Fandom ♛ Council Of Fire ♛ A Game Of Thrones RP

[TheFool]

♛




Jewel Of The North




Her hand touched his.
Her warmth fusing with his cold, like fresh-forged steel being dipped into chilled water. He smiled at her as he helped draw her from the carriage she had come so accustomed to. Rodrick Stark’s smile was her favourite thing about him. It was far from glistening white, and his breath was not often the most flowered but … she loved that smile. The smile also carried with it words. Words she had been so desperately longing to hear. They had finally arrived at Summerhall.
“Oh. They eagerly await us, do they?” She said,
Leaving the carriage.
The bright grey sunlight was a smack to her sight. The air was cool, but bitter. Her nostrils were ravaged on all sides by the stench of horses and sweat … combined with the smell of nature. The fallen leaves and the dew of the forest. The mud and the shit and the recently set-up campfires. Rodrick helped her down from her comfort.
Her heeled boots landing softly in thick wet muck. She rolled her eyes, “I’ll stretch my legs, my love. As long as said stretching is on hard rock or tile.”
She looked down.
The ends of her dress were soiled slightly. The green and silver of the fabric had now been painted with splashes of disgusting brown.
“This is …”
She stopped herself, looking up at her husband. The hand she owned - the one not still holding his - found itself cupping his cheek. The hairs of his beard brushing against her skin. She used her thumb to caress his scarred eye.
Carefully,
In case the thing somehow still hurt the man. “You think we’d cause a scandal if you simply … carried me in your arms into Summerhall” She made jest, while she still touched his face. She let out a light giggle. Oh,
How she would love for him to do such a thing.

But …
Alas.
This trip meant business. There was no time to be loving and to be affectionate. Not when The Iron Throne laid bare and a king had to be chosen.

Her hand slid from his cheek, sliding against the bristles of hair on his face. She smiled warmly at him before saying, “Don’t forget our dear daughter. She’s terrified.” Sybell let go of his hand and touched the edges of her dress … lifting it up slightly.
She’d be damned if she got one more little splotch of mud on her gown. Damned. She began walking or more so trudging towards the castle and the camps and the rest of their retinue they’d brought with them. She looked back briefly to see Rodrick lifting their youngest daughter out of the carriage. Cerelle.
Named for Sybell’s mother who had passed a year before the girl’s birth. Cerelle was soon celebrating her ninth nameday. They always grew up equally too fast and not fast enough. When Rodrick put the girl down onto the ground,
She ran.
Jogging towards Sybell and clutching the back of her gown. “Cerelle, whatever is the matter?” Sybell asked as she faced down at the little girl.

She was a shy one.

Sybell was shy too when she was a girl. Green and unknowing. An unripe fruit. Those days were long gone and ... long lost. She had lived through a civil war, and through an invasion upon her and her husband’s lands. She was no longer green.
She was a woman.
A Turnberry.
A Stark.
“Mother, I-”
Sybell let go of the sides of her gown and bent down so that she and her daughter were at eye level. The dress - very ungracefully - plopped back down into the dirt. Into the mud. She wanted to scream in anguish or let loose a defeated groan, but she couldn’t.
Her daughter needed her.
“I told you, my sweet.” Sybell Stark started, “There is nothing to be afraid of and nothing to worry over. We are far from home, yes … but … we are safe. Aren’t we the safest we’ve ever been?” She looked up at Rodrick, who watched the two.
His youngest daughter.
His wife.

“Your father will protect you. His men will protect you. Your brothers and your sister and … me. We will all keep you away from harm, sweetling. Do not fret.”
Sybell planted a faint kiss upon the girl’s forehead.
“Now -”
She continued.
“Keep your chin up and smile.” Sybell’s fingers found themselves at the child’s arms, tickling. Cerelle entered a sudden fit of giggling.
“Stop it, mother!”
She cried through the laughter.
Sybell stopped and then smiled at her baby girl, before she rose from her stance. She patted Cerelle’s head and the girl began walking with the pride of any Stark. Of any wolf. Big or small. She watched as the girl triumphed.
A conquerer of fear.
“I hope Brandon and Erena did not have … similar reactions to being in the south.” Sybell laughed, dryly.
Looking at Rodrick. She placed her hand against his bicep,

“Come. Show them your jewel, my lovely lord.”

Spoiler: MENTIONS

Spoiler: MENTIONS

RayPurchase
Rusty of Shackleford
ailurophile

​

 

[Braddington]

Maekar the Eggless

It was sickening seeing them so. A manifestation of everything that was about to take place. An oddity that their father hadn’t seen it, a brother and sister, a relationship that seemed entirely unholy where the Targaryen dynasty was concerned. And here they were. Proving that such things are cursed, without even the decency to acknowledge it. Was Baelor acting the fool in an effort to hide his slithering ways? Surely that is what he had been doing for many years, our sweet sister whispering of treason's into his ear, slowly turning him into a mastermind of whatever game they were playing.

Yet maybe not.

As Maekar looked at them, all he could see was...nervousness? Nervousness over the game perhaps? No. It was genuine. He could not understand it. He had never understood them. Maybe he was overthinking things. Maybe Baelor was simply pursuing a cause he thought just. This was his brother, his sister...surely….

No. A trick. A brother wouldn’t do this, but sisters have proven they can in the past, especially this one. He was playing the fool for the benefit of appearance to lull him into a false sense of ease. For her. Like they did as children, where they would play tricks on him. A deception. It hurt. He loved them. He loves them. Maybe that was part of the plan.

He regarded the food in front of him with a look of disgust, picking at it with his golden fork, a sight that would make any man smile with greed, yet he couldn’t help but feel sick. The grease of the sausages and bacon poured out like puss, covering the egg that soged like a wet sock. He had no appetite. Putting the utensils down he looked up once more.

“I have talked. I have not talked to anyone important. Present company excluded, of course.” A fake smile accompanied his words as he looked his sister dead in the eyes, before returning to his brother.

“Lord Hightower is almost certainly talking with them, however. The old sodden bastard never needed an excuse to wrap his greasy fingers around the Lords. And especially their daughters.” He sliced a sausage as he spoke, the liquid pooling once more.

“He’s going to try to bribe his way in. I imagine we already have at least five separate Hands. Mayhaps they shall be four fingers and a thumb, for Lord Greyjoy of course. Though I should speak more kindly of family, should I not? After all, they have mine and our best interests at heart. Always. And it is the Day of the Dove. A time for joyous celebrations of peace and prosperity.”

He stabbed the yolk of the egg, the screech of the metal fork hitting the plate reverberating about the group's ears.

“I fear I am not hungry. My compliments to the chef for creating something so unappetising. I’ll be sure to send him to Oldtown.”

Maekar rose from his chair, wiping his perfectly clean face with the tablecloth before throwing it into the puddle, regarding the two lovers with pursed lips.

“I am sure we shall see each other later. May the best man, or piss soaked rag in the case of Gwayne, win.”
He didn’t stick around, exiting the tent with a flourish of his cloak. Perhaps the food was fine. It was the company he had no appetite for.

Hypnos ailurophile ​

 

[Braddington]

A Loyal Nephew

Axell hated paperwork. In earnest, he hated his job. He was constantly surrounded by old men who debated the movements of the stars as if they actually mattered. A travesty that he was stuck in this position at a time where his services were actually needed beyond simply giving the King a concoction to cure his constipation. Instead he had presided over the death of a King and now had to preside over a Grand Council. Fucking lovely business this is. The amount of people who had accused him of actually killing the King was astounding, as if he actually cared what happened the Eggbreaker. The way Baelor looked at him was annoying, he'd probably already had the trial in his head, dim-witted as he was.

Thanks nuncle.

His hand rubbed over the stacks that graced his desk, a ring with the Hightower sigil grazing every one of them, symbolic really. A sign of things to come. It was gonna be fun. Of that he had no doubt. King’ Landing would become a veritable party city if he knew Gwayne well enough, which he did. A shame for the other two princes, though. Would they accept defeat gracefully? Baelor would be broken. He was more of an attention seeking whore than his brother. And Maekar was a twat. Perhaps their reactions would only add to the fun.

He whistled a tune as his quill signed document after document, hardly paying attention at this point, he might have even just given Lord Wythers an extra vote come the Council itself. May he use it wisely. None of it mattered. It was just fun to see what people requested. Lady Mooton wanted a private pool, a pool, all to herself.

Sure.

The knock startled him as he dropped the melody. Knowing from the customary knock that the Lord of Trees was about to enter. He didn’t really need to give permission, but he did so anyway.

“Come in, Bryant.”

Oh Seven Hells. More? Somebody shoot him with an arrow already.

He smiled towards the lord.

“Thank you. I really appreciate it. I love paper. It’s my favourite thing made from trees. After Blackwoods, of course.”

The question that came was an interesting one. As if it were actually in doubt. The bastard was a bastard and that was just Maekar, not the other one whose name half the realm probably couldn’t recall. Aegon would win. Obviously.

“I have no idea.”

Ha ha. Ha ha.

“Perhaps you should ask the Gods like the High Septon has been doing. I am sure he will find his miraculous discovery when the voting is completed and a King chosen. A way with divinity that man.”

He was not really allowed to have an opinion, a neutral party in all this. So he kept them inside.

“Besides, you know better than I. You actually get a vote. If you say the bastard, is that where you are going to be placing your x?”

He wasn’t allowed to state his opinion. But he could convince.

Gwayne would surely like another vote.

Rusty of Shackleford ​

 

[Braddington]

The One-Armed


Siggy loved the open air. He loved the landscape that surrounded him, and the river that was flowing around him. He even loved the location. It wasn’t the Isles, but it felt like it, and home was where the heart is. A shame he couldn’t bring it with him. A shame he couldn’t hand it over to another. As the water splashed his back, dripping down his cheek, he let out a smile before recognising the voice. His wife. His lover. And his smile sank back into the gruff demeanor he had had on his face for the past few months. If not years. He hoped it would end when he was reunited with the one person who truly understood him, but children do not understand. More than that, people change, in drastic ways. This was the woman he loved, but that woman was being smothered by something more powerful. A man he had never met, a man that had taken his arm.

He helped her out of the waters with his hand, hiding her legs so she had a degree of modesty, before climbing out himself with a grunt. He had never been good at that. He slipped, his body hitting the muddy bank as he pulled himself forward once more, barely acknowledging the event.

“Your brother needs a lot of time.”

The “Septs” had been fascinating. To Greyjoy. What torture he had to endure he did not know, but to break and change a man so completely took arts which he could not fathom. He was brainwashed. Greyjoy seemed to have the more severe punishment. Sigfryd had lost an arm, true, but at least he hadn’t lost his mind. He marched forward, without motioning to his wife, if she wanted to follow she would, she was a free woman.

Approaching the camp he saw the axes in the distance, the blood spewing from the hand of Lord Sparr. Sigfryd couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he laughed towards them. Ignoring Greyjoy as he wrapped his arm around the man.

“You donkey. You’re not a fool, you’re the fool.”

The camaraderie garnered some laughter. As cheap as it was, it at least made him feel at home. Though everyone was starting to split into two camps and the tension was palpable.

He looked towards Rodrik, glancing at his wife who followed close to him.

“Are we done with the Septs, Lord? I think I speak for everyone when I say we are getting tired. And the politics of the greenlanders hasn’t even started yet.”

He paused, challenging his friend with a glare.

“Though perhaps it already has.”


Elucid Hypnos ailurophile ​

 

[Hypnos]

The Ironborn​

A smile was such a little thing, but it could be powerful nonetheless, and Alannys couldn’t help but notice the shadow of one upon the corners of her husband’s face, the slightest hints of a twitch at the very edges of his lips, suggesting the same satisfied smirk that had offered connotations of giddy joy in their youths. Her mind must have been playing tricks on her. A phantom of the past that faded just as quickly as it had been summoned. A ghost.

Sigfryd did not smile anymore.

Alannys partnered Sigfryd’s scowl with one of her own, a little posturing to maintain a semblance of her pride, though given her husband’s outwardly stiff and unassailable demeanor, it was hard for the smaller woman to match his gruff exterior. Even with only one arm, he was an imposing sight, and given how easy it had been for him to help pull her up the river’s bank, such an aura was not only skin deep. When they were younger, Alannys had always teased the boy relentlessly about his growing mass, though the hardships of the Iron Islands had clearly had a hand in transitioning girth to bulk. Had he been a little less rough around the edges, and perhaps a tad more groomed, he might have been the very image of the fairytale knights that Alannys had read about during her time in the High Tower.

Of course those knights had actually saved their Princesses.

Those knights at least pretended to care.

‘My dear brother is as stubborn as you are, it’s a surprise you don’t get along better.’ Not the first time Alannys had attempted to excuse her brother’s flights of fancy, nor was it like to be the last. ‘He doesn’t do things in half measure, once he sets his mind to something, he’ll see it out to the end.’ Even if that something is remarkably stupid. Of course, she kept silent at that last point, it wasn’t like to help anyone.

Before the Greyjoy had even finished addressing him, Sigfryd had already turned away from her, turning instead towards the main encampment where the other Lords of the Iron Isles awaited the permission from their Lordship to move off.

Her heart sank a little.

Some tiny part of her had hoped that they might get a little alone time in the journey between Pyke and Summerhall, the sort of solidarity that rekindled companionship, or at least offered a spark of what once was, though it seemed that such a desire was not shared between both halves of this couple.

Alannys trailed behind her husband, shorter of stride, though just about managing to keep up with his step through sheer force of will, not wanting to be shown up in such a manner.

She stopped about three steps behind him, frowning deeper as she watched the scene before the pair of them.

The finger dance was always a barbaric sight.

Perhaps she might have been more lenient, afterall, it was the culture of her own home, and to call it savagery was to insult about a hundred generations of her ancestors.

A hundred generations of her savage ancestors.

Alannys rushed closer to her brother, placing his hand in her own, and examining for any signs of scars, or physical injury as her husband scolded him.

She felt like doing the same, though their motives for doing so were in stark opposition.

‘You’re lucky it’s not you with the missing fingers.’ Alannys pursed her lips, regarding her brother sternly. ‘Sparr is bigger than you, stronger than you, and cleverer than you, almost a shame the axe didn’t hit your skull, knock some sense into you.’

There were some traditions Alannys did not think she would ever get behind. Rodrik might attempt to have it both ways, somehow embody both the spirit of the Iron Islands and the Greenlands, as was his job as Lord of these gods forsaken little islands, but the younger Greyjoy didn’t think she had it in her.

Braddington Elucid ailurophile RayPurchase

 

[RayPurchase]

What is dead may never die
Harlon Drumm​

The oars dipped silently into the still waters of the Mander, cutting through them like a hot knife through butter, propelling the longships down the green waterways, the verdant countryside on either side of the muddy banks seemingly befouled by the black wooden ships and their iron studded hulls, such vulgarity in a land of beauty. The Dragon figurehead on the curved prow of the longship leered its face towards the villages and castles that they passed, its features contoured into a fearsome visage, scales as black as night glinting under the high sun. Beneath the masts the Ironborn were far too busy to survey their surroundings, stowing sales and ropes, pulling at the oars. Now moving under the power of the oars, the only cloth fluttering above the ship was that of a crimson red banner, a skeletal white hand taking centre place. Normally such a sight on the Mander would have people running for cover, the Shield Islands breached, and a force of reavers meandering their way along the Mander, and into the heart of the Reach. Whilst there were still fearful glances thrown their way, it was mostly out of habit, and of those old enough to remember such rogue reavers who had taken advantage of the chaos of the civil war. Over the past few days Ironborn the Mander had become an altogether more common sight. In fact as Harlon sat their, his back against the curved prow, he couldn't help but feel that the Greenlander's lack of fear stemmed not only from their extended peace, but also from the fact that their pet now ruled the Ironborn.

Harlon slowly drew the whetstone he held in his hand down the length of the blade. It was not needed. The mysteries of Valyrian Steel was beyond many, including Harlon. All he knew was that it kept its sharpness despite foulness of weather, misuse or age. Red Rain was still as sharp as the day his forefather had paid the iron price for it. He often wondered if Rodrik had paid the same for his little trinkets of faith. Was their a burning sept somewhere, Septons and Silent Sisters laid slain under his blade. He thought not. Harlon's fascination with Septs only went so far as what was in its vaults and on its altars, Rodrik not so much. The Ironborn he had sailed with years ago was dead, what had returned in his place was nothing but a puppet, and not a good one at that. He had come back as a Greenlander with an Ironborn name, and with a gaggle of Septons clinging to his skirts like chicks round their mother. There were but a handful on Pyke, but that was enough. The Drowned Priests were weary enough, gathering on Old Wyk amongst the bones of Nagga, and calling for guidance. Harlon knew the Drowned God had heard their pleas, he had told him so himself, whispers on his dreams. Just like the Shrike and Lodos before him, he would oppose those who threw down their way of life. The salt stained tide that would wash away the imperfections that threatened the strength of iron.

Harlon lept to his feet as the camp came round the corner. The scythe of Harlaw, the Kraken of Greyjoy and the saltire of Spaar but to name a few. And all in the shadow of a sept. His fingers tightened on Red Rain, aside from Rodrik who would really try and stop him from dashing it to the ground, splitting its stones, burning its books, leaving it as a testament to the Reavers of old and of the reach of the Drowned God. This brought a hint of mirth to him, the first during the voyage. Sheathing his sword he made his way down the decks, slapping his hand against the boiled leather of his men, the drum beat low and steady as The Shrike glided towards the shore. With the briefest of jolts the ship hit the shore, grinding to halt, the drums stilled. The crew were silent and staring, all furrowed brows and wind burnt skin. Harlon stepped off the ship and dropped to his knees on the bank, the cold waters of the Mander lapping over his legs. He was accompanied by another more dishevelled figure. His robes grey and matted like seaweed, his hair grey and wild. He approached Harlon, a cudgel at his belt, and a stoppered flask in hand. With a swift movement the flask was opened and raised above his head. Despite his appearance, the man's voice was deep and clear, ringing out across the banks as he poured a stream of water over Harlon's head.

"Let Harlon your servant be born again from the sea, as you were. Bless him with salt, bless him with stone, bless him with steel."

Haflon raised his head, his eyes red and nostils burning from the salt water contained within, washing the fresh water of the Mander. His eyes streaming defiantly.

"What is dead may never die,"

The Priest smiled and stretched out his hand for Harlon to grasp.

"What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger"

Harlon Rose, as he did the men aboard his ship echoed the priest's cry, and vaulted over the sides of the longboat with cries of greeting and recognition towards the Ironborn already long ashore. Harlon was at their head sword on hip and swaggering, the blue of his eyes dazzling amongst the reddened whites. He raised a hand towards the bloodied Lord Spaar.

"Blooding this green land already Spaar, you put me to shame,"

Spaar only held his focus for a fleeting moment however. The pale imitation of the Lord of Pyke was here. His smile widened, like that of a shark, all teeth, and an electricity in his eyes. An eagerness, but not a positive one. Surrounded by a gaggle of Harlaws, now what way would they swing he wondered, to tradition or to the sweeping away of all that made the Iron Isles what they were. The Ten Towers so far had managed a middleman, for how long would that last.

"Rodrik. I see you've made yourselves comfortable, been exploring? Then again I expect this place is more like home to you than any other place,"

He flopped down onto a barrel, his muddied boots swung up onto the table and a jug of mead snatched with his hand. Everyday the uncouth Reaver and raider in his appearance. Someone had to keep up appearances in the Greenlands.

Hypnos , ailurophile Braddington , Elucid

 

[Yarrow]

Morian Toland, Master of Whisperes
Morian smelled all the different scents of the forest. He was close to Dorne, yet so far. He had always felt like an outsider at court. He was the only Dornisman at the Court of the Eggbreaker. The people here were stiff and stubborn. He always missed the fluency of the Dornish people. He wasn’t even sure why he was here. The man who had asked him to be on his council was dead. The heir apparent was also. Following Dornish customs, Maegelle would become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

His position at King’s Landing wasn’t a stable one. He had no strong allies, people only talked to him if they wanted to know something. Maybe it was time to forge alliances. Morian had more skills than just gathering information about everyone. People can easily die.

The vibrant green outshined the simple grey. It was the colors of the two rival houses in the Reach. Both were supporting the wrong heir. They were stupid.
Morian cut with precision the poisonous swamp from the real. It fell in a bag when it was cut loose from the tree. He walked back to Summerhall. He noticed Maekar, but made sure to avoid him. It was easy, since Morian knew how to walk in the shadows. He was looking for Maegelle, it was time to find out what her plan was.

It crossed his mind again, why did he do this? This weren't his people.

He was close, yet so far

mentions: TheFool ailurophile

 

[TheGrim]

Lord Lucion Marbrand
''The Eternal Light of the West''​

The thin fabric separated the overcrowded camp and his personal space. Veiled his existence against the thousand souls that bustled about just beyond that thin layer. He could hear a thousand different voices from beyond the velvet. Shouting, talking and laughing. but it mattered little. For the briefest of moments, he was left alone with his thoughts. No one groveling for his attention, no one faking sincerity with him to garner his favour. No one squirming in fear of his presence.


The serfs had already outfited him with his costume. as they had done numerous times before, a feat considering their blindness. bringing truth to the old saying that 'practice made perfect.' truly they were irreplaceable serfs. These were the final moments of peace for him, the final moments of rest. Soon, He would have to go out of the confines of his private abode. The Golden chestplate felt heavy on him, His crimson red cape dragged down his shoulders. At that moment he felt old and tired... very tired.


Yet even than he couldn't stop his mind from wandering into stray thoughts, there was simply no rest for the wicked. It was beyond belief how they were marching into the Dragon's Den, the same that had brought nothing but tragedy to the lands of the West with their petty squabbles and barbaric lack of any decency. clamouring for their titles as their mistakes continued to destroy and disrupt life from one end of Westeros to the other. Some had to wonder if it was truly Aegon that was brain dead? It certainly wasn't his fault that the Seven hadn't blessed him with intelligence it was punishment for the sins of his forebears. Or was it his siblings who had been given a mind to think on their own yet squandered it with such frivolous actions similar to their kin, ten damned years ago.


Perhaps the boy had been right, Luceon was a bright one, even if the brightness rarely shined in that thick head of his. Perhaps they shouldn't have come with such a force it had felt like a good idea when he had first thought of it, back in Casterly Rock as Luceon brought up the topic and asked for his advice, but over the weeks since they had set out doubts had began to settle in his mind. What would happen if it didn't go according to the plan? it would be a catastrophe if even one person didn't do their job correctly. It was too much of a risk, life's could be forfeited if the organization slipped.


Lifes... His attention was brought back to the helmet, standing still on the small table. The unchanging ever macabre face that represented the Hero of the West staring a hole right into him with it's empty sockets. That was the last image many souls saw in their last moments before they departed from this world to the realm of the Seven. That empty gaze filled him with dread and disgust. It represented so many things and he Lucion loathed the damn thing yet it was also the one thing that represented his accomplishments in life, the one thing that remained of his pride. Tentatively his hands reached for the mask, ever so slowly.


He could hear the small footsteps coming towards his tent, such signaled the coming of the end for his peace, the helmet was brought down to encase his disgusting face once more. slowly the curtains to his abode were drawn accompanied by a gruff voice ''Lord Marbrand?'' Alfred Yew, his oldest squire, The first son of his ever vigilant vassal, no doubt the boy detested his father for that choice now. ''Lord Lannister has been notified.'' There was no turning back now, he had planned all this... Foolery... by himself and it was time to act it out, the visor came down and brought an end to his brief respite, as it always did. The West couldn't allow doubts and neither could Lord Marbrand. Indecisiveness was intolerable. His velvet cape fluttered for a moment as he stood up and draped behind him. ''Well done Alfred. After so many years, you've finally learned to be on time.'' The words were spoken with enthusiasm, almost like a mocking praise. He moved past the squire without even a glance.


The screeching voice of Young Lord Reyne was the first thing to hit his senses. The sod was ordering around at least two dozen serfs to do his bidding. It shouldn't have surprised him as it was none other than himself that had appointed Young Reyne to oversee the operation of the servants they brought in this grand plan, The boy had a keen eye for detail and a talent with organizing people. Perhaps he'd make a good commander to replace him as Luceon's right hand man but Seven knew he would never achieve the same amount of respect he had garnered with that ear scratching voice of his. His pace hastened, he didn't want to spend one minute more than necessary in this crowded hell hole, he would already have to deal with the attention of all the whoresons that would attend this council anyways. Fortunately, his tent wasn't that far apart from the Lion's. A curse could sometimes be a blessing in disguise.


He pulled up the flaps to the tent and went in with all the energy he could muster in his being. ''LORD LANNISTER!'' His voice boomed through the visor, almost deafening his own ears. And he could see what state the young Lord and Lady were in, his tone assumed a more teasing tone compared to the jovial shout.

His words contrasted with the cold metalic visage. ''I see announcing my arrival beforehand was a good idea! You two give us no sleep with all the amount of fun you have! These tents aren't exactly stone you know?' But you are the Lord of course it isn't important. Don't let me intrude on your fun longer than necessary. You already know why I'm here. The Preparations are almost over, we have to get ready.''

And then he could see that his Lord-Friend was still doubting this all. ''Look at yourself Luceon! hundreds are about to gawk and grovel and stare in awe of your greatness! And what are you doing? grimacing like a young squire who got told off.'' The macabre image of turned face the strongest presence in the tent. ''My Lady, wouldn't you help your tamed cub brighten up a little? He has a Kingdom to amaze.''




Basil the Bulgar Slayer

 

[Basil the Bulgar Slayer]

Aethelmure Luceon Lannister

En route to Summerhall​

Within minutes, the flaps to the Lannister tent were parted. Unlike with the previous squire, a man of great standing and impressive figure sauntered in with the presence of a lion. Aethelmure recognized him immediately, even without the familiarity between them, the golden visage was unmistakable. Lucion Marbrand’s golden cheeks were cut sharp, with thin lips that never twitched a sign of weakness. The most emotion one could find were in the narrow slits that led to Marbrand’s eyes, green and fierce. Distorted from his mask, Lucion’s voice came out with a grand and loud greeting that was ill fitting for the man’s death mask.

“Thank the Gods, Lord Lucion!” It was Melantha who spoke first, shimmering forward in her golden tresses. “Talk since into this man of yours, he is persistent in retreating back into his cave.”

Aethelmure stifled a laugh and peered past wife and lord, “This… tomfoolery of yours is to be not but a rotten harvest.”

“Not half as rotten as your foresight, nor confidence.” Melantha fell to the lord’s side, a hand clasping onto his shoulder. “He feels as if the… Large steeds are unruly and send a poor message.” She pouted, as if he’d denied her their limited barrels of Arbor Red. A particular weakness of the Serrett family, Aethelmure had discovered shortly after his marriage. He wasn’t sure if it was suddenly for its wealth or sudden exclusivity, but it had quickly driven the Lannister’s supply low.

“They are,” Aethelmure repeated, a shake of his head. His dove white gloves rested on his forehead as he found himself seated on their temporary bed. “It’s far too.. Too much.” Aethelmure muttered, his defenses weaker than before. “The point isn’t to make ourselves stand out, but to vote on our newest king and be done with it.”

His standards for the assembly was very low. The elite of King’s Landing would be present, no doubt pulling strings to contrive their candidate to victory. Lannister was confident it’d be the true heir, a prince with no senses of his own. That would doubtlessly mean that Hightower or even Baratheon would be in charge of the Seven Kingdoms. The thought of either was uneasy, and the fact he’d be prancing in front of them and all other high lords, eyes drawn onto his form courtesy of Marbrand’s eccentricities, caused a shudder to run down his spine.

To be an enemy of the next ruler of Westeros..? He who commanded armies and dragons? Aethelmure doubted that House Lannister would be tolerated. They’d wither away, if not be outright punished for their prior misdemeanors. His father escaped justice and the lands of the West were given amnesty, but Aethelmure Luceon Lannister was certain any hints of insubordination in the Westermen would be met with swift punishment courtesy of the hand of the king. It was beneficial to all if he merely skipped out, allowed for the entire assembly to throttle one another and let whatever bastard they wished to take power. It was no concern of the West’s, they were safest when ignored by the victors of the Dragon’s Tumble.

“It’s not too late to turn back around.” He said, voice lower than before. He couldn’t outright command it. Marbrand wouldn’t accept that. Melantha would speak not but poisonous words to him for half a moon. The other lords accompanying them would label Luceon a coward if he acted alone in this decision. ‘They’d be right,’ He knew. He was far too afraid of what they’d say of him, his father’s son, and too fearful to present himself to the smoking maws of the dragons or the parasites that’ve grown fat on the dragon’s gold.

“What say you, Marbrand? Show the West’s… Testament to self identity by evading the gazes of those mummers?”

 

[Basil the Bulgar Slayer]

Alys Tyrell

The Spring Princess​

In house Tyrell, there was an age old tradition (as old as her father, to be exact) that one ignored their problems. They buried themselves in their work or interests, until it became too inexcusably large to turn away from or simply vanished itself. Alys’ was a master at this stratagem, having exploited this tradition in three fights with her siblings this past year alone and having ended entire friendships when they presented an unresolvable crisis in their relationships. It wasn’t always a happy method of dealing with strife, but for House Tyrell, it allowed them to be productive. Alys herself became a competent seamstress thanks to this life style. Polite small talk was an area that suffered because of this, but no one could be perfect at everything, or so that’s what her mother told her.

Desperately, Alys wished she could use this coping mechanism, put her mind at ease and dive into some activity. Yet, no matter how many glasses of ginberry she had, her nerves were on end. The distractions that these lesser ladies provided was so meager, even without the mounting stress of Summerhall, the Tyrell Maiden wouldn’t be enamored with their company.

There was no distraction large enough to grab Alys’ attention. Not here, in the Shadow of Summerhall, where the distance between herself and her beloved was but minutes of a hasty jog. She could be in his arms, where she belonged. Away from her mother, from the perpetual contests of the Reach (albeit the persistent banners of Hightower were irksome even here, they would be not but decor to be ignored should she be with her beloved). Yet she wasn’t able to. It’d been four years since they were together, she was a shy girl too fearful of embarrassing herself in front of a beautiful prince. His dark locks and piercing eyes of violet enough to leave her speechless…

She’d do better today. She wouldn’t leave him today, or ever again. Alys decided that long before they were on the Rose Road, long before her Lord Father informed them of the king’s death.

‘And still they keep us apart. What agony.’ Lord Maxwell was clear that she was not to see him immediately, not until her father and Prince Maekar spoke. She didn’t understand what for, she was to be his wife, his partner in life and love. Her father had no business putting himself between them.

And yet, until they were properly wed, she was forced to obey. To her father’s credit, he wasn’t a dumb man. He had assigned Ser Gregory of Ciderhall to keep a vigilante watch on her. The balding, elderly man had of course suggested his presence was for convenience and to keep any improper parties from bothering the maiden or her friends.

‘And to mineown credit, I am no idiot either.’ She saw through this ruse and eyed the man dangerously, whenever his own attention was drawn from her figure.

‘I need to escape him.. Escape and find my beloved.’ Alys had repeated time and time again. But how? Her company consisted of Fat Holly Meadows, whose own ass could scarcely fit in one. Doreah of House Serry, a niggardly girl without a half a thought in her life, and Mya Rodden. ‘They say she lost her virginity to a horse.’ Maybe if Ser Gregory was found of steeds, they could hit it off and she’d escape?

“And then, without even a care, they say Lord Stark let his wolves devour him! Bone, fat and skull, all!” Meadows seemed to sweat even giving the story. It shocked Rodden and seemed to draw Doreah forward with a hushed breath.

Alys’ rolled her eyes, did they believe that? The Northerners were queer but not savages, like the Wildlings or Dornish.

“What did Lord Bolton do?”

“Cried, they say, and set a blood curse on Lord Stark’s family. Some say it missed, and tis why Lady Stark’s families perished not long ago.” Meadows sipped carefully on her ginberry beverage, content like some cat given scraps from the table.

“Tis disloyalty, that did that.” Alys corrected them with an annoyed huff, resting her palm on her chin as she surveyed them. “No curse killed Lady Cybil’s family. Merely disloyalty. And be ridden to them, any House that would rise against their masters deserve nothing but that end.”

Mya Rodden swallowed and managed a smile. “Of course, but the North is so.. Different. You are certain Lord Bolton didn’t inspire disloyalty in their hearts?”

“As certain as the sky is blue, Lady Mya.”

Holly nodded with uncertainty, “Well, so says my father. He is a man of the world, my princess.”

Princess.

That word always felt good when it referred to her. Something that was reserved for a select few in the world, one that put her directly next to her beloved. Somehow, Holly’s fat lips clapping together into it lessened its effects. Only so.

“He’s a man who spends too much time in sewing circles, if this is what he tells you.”

Holly nodded, accepting it, but glowering under her drink. “He does love a story, but I believe it’s somewhat true.”

“Tis.” Alys repeated the gesture. “Rising against a Lord Paramount rendered a House extinct. Or near enough. The Bolton and Northern talk is but nonsense. Flood it from your minds.”

Holly seemed irate, but did not protest.

It was suffocating, almost, and Alys Tyrell shrugged herself from the couch. “Excuse me Ser knight, my ladies… I need but a moment to consider myself.”

 

[Rusty of Shackleford]

Bryant Blackwood
The Tired Tree

It seemed that Axel was as thrilled about this situation as Bryant was. The Lord of Trees, so exhausted, didn't catch that the Grandmaester's comment on trees was a joke until he thought about it a bit, Lord Blackwood letting out a soft chuckle as he jokes, "Well, at least if I cut you it's on purpose, unlike bloody paper..." He was honestly struggling to come up with topics of conversation at the moment, and he internally cursed himself for making such a stupid bloody joke...it would be best if he just finished this up and left the poor Grandmaester to his work.

Bryant perked his head up when Axel began speaking once again, having been thinking about home. His mind had been drifting back to Raventree Hall far more frequently than usual. He surmised it was the fact that he despised Summerhall more than anything else, or that he simply missed his children. Either way, it hardly mattered. Axel's words on the High Septon rung true, Bryant nodding as he said, "Yeah, he truly is the voice of the Seven. I suppose his first prediction of our new King is that they'll have a long, just reign, just like every other fucking King..." Bryant had no intention of voting. He would work for whoever became King. Voting for any of the candidates would take away the reputation for professionalism Bryant had worked to build for himself, and he didn't want to be out of a job if the one he voted for didn't win. He let out a scoff at the Grandmaester's question, saying, "Heh, I'd rather throw myself off the walls than vote. I will serve whoever sits on the Iron Throne. No questions asked." That was a safe answer. Bryant knew that he had to be careful what he said in the court. He couldn't show any bias for anyone, and he was beginning to regret voicing his prediction of the vote. There was always that fear that somehow, it would make it's way to the ears of whoever sat on the Iron Throne at the end of this mess, and suddenly, Bryant would find his head decorating a spike outside of King's Landing. Just like his father...

After that, Bryant decided to let Axel finish his work. That and Bryant was in desperate need of a short nap before the vote. "Well, Grandmaester...I best leave you to it. It's always a pleasure speaking with you." With that, Lord Blackwood made his leave, almost sprinting to the library. It would be the first time he got some rest since he got to Summerhall, and he wasn't going to let anything stop him. The God's, Old and New couldn't keep Bryant was sleeping in that library. To think that was his priority right now. That was how apathetic to the affairs of Westeros Bryant had become: prioritizing taking a nap over deciding who should be the next King. Some Master of Laws he was...

Interacting:
Braddington

Brandon Stark
The Wayward Wolf

"Friends..." Brandon felt a pit form in his stomach from the word. He wasn't sure if he and Morgan could even be considered friends. Hell, Brandon could hardly call him an aquaintance. And of course Morgan wanted his opinion...the thing is, Brandon didn't have an opinion because he had no idea who the candidates were. The only one he could really remember was the cripple, but even then that depended on whether Brandon decided to remember it that day. "I-uh... I'm not sure, honestly... I'll...have to consider the candidates when we get there..." And of course Morgan brought up Shyra. It seemed the only thing he talked about on the way South. Shyra this, Shyra that... God's above, Brandon just wished the moron would just ask if his "friend" was interested in marrying the girl outright. Brandon blushed a bit at the statement on Shyra, stuttering, "I-uh... that's...nice. Very sweet of her to think that about me, I suppose..."

It took Brandon a few moments to realize they were stopping,g reigning his horse in as he sighed in relief. Finally, he could escape Morgan. The Wayward Wolf quickly dismounted, stretching and groaning as he loosened up, his eyes looking over towards the carriage that held his mother and baby sister. Brandon had...problems with his father, and even with his younger sister, but he did love his mother and Cerelle. So when he saw the girl nearly tackle their dear mother, Brandon not only saw this as an opportunity to be free of the Umber that rode his coattails, but also an obligation to check up on Cerelle. He approached the two briskly, careful not to step in any mud puddles. It was less he was afraid of getting dirty, and more he didn't want to bother having to clean his boots. He smiled warmly when he saw the girl strutting away, as proud as a wolf on the hunt. He squatted down in front of Cerelle, asking gently, "You alright, Sister? Don't tell me the great Cerelle Stark is afraid of the South?" Brandon ruffled the girl's hair, his head turning to his mother as he smiled. He gave Sybell a polite nod, quickly standing up and straightening his clothes as he said, "Mother. I trust this little pup wasn't too much of a hassle on the way here." He gave his sister a smirk at this, standing beside his mother as he looked out on Summerhall. Brandon had never seen Summerhall before, and frankly...he wasn't impressed. Especially if this was supposed to be the Targaryen's summer retreat. "Mother...can...can Summerhall fir everyone inside of it? It's much...smaller than I was expecting..." Brandon was sure that was a sentiment he'd be hearing for the rest of his life, in more ways than one. His time in the South he taught him that nothing is ever as grand as the stories make it out to be. He'd heard stories of the glory of Summerhall, it's majesty, it's size.

It was... adequate at best.

Much like Brandon himself...

Interacting:
ailurophile
TheFool​

 

[RayPurchase]

The Wandering Storm
​

The sun rose before Summerhall, the light streaming through the wide open windows and down the halls, catching the hold gilt and fixtures and sending a bouquet of colours off from them. Whilst the Red Keep was symbol of Targaryen martial ability and conquest, Summerhall was the living embodiment of all the wealth, opulence and extravagance that came with such conflicts. Garon stood in the frame of one such window, facing the rising sun and sucking in the fresh morning air,the slight chill from the wind pricking the back of his throat. This was no castle, its 'fortifications' were more aesthetic than practical, the antithesis of Storm's End, the great drum keep that had long stood squat atop of Shipbreaker Bay, impregnable by human means, Dragons were a different story, but they were largely gone from the world now. Much like the riders really, slipping away till there were but bastards and broken things left.

Over the way he could see more flags approaching, Wolves, Giants and other Northerly beasts this time, to add to the menagerie that was already assembled in the courtyard and the surrounding fields. A pack of wolves come to fight over the scraps, a bastard to elevate and to have owing you everything, or a simpering fool who would require you to do everything. He was glad the decision was not his to make. Every so often he experienced a pang of jealousy towards his brother, what if their ages had been reversed and it had been him with the mantle of the Stormlord, the badge of the Hand emblazoned on the dark grey doublet that he wore. He was loyal to Cregan in that there was no doubt, there was never ill intent or true coveting of rank or position, more just a philosophical line of thought on those long winter nights or rides. But it was times like this that the thought of such things were whisked away, to hand over the freedom of being but a spare to the heir to deal with the trials of tribulations of Lords and Plebs? It was a no-brainer. He could hear noises from several windows below, it appeared that his brother was stirring. One of the perks of being such a close relation to the hand, no need to fight over the less horse shit stained patch of grass to pitch your tent, instead a quite reasonable bed and room was his. Not that he had used it much, up before dawn and wide awake by the time the first rays of light chambered over the horizon.

Despite his early rise he was by no means the first to breakfast, enjoying the various twists and turns of the corridors and floors, seemingly exquisite art and frescos around every corner. It may have been a perfumed pleasure palace, but its beauty was still there for any man to see.

Cregan and Bella, the Patriarch and Matriarch themselves. His brother ever the serious one, the great thinker who forever kept his emotions and true thoughts under lock and key, probably why he had done so well for himself. And then there was Orryn, very much from the same stock as his father, and not just in their physical appearance. Garon swept through the doors his arms raised.

"And a good morning to you all. The rain has passed and the sun is shining, already the stench of mud and shit is passing. Sort of ruins the ambience of the whole place doesn't it?"

He took his place, continuing to talk as he began loading his plate, pausing only occasionally to sniff the tendrils of steam arising from the various pots and platters. In fact the only thing that ended up interrupting him was Lucinda's arrival. He had always said the storm blew strongly within her. Cregan and his son were far more calculating and cautious, keeping the gales and violence within them heavily checked and restrained. With Lucy however, her emotions flew more keenly. It was the very reason why he considered her his favourite, even if family members weren’t really supposed to have such things.

“And a good afternoon to you too. I reckon your father wasn’t far off calling the guards to have the grounds searched for you,”

A smile tugged at his lips as he tried to keep a semblance of stoicism about him as the 2 siblings bickered. 5 Baratheons under one roof, it was part of the reason why he had left, a couple of weeks together and there would be blood running down the walls. The faster this council was convened the faster they could disperse and prevent further bloodshed. Whilst Garon loved his family, there was perhaps too much of a good thing. He shrugged his shoulders at her question regarding sleep.

“Well enough considering we’re the lucky few to count on 4 sturdy walls and a solid roof,”

He glanced towards his brother, a hint of concern appearing as he frowned. Judging by the rings under his eyes sleep had not come as easily to him. Understandable really, Hand of The King with no King about, and a hundred hungry lords outside all looking to make themselves irreplaceable. He would have to speak to him before he was invariably whisked off to the first of countless engagements. He still had Garon to lean on, even if it was easy to forget in the face of such odds.

Swallowing his mouthful, he leaned back in his chair as Lucy swung her gaze towards him. He ran his fingers through his black mane. Unfortunately he had long lost his war with the odd greys, and his temples were now full of them. That with the added aches when he roused himself in the morning or after more than a couple of hours of riding were constant reminders he wasn’t the young man that he used to be. Not that he’d give his niece the pleasure of knowing that, he’d never hear the end of the ‘old man’ comments. Instead he simply reclined back into his chair, accompanied by a smile and a shrug of his shoulders.

“Oh more by the minute. And at an increasing rate since I’ve had the honour of your presence dear niece. A coincidence of course I’m sure. Besides I reckon it gives me a certain dignified air to me, the sort of regality that few really possess,”

( Mion , TheFool )