyes had a strong will to them that was only added by the Valyrian Steel sword that he kept on his person. He often rested his hands on the large ruby pommel although he rarely bore the smokey-grey blade of Lady Forlorn.

"My Lady! Lord and Lady Waynwood await us." He spoke through his charming grin that he put on as airs to distract from the dark rings under his eyes. He had been vigilant in his watches as of late to say the least...

"Let us not keep them waiting then Ser." Cassandra smiled politely at the Waynwood men.

"Alright then lads. Lead the way!" Ser Lyonel had grown accustomed to giving out orders by now, it seemed he and Ser Gawen had a little competition going on to see how was better suited as a commander.

QuirkyAngel

 

[ailurophile]

Alyssa Tully​

"Forgotten northerners? My dear lord, you sell yourself short." Alyssa laughed pleasantly. "Thankyou for the warning, although I've already encountered some suspicious meals. Only a few nights ago, I innocently asked about the meat-- unspecified 'game' is a little worrying."

Overcooked, more like.

Bolton's hospitality was more jarring to Alyssa than Manderly's lack of. She was thrown, momentarily, standing unsure of herself, but Manderly's swift ill-mannered reception saved her from her surprise. Alyssa smiled at the man, sickeningly sweetly, before turning to the serving girl with an icier gaze.

"Water." The instructions were clear and concise. "And put some ale in a jug too, if the captain's appetite is so unquenchable." As the girl ran off to fulfill her request, she watched her retreating form with some degree of satisfaction. It was pathetic how quickly some people could be frightened. If perfectly non-violent words sent the girl scarpering, she could only imagine her little face when Alyssa--

"You're welcome." She replied, curtly, though not without her smile. "Captain."

Ignoring Manderly's exclusion, Alyssa instead chose to take Bolton up on his offer, and slid down next to him, making sure to adjust her dress and her hair. As women did, she'd come to notice, and undoubtedly more so in the South. Quietly and politely, she listened to Manderly pose his question, and then reached to pluck the tankard from the table the moment the man set it temporarily aside.

She drank deeply.
She didn't much care for the taste.

"Apologies. Your little comment must have evoked a certain... thirst. In me."

Her gaze lingered on the man for a moment before she refocused her attention on Lord Bolton, eyes dropped demurely to her lap. "Thankyou, by the way. I've been lonely since my father's passing. I know his absence weighs upon us all but with nobody else to confide in... it's like something's missing. From inside me. I hope I can fill his place adequately."

A smile threatened to tug at the corners of her mouth.

Alyssa looked up again, her tone suddenly shifting.

"That is to say, I know I can."

When the serving girl returned, she took the jug and the water, refilling the tankard in silence.

RayPurchase TheAncientCelt

 

[QuirkyAngel]

Ser Anton Waynwood.
(Highgarden, the Reach)​

Highgarden’s reputation as one of the most beautiful castle in all of Westeros wasn’t unfounded. After leaving the list area, Anton Waynwood had taken upon himself to wander the populated castle in “search” of the Tyrells. He admired the gardens. The fountains. The complex towers—some of it decorated with grapevines and roses that climbed along the white walls of the inner ring. Ironoak wasn’t nearly as grandiose in design, but then, the very first Waynwoods had been simple cartwrights, so he supposed his ancestors would’ve preferred practicality over beauty when deciding to build the castle. Not that he would know. Anton wasn’t his ancestor and had never been a cartwright.

He was a knight though. A decorated soldier. Therefore, he could see the impracticality such an extravagant tournament as well as any solider. Not only was a good amount of coin wasted on showing off, but opening the castle to the public brought with it its own risk, especially given the times. Security was always an issue during such events.

At the same time, he understood that creating such events, and opening the castle to the public, was necessary for lords to win the hearts of their people. Elstan had done the same during Lilana’s wedding. Perhaps the Tyrells knew what they were doing as well. Either way it wasn’t really his place to comment, especially when the event provided an opportunity for them as well.

His nephew-in-law really.

If Conrad died, if Lilana failed to produce an heir, Ironoak would go to him. How terrible would that be?

Anton came with no guards. No servants. Though his clothes, and acting important, was enough to get him through the tallest tower in the castle. It also helped that Elstan had given him the invitation and a couple of the knights guarding the tower recognized him as well. One of them belonged to House Ashford. That was how he came to know of the terrible trials that befallen the Ashford family. Anton tutted.

Kidnapping a child? Really? Was Uller trying to earn even more resentment in the Reach than he already had?

Still it provided a good opportunity. What’s a knight without a good quest after all? A passive knight waited for quests to be handed to them. An active knight searched for quests themselves. Found their own kings to swear allegiance to. Those were the ones that gained the most reputation. They were also the first ones to die, but little details could be ignored when it came to the bigger picture. He’d find time to speak with the Ashfords, and offer his condolences, later.

The Tyrells came first.

He found them entertaining guests—lords and ladies from various houses that came to enjoy the tournament hosted by the Tyrells. There were less than there would’ve been when the Tyrells were still the most prominent house of the Reach. The Peakes and the Hightowers were now in favor of the King, if he remembered correctly, and the parties they threw were much more likely to garner attention. Still, there was a sizable amount.

The few that recognized him, greeted him. Many more just stared on curiously. He winked at a couple of females that caught his eye, a rougish smile on his lips, but mostly just pressed forward until he reached the castle’s owners.

Right hand horizontally across his abdomen, right foot scraped back, Anton’s torso bent into a smooth 45 degree bow. “Greetings, Lord and Lady Tyrell~”

Ceremony had always been important to his family and, while Anton was the son of a prominent family in the Vale, it wasn’t as if he owned any land of his own. He wasn’t a lord.

Anton straightened. “I apologize if I’m interrupting anything, but I just had to stop by and tell you how much I’ve enjoyed your lovely tourney thus far. My brother, Lord Elstan Waynwood, sends his regards as well.”

Quick pleasantries and he would be on his way. That was the plan, at least.

From the top of the tower, Anton had a clear view of the tourney grounds where he could see Conrad had gotten into another joust with a different knight. This one seemed more a challenge than the first. Bigger as well. While he would love to be down there to offer advice and moral support to his dear nephew-in-law, he had his own duties as well. If Conrad were to climb up the social ladder, he would have to do so on his own merit. A playwright could only do so much, after all.

Elucid
ailurophile
(mentioned: Hypnos )

 

[TheAncientCelt]

Naemidon Blackfyre ​

The conversation was over in a moment.

As the hatred came spewing from Arlan’s lips, Naemidon could tolerate his vitriol no longer. The mention of Maekar and the accusation that Naemidon was who murdered him brought the Blackfyre over the edge. His body shot forward with enough gusto to confuse the middle aged man for someone many years younger. Actions proved faster than thoughts, as the palm of the King’s hand struck his son’s cheek. A powerful ringing filled his ears as the Storm Prince recoiled only slightly, his expression dazed and confused as opposed to cowering from the blow he received. Their eyes connected in that second, before the hatred from Naemidon’s violet eyes fled, finding a new home in Arlan’s.

The sound reverberated across the stone walls of the solar, the dismal sound of candles flickering away at their wicks did nothing to muffle the noise. Lurched over the table, the Blackfyre King saw the reddening of his son’s cheek, the anger building in Arlan as he processed what happened, and another emotion, perhaps? Sadness? Humiliation? Deeper rage, that which Naemidon was accustomed with? Blackfyre only then noticed the stinging pain in his palm, an aching that took hold quickly and throbbed with unending anguish. Fighting off the urge to inspect his hand, Naemidon found himself struggling to speak.

In that instant, the rage he felt building in his chest diminished, replaced two fold with shame as he memorized the perplexed expression on the Storm Prince’s face. He found his tongue in seconds, but the drifting silence made it feel like years passed. Softly, almost low enough to be missed if one wasn’t paying attention, he spoke. “Arlan, that was wrong of m-,” His words were cut off, the entrance of another of his children distracting both father and son.

He watched as Arlan left, his eyes never leaving the floor as his steps hurried off from the solar. Badly, Naemidon wished to follow him, to finish his apology and to hear out his son’s request. He didn’t come here to argue, Blackfyre was confident. He wanted answers. He wanted a chance. ‘And I struck him, because I could not contain myself.’ His mind reeled as he felt his back fall onto the soft sofa behind him. ‘I struck my son.’

Those words stung worse than his hand. In a moment of weakness, he acted in a way he swore he never would. It built a despicable feeling in his lower abdomen, one Blackfyre was familiar with.

‘Why?’ He sought within himself, needing an answer, a justification for his own actions. ‘Because he dared to say the truth?’ A truth he wished to hide from, so much so he’d raise a hand against his kin. His very blood. Naemidon cradled his head in one palm, massaging it lightly with his fingers, forgetting of Vaella for the moment, until her timid nature finally dissolved and she asserted herself slightly more, although not quite as much as Arlan had upon his immediate arrival.

Of all the matters he now had to deal with - apologizing to Arlan chief of them - he found himself lacking time to sit and talk to his secondborn. He regarded with a quick nod as she addressed him once more. ‘Apologizing?’ His mind tried to think of something Vaella did - though it didn’t take long. Her vulgar display in front of Naemidon’s most important lords immediately came back to him. On its own, he might’ve forgiven it. But coupled with Arlan’s behavior that night. He found himself very unable to keep it from his mind in the passing days.

He eyed her with passing disinterest, his mind else where, on the events that just occurred. He should be talking to Arlan not receiving a late apology from his only daughter. “It took you some time to come to me,” He commented with a distant voice. “I'll hold you to your word then. You'll do better next time.” He kept it brief. What else did he have to say to her? He couldn’t rightfully scold his daughter, no doubt she heard the violence between father and son, or surmised it by the reddening mark on Arlan’s face. Another deep inhale, and shame flooded his mind.

She stayed, even after he accepted her apology. Without any easy out, Naemidon loosed the air in his lungs. “What’s troubling you?” He finally prodded. “I doubt you’ve come here to simply make amends for your previous actions.” He was certain that Daenys rewarded Vaella for her whorish display and the embarrassment it caused the king. But Naemidon wasn’t in any mood to bicker with his family further. “Sit. Talk.” He beckoned and tried to push his mind from the last of his spawns that he gestured to do the same.

Mentions:
High Moon
ailurophile
TheFool

 

[ailurophile]

Vaella Blackfyre​

Relief flooded her chest as her father accepted her apology.

And yet.
It still wasn't satisfying enough.
Vaella could tell that his mind was still elsewhere.

Despite her misgivings, she still eagerly dropped into a seat, folding her hands neatly in her lap. Her leg was bouncing, an old childhood habit that only seemed to resurface around her father, but she caught it and stopped it abruptly. It was rare to get her own, private audience with him. To not have to just take the fraction of attention that was left once he'd divided it between her brothers and their various mothers.

But what to say?
He'd asked what was troubling her, but there was no way she could launch into that. Not yet, at least. Perhaps if his conversation with Arlan had gone smoother and he'd been in better spirits, she might've considered it, but in the given climate it'd be unwise to spring something so controversial upon him.

"It wasn't your fault, you know." Vaella tried gently, in the same tone she'd used when Dyanna had spilled wine all over her floor that morning. "Arlan's just being irrational. He's always been irrational, father, you know that. Irrational and blunt. He's got the emotional range of a... kitchen knife!"

She winced at her poor stab at humour. The joking comparison didn't really make sense.
She swallowed.

"Although... you should apologise for hitting him. I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it, he's just upset. We all are. You most of all, I imagine." With that, Vaella reached up to gingerly take her father's offending hand. To make a connection with him. "He'll apologise too, I guarantee it."

Not that Arlan had apologised to her mother for his lamb-leg fiasco.
Or to Vaella for--
Never. Again.

Vaella paused. Having eased into a conversation (albeit an awkward one), she felt it was time to try and move towards what she really wanted her father's advice on. His blessing, even. She wanted to see his eyes light up and for him to smile and tell her she was brave, and she was intelligent, and she was making Maekar proud, and she was making him proud.

First, despite her eagerness, she had to test the waters.

"There are a few... other things. That have been weighing on my mind. I'll start with the first." Still holding onto his hand, she offered a tentative smile. "It's Dom-- Lord Stark. I've been feeling so awfully for him, living in a whorehouse of all places. I only thought that, you know, as our guest... perhaps it'd be prudent to... extend our hospitality? Don't you think, father?"

A pause.

"Don't you think..?"

TheAncientCelt

 

[QuirkyAngel]

Lord Elstan Waynwood
(Ironoak, the Vale)​

“Ser Gendric Hardyng, head of the Ironoak knights. Maester Arwick. Boris of the the Black Woodsmen.”

Each of the men bowed formally at their introduction except for Boris who merely nodded his head respectfully then shifted his gaze away as if uncertain as to why he was there in the first place. To Elstan though, it made perfect sense. The mercenary was just as much of a guest of his castle as Lady Arryn and her van. Not as important, certainly, but no less deserving of acknowledgement.

“My wife, Matilda, and my daughter, Lilana.”

Both ladies curtsied at the same time.

There were more in the castle, of course, but Elstan doubted Lady Cassandra had the time or desire to be introduced to every knight and servant in Ironoak. She likely wouldn’t be staying more than a day before continuing on her journey anyway. At least, Elstan assumed as much based on the raven they’d received. Regardless, he had every intention of showing the Lady of the Vale and her entourage the best of Ironoak’s hospitality.

The knights stood at attention.

The stable boy, Duncan, watered and fed the horses.

Matilda and Lilana showed the young Arryn’s company to the rooms prepared for them. His wife seemed to know Ser Harys while his daughter had taken up conversation with the Redforts, mainly Lady Rhea who seemed to be the only female of the group besides the Lady of the Vale herself. Elstan watched them for a moment before returning his attention to Cassandra Arryn.

She looked older than he remembered. More mature. But then, seeing as he remembered her as a child hiding behind her mother’s skirts, that didn’t really say much.

“Girls really do grow up fast,” The comment was more spoken to himself than lady Arryn as he thought of his own daughter. As someone with a little girl of his own, he could understand why his cousins were so protective of theirs. “Forgive me for being bold, my lady, but you really do resemble your parents. Your mother’s beauty coupled with your father’s eyes.”

Her decisions as well.

He could tell her all the dangers of going down to King’s Landing. Of Grandmaester Argrave’s murder which, judging from the lockdown of the Red Keep reported to him by the Black Woodsman, was still under investigation. Coupled with the death of the Arryns it only further proved that the castle’s security was less than ideal. That a viper lurked unrestrained in a nest of snakes that King Naemidon called a court. However, he was certain the young Arryn had heard all the warnings, weighed her choices, before making her decision. Therefore what more could he say? He wasn’t her father. Wasn’t her counselor.

“Just as your parents were always welcomed in Ironoak so too does the courtesy extend to you and all your guests, Lady Arryn. Rest for as long as you need to. Dine. The doors of Ironoak will always be open for you. A banquet has already been prepared in fact—in honor of your visit…and your appointment as Master of Law.”

The fact that she climbed down the mountain suggested that she’d accepted the Black Dragon’s offer.

“It’s a good opportunity,” Positivity was almost always better than negativity in these sort of situations. “ You’ll learn a lot in King’s Landing. The policies you make and advise to the king will affect all of the Realm, not just the Vale. You’ll be in a position to change things for the better. Bring in new justice to a Realm rotting in dishonesty and crookedness...”

Elstan searched her eyes. “But…if you ever need it, don’t be afraid to ask for help.” He did have a couple of Black Woodsman stationed in King’s Landing. Though he wasn’t sure how much help they’d be, he had every intention of having them keep an eye on the Lady of the Vale and support her if necessary…while searching the ones responsible for the death of his cousins. “And, if it becomes too much, there’s no shame in taking a step back and reassessing things either.” Elstan smiled warmly. “At least, that is what I would tell my daughter if she were in your shoes. I’ve sworn an oath to your father and I have every intention of keeping it.”

He couldn’t very well ignore the daughter of his cousin. However, she was also his liege and the Lady of the Vale. As such, that was all he would say on the matter. If she wanted his advice, she’d ask for it.

Truthfully, he had a favor to ask of her as well, but such matters could come later.

“For now, my Lady, you and your men can relax knowing the guards of Ironoak will keep you safe.” His eyes flickered to Ser Lyonel who had dark rings under his eyes, but insisted on remaining by Lady Cassandra’s side. At the very least, she’d have loyal men with her when she went to King’s Landing. “The servants will tend to your needs. If you have any other requests feel free to make them. My family and I will do what we can to make your stay as comfortable as possible before your departure.”

Once Cassandra and her guests were acquainted with the rooms prepared for them, given the opportunity to freshen up and recuperate from their journey, they came down to a lavish feast prepared by the cooks in Ironoak. The castle’s residents, from young pages to septas, came one by one to offer gifts and wish the new Lady of the Vale well on journey. Fortunately, his daughter seemed to get along well with Lady Cassandra as well, though what they spoke about, Elstan could only guess. It was strange, seeing the quiet child Roland often spoke of sitting at his table, surrounded by guards, yet politely conversing in a manner befitting of the Lady of the Vale. There was resolve in her eyes.

If Roland were alive, he would’ve been proud. Probably. Elstan, for his part, knew he wanted a carefree life for his little gem. Free of responsibilities and worries. That was why he’d spoiled her when she was a child. When Nick had still alive. He probably still did to a degree. But he also knew he needed to prepare her for things to come.

The clash of the red and black dragons hadn’t ended yet.

It was just taking a brief respite. Twenty years of peace. Then Maekar’s death. Ships being built.Uller’s death. Argrave’s death. The movements of the Dornish soldiers in King’s Landing. The troubles occurring in the Reach. It was all the makings of another war. Once the rush of the tide grew too big, there would be no stopping it. Perhaps the Hand of the King could plug all the holes, but Elstan doubted it. What he worried about is where his family would be when everything spilled over.

Should he call Conrad and Anton back?

No.

Not yet.

There was still time. And who knows? Perhaps one of Blackfyre children would actually succeed in ending the war before it reached their doors.

Mion

 

[Mion]

Cassandra Arryn
​

The halls of Ironoaks had been warmer and more welcoming than she could have ever hoped for. As she had approached Castle Ironoaks there had been a slight pang of doubt that had begun to rise to the surface, the anxieties that she had been pushing down for this journey. Of course the Waynwoods had sent a letter to the Eyrie, declaring their continued loyalty to her and her family, a message of reassurance. And she did share blood with the Waynwoods, her grandmother after all, the late Ravella Arryn had been born a Waynwood. It was not Ironoaks...

Of course it wasn't. It was for what came after this. Runestone. Uncle Royce. The resolve on her face would always waver when it came to mind. In her mind her uncle was a giant. A proud and noble man with strong beliefs, an even stronger will. Lord Royce had always been kind to her yes, she was of his blood too. But the look he would give her father... Disappointment and sometimes even disgust. Will he think the same of me? She had been thinking to herself. If she did make plans to set sail for Kings Landing from Gulltown. What if Uncle said no? Would she be able to go against him? What would happen if she did? He was among the only family she had left. He could not bare losing the Royces too.

But it's not only duty... She finally thought what she had been trying to push aside. Mother... Father... I burried them both... Lord Waynwood burried his kin too. And then Grandmaester Argrave. She ground her teeth together. It was not justice alone that was spurring her on. A sense of loyalty would not have been enough, no. It was anger too. A fire had not been lit under her only, it had been sparked to life for many of the noble Lords and Ladies of the Vale. Their deaths... No.... Murders. It had to have been. She would find the truth of it. Her and Lyonel, and Gawen, and Rhea and the rest of them. They would find who was responsible and bring them to justice. Unless... They died trying.

No... Our foods and drinks shall be tested. If anyone to assault us then Ser Lyonel or Ser Gawen or Ser Harys and our guards will protect us. They will not be able to hurt us. Or so she told herself to keep her calm as the fear surged up her spine, a chill running through her body. If they would even try... Then Lord Redfort. The Lords of the Vale. Would they be able to save them if something were to happen? They would be in the Vale while they in Kings Landing. What could they really do?

These lines of thought and many like it were what kept Cassandra awake for half the nights of her journey through the Vale. Even as she warmed herself in these friendly halls she would periodically wrap her furred cloak tighter around her, for a few moments she would regress into the shy girl that she had been. That I had been? When had I stopped being as such? Is what she had thought to herself. Had she really changed in these few weeks? Despite the heat she could stop the chattering of her teeth. I must be... Strong. From her on out... Always. Strong. She knew that this would only get harder as her journey progressed. She could not falter. She would hold her head up, higher and higher until she forgot that it had ever been hidden low. The words came to her. Her fathers words. Her words.

As High as Honour.

A relaxed smile crept across her face as she continued to enjoy the feast that had been prepared for them by the kind Lord Elstan Waynwood. His words had been a great reassurance to her. She now strongly believed that she had made the correct decision back at the Redfort. As she spoke to Lord Elstans daughter Lilana Stone and Lady Rhea she had been made aware of Ser Conrads and Ser Antons departure for Highgarden. They were to be partaking in the tourney there. "Mayhaps the two of them could come to Kings Landing? You could come too Lilana if you wouldn't mind joining us. We would love to have you in our company." Cassandra was of the mind where the more allies she had by her side the better.

Today she was wearing one of her mothers old dresses a mix of black and blues it was. The smooth silk and rich myrish lace seemed to compliment each other well. It was a nice break from her riding wares although it did seem to give off the impression that she was still half in mourning of something along those lines. Which wouldn't be entirely wrong.

"If you will excuse me for a moment." She asked for the pardon of the table she had been keeping company, she gripped tightly onto the letter that she had Ser Robb retrieve before they had arrived. "I must talk to Lord Elstan on an urgent matter." Her voice carried a hint of importance. Cassandra wondered how Lord Redfort was getting on. Had he already been joined by the Knight of the Ninestars and Lord Waxley. She recalled Lord Wyman convincing her to write letters to Lord Hunter and have him follow suite with Lords Sunderly and Melcom, to contact Lord Corbray along with the other Northern Lords of the Vale as Lord Redfort was doing with the Southern Lords.

She approached Lord Waynwood in a composed manner, with a gentle and friendly demeanor about her. Her breathing slowed. In. Out.

The letter in her hand would appoint Lord Elstan Waynwood as the Knight of the Bloody Gate, or appoint any among his mean as such if he should choose so. She curtsied before handing over the letter to Lord Elstan personally.

"Lord Elstan I would like to say that your council will always be welcome by House Arryn. I thank you for the hospitality that you have shown all of us. I hope that you will be pleased with this, I believe that I can trust you to be a man who is honourable and true. I would ask of you. Please protect our people my Lord."

Her cheeks found themselves a little flushed as she found herself saying some thing she thought sounded rather embarrassing. But they were words that came from the heart. She could not help but worry that Lord Waynwood would be disgruntled by the appointment, what if he did not want such a thing if he was content with what he had? No Cassandra. Anyone would be honoured by this... Surely they would. She told herself in what she thought was stern to begin with but turned out rather unconvincing. Well all she could do now was wait. To watch Lord Elstan break the seal of the letter and read its contents although from her words surely its contents would already be known to him.

QuirkyAngel

 

[Mion]

Rosamund Goodbrother
​

'The Amber Eye' led the way for the small group of Iron Ships and stolen greenlander galleys, they had made quick work of the so called Isle of Pigs. Which, as always, did not manage to live up to its name. There wasn't even half as many pigs as Ros had been expecting. But in the end it was more than enough for a feast when this was all over. They would eat and drink themselves to death on all the pork and arbor wine that they could get their hands on!

As for the holdings of the Isle of Pigs... They had shared the same fate as all the other holdings that found themselves the victims of Iron Born reaving. Sacked, put to the touch and a select section of their population carried off by the reavers. If it was Al she would have told them no... Ros pondered for a moment, it almost felt like guilt... That wasn't usual for her. Not by any means. She always respected and looked up to her sister, Ros could see the good in what she said. If the Iron Islands was under her rule then perhaps things like this could be put to an end. After all it was called 'The Old Way'.

But it was Erich Greyjoy who ruled the Iron Isles. And he had promised all of these reavers whatever they could get their hands on. Ros was not going to deny them that. Many of these men would call Al weak. Maybe even a craven. In truth she might be among the strongest of us. She found herself staring out at the sea behind them as he leaned against a mast.

"What in the fuck are ye doin' Ros. Don't be going all deep and broodin on us we all know yer a stupid bitch if there ever was one." The words were being blasted out the lips of Sigryd Wynch along with a torrent of spittle.

"Siggy if you talk to me like that on my own ship again I am going to crack that huge fucking slug of a nose on yer face." She balled one of her hands into a fist and made an exaggerated gesture towards him.

"Oh really?!" He drew closer to her, clenching his own fists. "What do I keep tellin' ya Ros, don't say you will do something if you aren't gonna-"

CRACK

Sigfryd Wynch was sent sprawling back after Ros's forehead came crashing into the bridge of the mans nose. A swift headbutt.

She swung her foot back in an almost comical manner, winding the follow up kick that would settle this matter. But luckily an oarsman called out just in time. "Captain! We are approachin' Lord Harlaws ships. They be preparing to take Starfish Harbor."

Ros extended her hand to her fallen friend. Sigfryd gripped it hard and rose to his feet. "Aye looks like it. What will we do Ros?" He asked, forgetting the "quarrel" that they had just had. Well everyone on the ship seemed to be acting as it had never even happened. In fact the truth of the matter is that such things happened. Too often...

"Well we have our pork. We have our wine. Let's go get us some fruits. Pomegranates don't sound too bad. Have you ever had a Pomegranate Siggy?"

"Once or twice... I think."

Ros chuckled. "Well then lets join up with Lord Harlaw and the lovely who men who got assigned with him!"

The ships under Ros's command quickly joined the ones of Lord Harlaw, and just in time as well. For not long after the assault of Starfish Harbor had begun.

This was not like the fleeing galleys that Ros had encountered earlier. This was a proper port with a proper town. These men would put up a fight. Sure they would die the same but. If they weren't careful then any of the Iron Born who were too reckless or too stupid could be going with them.

Who were the simple sounding greenlanders that were seated here again? The Pomminghams? Hah! She could have just as well come here for her pork if she hadn't picked out the Isle of Pigs!

It was Lord Harlaw and his ships that lead the way into battle, they were the first to leap off their ships onto the land and the first to spill blood. Ros and her crew weren't long behind them. Each and everyone of them were eager to be in the thick of it, to have the pick of the spoils!

Ros watched as men in red and white colours dropped their swords to beg for mercy, while others in the same colours rushed towards the iron born attackers. They were all killed the same. Innoncent men, women and children were not spared the axes either, nor the swords, nor the hammers. Ros wasn't put off by any of this. The sacking, the looting, the burning. There was part of her that knew it was wrong. Or at least there probably had been... She had seen it all many times before, it did not phase her. Sorry Al. It's just how Iron Born are I guess. We really are a rotten bunch aren't we? You would have done well if you were born well a greenlander! Hopefully one on the other side of Westeros too eh? As far away from our lot as possible?" Ros could have a rather bitter sense of humour at times.

She did make some effort not to pursue those who were obviously fleeing or surrendering, those of course were quickly killed by others though. Ros did however proudly meet whoever kept their steel in their hands.

A rather hardened looking man rushed towards her, this one swung his longsword in a well practised arc aiming to bite into her collarbone. Ros quickly drew back to avoid the steel looking to bite into her flesh. In her right hand she held a longsword, while in her left an axe. The man made for another swing with his longsword. Once again the steel only cut through the air, the wind whistling by as it did so. Ros swung her own steel in return, her axe dug deep into the knee of her opponent. Letting it go she then circled around behind him and put her sword in his back.

Lucky she had done so when she did, for the had been another man in the red and white colours rushing to his comrades aide. She grinned at him as she brought her blade out of his friend. His blood flesh on her steel now. "Are all of you this slow huh?! Why don't you just run away now. I won't blame you!" Her laughter only angered the man. She looked at him with derision. Their steel clashed together as Ros parried his attack, and then she swiftly brought her blade down into the mans collarbone. Ripping into his flesh and sending him to the floor as his lifeblood spilt out. Well at least your friends was useful for something eh? Well not so much for you hehehe.

Ros must have fought her way through at least four or five more men before she found her good friend Sigfryd Wynch as he struggled with a rather large man in plate. No matter how much Sigrfyd battered the fellow with hefty blows, the knight stood his ground. His colours were red and white too, he had a long cloak coloured a rich red and its pin looked to be a Pomegranate. As Sygfryd continued to assault the man from the front, Ros thought it better to sneak up on the knight while he was distracted with his opponent.

CRACK

The sound of the knights helmet being rung by a mighty blow from behind. It sent the man tumbling to the ground. Sigrfyd rushed forward and wrestled the knights sword out of his hand, throwing it away. "Thank the gods. I thought the fucker would never go down!" Sigfryd chuckled to himself as he tore away at the knights cloak to make some makeshift bindings. "We best find some rope or something." Sigfryd looked around the place with his eyes. The battle seemed to be really dying down now. More and more people were fleeing and the piles of dead grew higher and higher.

"Why don't we just kill 'im?" Ros suggested.

Sigfryd looked up at her. "You don't know who this is?" "Well you would have if you had been here when he charged us, he was bloody shouting his own name out. 'You Iron Born will remember the name Tristan Pommingham!'" He shooks his said. "He is the heir of Lord Pommingham he is. Fancy we would do well to bring him to Erich as a hostage.

"Oh..." Ros was taken by surprise a little. "Yeah we could do. Definitely is a bit better than some pigs and wine on their own isn't it?"

"Well. Lets let Lord Harlaw take care of the rest of things here. We should get Ser Pommingham back to the ships."

 

[TheAncientCelt]

Naemidon Blackfyre​

Despite Vaella swiftly falling into the vacant seat across from him, Naemidon was unsure if she planned to say much at all. The only princess of the Blackfyre lineage seemed far and distant, with a contemplative expression darting her face. It reminded him of her mother, whenever she was lost in deep thought. Be it her own plans to humiliate Naemidon or make certain that his mood was shot, she wore it with little guise. He was accustomed to seeing it on her, knowing that the last Targaryen Queen was looking for weaknesses to exploit. Finding it on her daughter took Naemidon by surprise. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised. How often did that woman spend with Vaella in her formative years?’ Too often, though Blackfyre’s duties were vast when the children were born. A realm in rebellion and seven others barely held together by a foreign ruler. He had precious little time to spare on them.

Prioritizing the Iron Throne over his family was the prudent decision. It would allow for his family to live with the luxuries he never had at their age, opportunities where ever they sought them, and relative security. Yet, there was an exchange for these gifts underappreciated by his spawns. The weight of being a king was greater than that of a father. ‘Arlan is a man now.’ His mind reeled back to his oldest son, not a hard topic to avoid given their encounter. ‘A man. Has he made companions worth their weight in gold? Has he been forced to steal a life? Has he ever loved?’ It was startling how little he knew about his son. Besides surface information, that which was brought up in polite conversation around dinner and similar circumstances, Naemidon found himself feeling distant to Arlan. As if they were on separate continents, divided by so much ocean Blackfyre couldn’t hope to sail it all.

It was a depressing thought. Nearly as depressing as knowing that his surviving children were all equals in that regard. He had time to spend with Maekar, before the Conquest. Afterwards, he was at an appropriate age to tutor personally or attend his many lectures. There was a connection between them.

The same couldn’t be said for Naemidon Blackfyre and the others.

His violet eyes refocused on Vaella. What about his only girl? ‘Has she made maiden friends?’ He didn’t know, beyond Mor’s daughter and Viserys’ many butter-brides, he was unaware of her inner circle. ‘Has she loved, or been the love of others?’ There was temptation to ask, to spring into the question. Guilt surrounding Maekar and Arlan’s outburst no doubt propeling these urges that normally were so well suppressed.

His tongue flickered against his lips, ready to make inquiries, but a sudden fear gripped his heart. ‘And what if I’m rebuked yet again?’ Whether or not Arlan and his relationship could be salvaged was unknown. After the blow, Naemidon was leaning in a regrettable direction, it would likely never flourish. Would it be the same if he asserted just how little he knew about his daughter? Would she be equally insulted and realize the gulf between them. Or was that something she was aware of already?

His courage left him and Naemidon sat still as his daughter spoke. As before, seconds lingered for hours, but it wasn’t more than a minute since she seated herself. His downcast expression grew irritable and shifted under the weight of her words, perplexed at their meaning. ‘It wasn’t my fault?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Maekar’s death or the argument between her brother and I?’ Naemidon knew not, yet felt insulted and naked under the first accusation.

“He’s a stubborn lad.” Blackfyre added, as if that was any continuation of their conversation.

Her attempts at humor garnered no hold as he sat, now feeling her hand wrap around his. Her words were sweet, almost sickeningly. Beneath them he could make out a hitch in her breathing, or a thought ended before it began, when she went to speak. His reactions were muted, until she dared to lecture him. A chortle burst from his chest at the absurdity of it all, in that moment she sounded closer to his grandmother than the Vaella he barely knew. “I was not expecting a lecture when you paraded through the doorway. You’ve certainly a knack for surprising others.” Traces of mirth on his lips for seconds, pulled behind the veil of his passive visage. He promised nothing - he’d of already apologized if Vaella didn’t interrupt. Her advice felt roughly as convenient as an ale addled man preaching self control and wisdom through faith, whilst he downed more of the brown brew.

The subject drifted, Blackfyre making no attempts to offer extra words at the moment. His daughter sought this audience and no doubt she had a list of requests. ‘Provided it’s not Dragonstone, I doubt she and I will fight.’ His expression soured at the thought. With carefully picked words, the Blackfyre Princess requested a room in the Keep for. . . Stark?

It was odd to hear this from Vaella. ‘He offered her flowers, did he not?’

A groan, Naemidon pulled further back into the sofa, but didn’t retract his hand from hers. “Whilst I enjoy Lord Domeric’s company, I’m sure he isn’t to be so torn at remaining in an esteemed brothel.” A wry grin came over him at the thought. “Young men dream of such a thing. Why, when I was his age. .” He began, nearly a dozen stories of himself, Mudd, Costayne Strong, and Lothston seeking out the most exotic women in Volantis came to mind. “Nevermind,” He waved the memory away, quickly remembering who he was talking to. It wasn’t a story a woman would enjoy, certainly not a princess.

“While he is our guest, we must tread with caution around this wolf. He seems an honest man, his company does not grate on me as the children of other lords do.” Immediately, Gerion Lannister came to mind. The last visit to the Remnants of the Rock made him regret fully extinguishing the main line of that House. A self-important young man who wanted the world to gaze in awe of him. “An honest man such as Lord Domeric concern me when they decide to betray their kin. If Lord Domeric wishes to enter the Red Keep as a resident, I’ll need more than a handful of Northern schemes and roughly drawn maps from him.”

“Don’t forget what House we are. We reward those for loyalty and action. Should Lord Domeric prove himself to us further and help us in our strife's, I’ll be a true friend to him and see he is aptly rewarded.” His breathed in, finding his thoughts. “But not before. Maybe he’ll have an opportunity in the near future.” They would need to retake Seagard at the very least. And assuring that the North had no access to the King’s Road on the Eastern banks of the trident meant that the Twins would be next to fall. Their adopted pup would hopefully be of use then.

Mentions:
ailurophile
TheFool
High Moon

 

[TheFool]

Alwyn Goodbrother
The Burnt




​

Fire.

Thick orange flames danced daringly. A burnt black house in its vicious hold. The blaze sung with a crackling melody. The house sung with screams. Screams of those who were trapped inside. Alwyn watched, standing on the half broken dock. One of her ships behind her -
Father’s Gift.
It was tied to the pole, so that it would not stray. Its gangway pulled up. It would come back down when she shouted up to the remaining crew aboard. Those who did not want to participate in the pillage. Some of them shared her ideals -
They did not follow the way of old.
Others didn’t see the point.
The town that burnt before them was a small one that did not even have a name on any map. A little hamlet on the shore of Horseshoe Rock. “I’ll rape when it’s Ryamsport.” One of her men had said to her. Scraps was his name. Called such for the little food he ate - and the constant arguing he’d partake in.
She’d never seen such a skinny man argue so much.
Until him, of course.

She stood. In black leather armour. Revealing enough that her scars were visible - but not so much that her vital organs were in danger of a stabbing. As if a stabbing is certain. Her boots - also leather - clicked against the wood as she walked off the dock.
Her own sword at the ready. A simple one, made of iron.
Much like the village -

It too did not have a name.

Her feet finally touched solid land. Rock and sand and dry yellow grass. The heat was almost unbearable. Not only did the sun shine bright but she was overcome by the waves of heat constantly emanating from the dozen burning shacks. Alwyn felt as if her skin was to begin to boil.

Do I really need anymore scars?

She thought.
She looked at her left arm. The one with the hand holding iron. An odd hoarse’d chuckle escaping her.
She dug her boots into the ground.

Into the muck under the grass. Fertile soil.
Something she wasn’t accustomed to.

“Captain,”
A voice rang. Competing in pitch with the sound of the fire and the sound of the shrieks.
She looked up to see a grossly fat man, wearing blue.
Rodrik Sparr.
“Actually addressing me by my titles now, eh?” She shot at him.
He smiled an almost toothless smile,
“Only because you’ve gotten us a victory. You were right to come ‘ere. This place is easy pickings. I’ve already found some potential saltwives. Want to help me judge ‘em?”
Alywn shook her head slowly,
“I feel like my judgement is better had elsewhere, Sparr. Not with the women you wish to rape.”
“Rape? They’re mine. By right.”
“Who’s right?”
“The Drowned God. Or ‘ave you forgot?”
“I haven’t.”
Rodrik Sparr waddled over. His excess spilling over the badly padded armour he wore.
“Did you find anything else?” She asked him.
“Like what?”
“Like something that we would find of actual use?”
“I’ll find these holes of much use, Goodbrother.”
“Careful, Sparr.” She tapped her finger against the hilt of her sword. “I can give you a hole of your own.”

He laughed at her.
She frowned.

“I rather yours.”
“Mine’s reserved for mine husband.”
She said.
As if it were true.
“I’m sure ‘arlan Farwynd’s all the man you need, right?”

She ignored him, moving on.

Deeper into the village.
Deeper into the smoke and flame.

The chaos was most rife in what she presumed to be the town’s square. This was were most of her men were. Bloodied weapons in their hands. Badly tailored pants down around their ankles. They fought and they fucked. They drank fine vintage - stolen from storehouses - and pissed it out onto the orange flickering. Onto the battered and bruised innocents.

There was a word.

Innocents.

It was the reason why she had stayed on the ship, on The Gift, until now. She did not want to partake in this. In any of this. In any of the fighting and fucking and drinking and pissing.

That wasn’t her.
That was her men. Her people.

She would have no part in any of it. The barbarics. I am no worse than any of them, however. She thought to herself as she passed an overturned cart. A dead donkey at its side.
If I truly wanted change.
If I truly… cared for these people. These innocents.

She stopped and looked down a laneway between two buildings. A naked corpse lay in mud. Legs spread. Arms dismembered.

I wouldn’t have allowed any of them to do this.

She shut her eyes.
She walked away.

I should’ve told Erich Greyjoy to go bugger himself. When he explained his plans to us all - I should’ve told him right then and there that he was a mad man. Someone who would doom us.

More than we’ve been doomed already.

But Alwyn knew that if she had said that, it would only have been met with laughs. Mockery and accusations of being a ‘traitorous bitch’.
“Of course a woman would think that.” Harlaw might’ve said.
Merlyn would have joined in, “More wise counsel coming from the burnt old whore.”

“Stupid slut.”

“Little cunny.”

“Damn the fire for not finishing the job.”

She remembered it as if it was this morning.
How long ago was it?
Twenty years, it must be. Twenty one?
She sat. Legs crossed. The fingers of her left hand wrapped around a wooden toy. A tiny weaved horse. No larger than the hand she held it with. She clicked her tongue - so it sounded like the horsie clopped as she moved it. Click clock clack. She had it moving atop a closed crate filled with something expensive.
Something a seven year old would not care for.
She clicked.
She neighed.
A hee.
A haw.
The cabin she was in swayed gently. Side to side. The ship she was on was her father’s and the waves were calm. Steady. A crewman told her that there was nothing to worry about. Her father would never give her such assurances.

“If we sink, we sink. Better not drown, lass. I’ll kill ‘ya if you drown.”

He said to her before the voyage.
She remembered giggling at his words as if he was telling a jest.
She remembered the smack across the face she got for that giggle.
So -
She hid down here. In the hull of the ship, surrounded by crates. All alone but for her wooden steed. A toy from home that she managed to sneak aboard.

Her mind lost in the playing.
In the clicking and the neighing.

By the time she smelled the crisp burning, it was too late.

The fire had surrounded her.

Like it did now.
On Horseshoe Rock.

“Lower the gangway.” She called up. Finding herself back on the broken dock. Her boots squishy. The cool breeze being carried by the sea felt good against her sweat covered face. The gangway found its way down and she climbed up it, sheathing her sword.
“Cap’n?” Rolfe said.
A green bandana wrapped around his bald head.
“Tell them they have ten minutes to get back on board. We leave for Starfish Harbour soon.” She announced.
“Aye aye.” Rolfe and a few others said in an imperfect unison.
“Quite ambitious today.” Sparr spoke.
His hands groping a weeping woman. One of his new ‘salt wives’.
“The ambition is only beginning.”
She replied.
He smiled his slimy smile at her.

She did not return it.

“Not happy with your crew’s work?”
He asked.
“I wouldn’t say happy, no.”
He shook his fat head, “You’re an odd bitch.” His jowls wiggled.
“Shut it, Sparr.”
“Else what?”
“Else you’ll be missing a few more teeth.”

“Bah. Who needs ‘em?” He said, still smiling.
He pinched the girl with a cackle.
She cried out in response.

The captain’s cabin. Her body hugged the door as she closed it behind her. Her only solitude on this ship. On The Father’s Gift. She closed her eyes and listened. To the yelling. To her orders being issued by Rolfe and Cotter and young Alester Pyke.
“Pour me some water, sister.” Alwyn said before letting out a sigh.
Her eyes opened.
Helya sat at the desk. Shielded from the horror outside.

As I intended.

“We’re done here.” Al continued to speak. “We make way for Starfish Harbour. To join with the Harlaw and hopefully our Ros.”
She stopped pressing up against the door and moved towards her youngest sister. She plopped herself into a seat next to the desk. Her eyes watching a lit wax candle - half melted. Enclosed in a rusted steel lantern.

The fire’s inescapable.

Her sister handed her the cup. She took a sip.

As is the water.

Spoiler: Al's MENTIONS

ailurophile
Mion
Yarrow

Ironborn Crew =
Akio
Braddington ( Daemon )
Hypnos
High Moon

 

[TheFool]

Rhaenys Blackfyre
Queen Mother




​

Daemon Pyke had left her lonely.

Off to galavant.
To see sights.
To taste exotic treats and hear never before heard instruments muster noise. He’s had quite enough of my lute, surely. She looked at it. Lying on the table, next to the half-eaten dishes. She reached across, putting her thumb and her index finger on a single string.
She plucked it.
Its music wrong.
Out of tune.

Everything was as of late.
She sat.
In silence.
Everything.

Her silence and her loneliness was broken soon but after.
Her two friends came shambling back, being escorted by three men all in gold. Order Of Bittersteel. Three fresh faces - all unrecognisable. What have they done now?

She studied them.
Maybe she did know the trio. Her mind may have only misplaced them.

“Something’s happened.”
Lianna spoke. Her lips big and bright pink, like the ones on her house’s crest.
“And what is that?”
Rhaenys replied.
“The Grandma-”
Ysabel was cut short by one of the men in gold. The youngest looking one.
“There’s been a murder, most like. We want you to return to your quarters until we have received further notice.”
A murder?
“Who?” Rhaenys asked.
“Grandmaester Argrave”
Ysabel was able to finish.

Argrave?
Oh my.

Though he was younger than herself - Argrave was an old fool. A man from The Reach, who had a distaste for her. A distaste for her whole family - for House Blackfyre. Rhaenys had complained about him several times. She once caught him lingering outside Queen Daenys’ chambers during the hour of the wolf.
The pervert.
Naemidon did not listen however.
He simply waved her and her accusations away. Like always.

A part of her, if true, was glad the petulant fart no longer lived.

He was not just dead, however.
He was murdered.
At this time of day? With the sun so high?

“Please, Queen Mother. We wish to clear the gardens.”
Another member of the company said. Tall with broad shoulders and a tussle of brown hair.

She nodded.
Stiffly.
“Of course, of course, of course. We will take our leave. Come ladies.”
Rhaenys turned around.
Lianna grumbled.
Ysabel smiled politely.
“Are you sure you do not need any assistance, Queen Mother?” The third company men asked.
Offering to help an old lady get to her bed.
“Very sure.”
Was all she said.

They walked.
The garden path by the vibrant rose bushels. When the colours ended - the steps began. Leading the trio of ladies into a corridor of The Red Keep.

Ysabel and Lianna talked of trivial things.
Like the murder.
Though I suppose that isn’t as trivial as something like the weather, no?
“Who do you think did it?” Ysabel asked. Rhaenys kept quiet, watching the scratch marks in the red brick. Showing the castle’s age. They were moving quickly for a gaggle of old geese.
Lianna spoke,
“I bet it’s that Butterwell fella. He has always struck me as the murderin’ type.”
“Oh no, he is lovely.”
Ysabel replied.
“Ha!”
“He is, Lianna. His mother was always so kind.”
“Who was she again?”
“Oh… what was her name?”
Ysabel stopped for a moment,
“Agnes?”
A guess.
“No. That’s his daughter. The tall one.” Rhaenys butt in.
“Well, whoever it was that killed him -”

Rhaenys stopped as she turned a corner.
Her two friends bumping into the back of her as she did.

“My grace.”

A woman said. Taller than any of them but that was not saying much. She had sun kissed skin and raven black hair. “May I join you in your walk?” Her voice was flared with an exoticness. The type Daemon Pyke sought out after. Kinvara.
Her son’s court sorceress.
A girl from Essos that found her way here somehow. Found her way into court.

Though didn’t we do the same?

Rhaenys studied her.
She was no one important. A girl born in rags who was lucky enough to learn a bit of hocus pocus. That was all she was. A glorified parlour trick.

She appeared out of the blue one morning, when Maekar had hurt himself.

She healed him with powders and salves and ‘old magics’.

That earned her her place.

“Lady Kinvara.”
Rhaenys bowed her head, slightly.
The sorceress curtsied in response.
“Of course you can.” Rhaenys said. “Will you be coming back to my quarters with us for some tea?”
Kinvara smiled,
“Tea does sound lovely but… I have a small council meeting to attend to. The Hand has called one. Your quarters is on the way there is it not?”
“It is.”

“Then let us walk.”

“Let’s.”

“I suppose the impromptu meeting is in regards to Argrave?” Rhaenys asked.
Kinvara nodded, “Most likely.”
Her hands held together, in front of her, as she walked.
To Rhaenys,
She looked as if she was almost floating. The length of her dress covering her feet.
“How are you coping?” Kinvara asked.
“With the death of The Grandmaester?” Rhaenys raised a brow.
The sorceress shook her head, “With the death of Maekar.”
Ah.
“It’s hard, as a grandmother, to outlive the people you watched grow up.”
“Course.”
“He wasn’t the first to be lost. He likely won’t be the last. Not with this contest of heirs. Not with this war.”
Kinvara nodded,
“Our King knows what he is doing, my grace.”
“Pah. He knows nothing.”
“That is an insult to him. To his wisdom. His strength.”

Rhaenys stopped in her tracks -

“Both of which he is lacking, Lady Kinvara. I know he and you are… close. Spare any detail. Do not, however, come to me and boast of him and his… wisdom. And his strength. There was nothing wise nor strong in sending his heir to die. Nothing wise nor strong in pitting my grandchildren against one another.”

She wagged her finger at the sorceress.

Kinvara kept quiet.
“Rhae, be calm.” Ysabel put her hand on her shoulder.
“I… apologise if I have upset you, Lady Rhaenys.” Kinvara spoke solemnly.

“Apology not accepted, Lady Kinvara. I am upset! I am grieving! Grieving for both my sons though one is still alive. Grieving for my grandchild. Readying myself to mourn the rest of them when the time comes. Your apologies and your condolences will not mend this.”

Only I can.
She thought.

An urge fell over her. The tea could wait.
She needed to see her son.
She needed to speak with Naemidon.

“Lianna. Ysabel. Go to my quarters. Have your tea. I must do something.” Rhaenys said to them, her stare still on Kinvara. The sorceress looked saddened. Apologetic. Not completely, though. There was… something else. A hint of a smile.
Or maybe Rhaenys’ was going mad.

My age catching up to me.

Like the lines in the red brick.

Like her coughing storm earlier.

Kinvara curtsied once more,
“Again. I am sorry.”

“Right.”
Rhaenys said.
Serious.

“I will take leave.”

The sorceress hurried off. The tail of her dress trailing around the corner as she did.

Rhaenys looked at her two friends and shooed them away.
“Will you be long?” Ysabel asked.
“That bitch.” Lianna commented on Kinvara.
“Where are you going?” Ysabel asked another question.

“I’m going to see my son.”

She replied.

“The King needs some sense slapped into him.”

Spoiler: Rhaenys' MENTIONS

TheAncientCelt / Optimus Princeps

 

[Mion]

Aerion Blackfyre​

The Young Prince wandered the dark halls of the Red Keep alone, with his oil lamp in hand as the only source of light at this late hour. He had thought for a moment there had been the pattering of his Balerions paws against the floors behind him but when he had turned there was nothing there but the darkness. The Red Keep was never this dark in truth, nor so empty. I must have dozed off reading. He concluded quickly, it had not been the first time he had found himself in a dream through such means. The only trouble was that he had still yet to find a method of waking himself before the dream ran its course.

A dream? Can I still call it that after what Lady Kinvara told me?

He allowed an exhausted sigh to escape for him as he continued to move forward until he found himself approaching an opening, to a garden. Laying quietly in their beds were all the flowers you would expect to find in Kings Landing, however with them accompanied ones he had only ever seen in the Reach and there were even plants from Dorne. Some Aerion could have sworn that he never seen before, nor could even guess on what they might be,

It had been a moment before he noticed that he was no longer holding the oil lamp but rather the garden had been lit by the pale milk shade light of the moon and stars above. Aerion looked up at them, he could swear that he could feel a cool nights breeze pass over him. But as far as his surroundings told him everything was in fact eerily still.

"Brother..." He heard the once familiar voice of the late Crown Prince Maekar call to him from the entrance he had just walked through moments before.

Aerion turned around to face him gracefully. With a friendly grin on his face, welcoming his brother who had been so kind to join him.

"I would never have expected to meet you here Maekar." His tone was no longer sad, he could face his beloved older brother with a cool head, his eyes shone brightly with the warm memories that he held dear of the Crown Prince.

It was not Maekar who stood before him though. It was a corpse dressed up in dragons colours, with a golden skull for it's head. Blood spilled out from its wounds.

His eyes widened as he took a step backwards. The mouth of the skull moved as its body stalked forward but no more words came from it, not until it had reached him and put its hands around his neck. He felt them tighten around him, the cold dead fingers began to squeeze the air from him.

"North. Brother." The golden skull found its voice again just as the light began to fade from The Young Princes sight. Aerion looked into the skulls empty sockets, he could swear that there was flames deep within them. He put up little resistance to the skull and it's cold hands. This was just a dream. It would be over soon.

"No." It seemed to say to him wordlessly. Aerions eyes filled with unease, doubt, fear. He hastily began his attempts to tear away the arms from his throat but he found that he did not have the strength to. His arms felt almost as lifeless as the skull creature assailing him.

He raised his left leg and with all of the strength he could muster kicked out at the creature. Aerion feared that it would not be enough, if it wasn't. He did not think he had the strength to kick again.

Perhaps the gods were watching over him, for when his boot met the skull creature it sent it stumbling back. Aerion fell backwards as he felt the world spinning around him.

"Aerion..." Maekars sad voice rung out as clear as day once more. It was indeed his eldest brothers face now. Goodbye Maekar... Please do not make me say it again... Tears did not fall this time. Aerion felt his head collide with the hard ground.

He was no longer in the gardens. No longer in the Red Keep. He was in that tower again. A tower with a young silver haired child looking out over the sea. Aerion grunted as he sat himself up, for some queer reason he felt that he could relax in this tower. There was a warmth to it. He eyed the child, it's back was turned to him once more.

"Sorry for intruding again... I keep finding myself here for some reason." He spoke out loud although his words seemed to have been swallowed by the stone walls surrounding him. Walls that began to smoke. Walls that began to glow.

He walked towards a window to see what it was. Part of him already knew. Dragons, fighting again and again. Round and round they danced as they always did. Large red dragons meeting black ones with tooth and claw and flame. Some of the smaller black ones snarled and snapped at one another but they continued their flights side by side soon later.

One of the dragons was covered in wounds, one of its wings in tatters. It plummeted towards the waters underneath. Great clouds of steam rose up from the waters where it fell. Where it sank under.

Aerion closed his eyes. He did not need to see this again. He knew the sight all to well.

The sounds of screams, the sounds of battle. The smell of blood, the smell of poison. A wolfs howl, a lionesses pained roar. Sounds of terror, sounds of pain, sounds of death, relief, sadness, joy, life.

The Young Prince peered open one eye, to see a single hand drop to the floor. He closed it again.

It will be over soon.

And so it was. Aerion found himself awake, lying on his bed with his dog Balerion snoozing beside him. He had been covered in a cold sweat, the large book that he had been reading from lay on his floor now. He moaned painfully as he lurched over to pick it up and set it back on the desk.

Aerion changed into another set of clothes that his mother had ordered him to wear. The doublet and breeches made in the colours of his house, his cloak a grey wool meant to represent the grey of the Hightower banner.

Lady Kinvara had urged him to stay in his room while the court figured out what to do.

I can already not bear to stay in here any longer. He protested.

But Prince Aerion knew that the court would have no use for him in these moments. He would wait here for now, for as long as his will would let him. If the gods were kind then some servants should come and say that his father and the council had settled things.

Aerion picked up the wine that his mother had poured him. For a moment he thought to take a sip, but his stomach turned when he remembered the unknown substance that had been mixed within it from that strange vial. He placed it down again. Better not...