Fandom &nbsp; The Winter&#039;s War: A Game of Thrones/ASoIaF RP

DarkianMaker

High Moon

TheAncientCelt

Asura · Feb 12, 2019

Lord Goren Botley
Ten Towers, Harlaw

The chop of the sea was not a foreign feeling for Goren, nor any man of the isles worth their salt, but even as Sawfin cut through the waves like a knife, the Botley was cross with this situation with which he found himself. For nearly a year his reavers carved a bloody swathe of carnage through the Riverlands. From Red Fork to Green, they burnt and looted and raped to their heart's content, following the kraken in its subjugation of the greenlands in the name of one king or another. Many thralls were taken, much wealth too, yet what good was it all if a man could not be left to enjoy the fruits of his conquest? It had only been a moon's turn since his longships returned to Lordsport, and already ravens came landing at his hall, bearing their dark words. Little wonder the pious held mistrust for the damnable creatures. Never did a raven seem to bring good fortune.

He did not have to answer the Harlaw's call, that much he reminded himself of when he had left the embrace of his salt wives and took to the open sea. He had little love for the man, who was a sour and humdrum old sot, and swore to him no oaths of fealty. But when Goren had gotten word that the Wynch had also received invitation to this meeting of the minds, a curiosity which ate away at his comfort like mites stirred within him. No doubt the lords of the other isles had received similar calls, though he had little means of finding out exactly who. It left him with little choice. A bothersome journey, but better to hear with his own ears what the Lord of Ten Towers had to say that was so important, than to sit in his hall and be left to pick at rumors and second-hand news weeks later, like a gull on a cod.

The titular towers thrust into the horizon long before Goren caught sight of Harlaw proper, Loron Longshot calling back to the midshipman from his place on the ship's bow and relaying their arrival to the other men. At their lord's word, the men began pulling in the sails to slow their approach, depending on the power of oar to steer the vessel towards the quays that commanded the sea at Ten Tower's base. Quays which, the Botley noted, were not half so empty as he had hoped. Many of the longships flew the colors of Harlaw's own houses, Kennings and Myres and Volmarks standing proud besides the silver scythes of their liege lord. But more, there were Goodbrothers among this lot, the familiar sight of Blood Mist moored just off shore, and even the strange banner of a Codd skewered on some form of trident.

But it was not the menagerie of his fellows that Goren found his eyes drawn to as Sawfin pulled into port, and his men shouted to the dock hands to assist in tying her off. Wails of woe greeted him, and on most every ship his eyes came upon, those of Erich's bannermen, he found their source. Men, women, it made no difference. The mad man had seen to tying the damned and dying to the prows of each vessel, captives no doubt, taken from their recent campaigns in the Riverlands. Wasteful as it was, it also gave Goren all the insight he needed as to what the Harlaw would have of him and the rest who had answered his call.

Bitter thoughts filled his mind, befitting a bitter meeting, though he did try and keep his disdain from haunting his visage as the men laid out the gangplank. A few had offered to join him, though he had ordered they stay with the ship. He needed no guard for this, as the Harlaw was not like to see blood spilled here today.

'Not the blood of the ironborn, at least.' He mused internally as a man clad in leather backed mail directed him up onto the shore and towards the man of the hour.

Around his person there was a small crowd gathering by the time Goren had managed to arrive. He immediately recognized the Goodbrother, as his sister had been Goren's wife before a chill took her some years back not long after the birth of their youngest. The Drumm as well, who had taken Adrack as his squire some years ago, though the lad was nowhere to be seen, to his mild disappointment. The others he did not know so well, though the fact one of them was a woman of all things gave him some clue as to who she could be. Was it Orkmont who had left behind no sons? Tawney? He could not recall. He was sure to make her acquaintance soon enough. A pretty little lady if nothing else.

"Such storied company you have, Harlaw," The Lord of Lordsport began as he entered speaking distance of this motley band, a cocksure smile adorning his face as he strode confidently to join them. "Yet so little in the way of refreshments you have provided. Surely the bounty of your isle can see my hunger quenched on more than the squealing of thralls. Or have you summoned us here to do more than feast?"

Yarrow - As Lord Goodbrother of Hammerhorn

Hypnos - As Lord Farwynd of Sealskin Point

JPTheWarrior - As Lord Drumm of Old Wyk

Braddington - As Lady Codd

High Moon - As Lord Harlaw of Ten Towers

TheFool · Feb 12, 2019

♚ King’s Landing ♚
The Crownlands

Preston Serrett
Vivacious

The Winter’s War.
A quick yet vicious prick against Westeros’ throat. The Seven Kingdoms had dealt with dozens of wars before but none as shattering as this.
And… in such little time.
A war in which brother murdered brother and escaped consequence. Lord Preston Serrett did not find in part in the fighting but he suffered in his own ways. His pangs of hunger still lingered. His stomach had half recovered,
However -
His heart had not.
The war meant a rationing of food and of friend. King Aerys. Preston thought of him with a fondness. It was his demise that ushered in the fighting. The usurping. The executions. The turning of cloaks. He stopped. His fist clenched.
“Lord Serrett?” A gruff voice came.
Preston soon realised where it was he was. The Street Of Silk. The lower end. Rain bounced off red rooftops. Children hopping in the puddles the rainwater painted.
“It’s nothing, Cerrick.” Preston said.
It’s nothing.

Ermesande’s Birdcage was the destination.

Before The Winter’s War, it was a dive.
The seediest brothel on the whole street. Preston remembered it all too well. The walls were decorated with drear. Statues representing the raunchiest of sexual favours riddled in grime. The whores themselves wore nothing but hidden disease. He would shiver upon seeing them and the squalor they lived in.
Now -
It had changed.
Change seems to be a common trait to King’s Landing after it fell to Maegor’s force.
He stood in the front porch. Cerrick knocking. Preston watched as the once squire did so. His muscles bulging with each bang of the wood.
Preston bit his lip.
The door opened and a woman answered. Dressed in a dismal grey. Quite the opposite to Lord Preston’s flamboyant attire.
“Ermesande Hill.” Preston said with a small smile.
The woman studied him before returning one, “Silvertongue.”
An odd but old nickname given to him in his youth.
“Or should I say Lord Silvertongue now?” She continued.
Preston’s smile shriveled.
“Can we come in?” He asked.
Ermesande nodded,
“Always.”

The Birdcage’s interior was cleaner than he’d ever seen it. Its walls were fresh painted white. The erotic statues no longer sat about. In their stead were vases of pale roses. The whores all had faces that Preston did not recognise. They lounged about in laced clothing. Their hands on men - most of them soldiers.
“So you heard?” Preston asked as he walked into the centre of the foyer. Cerrick following behind him.
“Of?” Ermesande shot him a glare.
“My brother’s death.”
“Which brother?”
Preston found himself with a smile once more. “We aren’t sure if Ser Raynard lived or died. He was lost when King’s Landing was.”
A lie.
“Well wherever he is. Whether in dirt or upon it. I hope you tell him of his girl. His Tansy.”
Tansy?
It took a moment before he remembered the red headed whore whom his brother took a liking to. So much so that she bared his bastard. The child born in an attempted secret. Brought up by the woman with his brother’s coin.
“What about her?”
Ermesande raised a flagon in his direction. He nodded. She poured.
“When Maegor The Mighty took King’s Landing - his soldiers took my girls.” She started. “One after the other. I lost them. I lost them all. Those girls were my life. Not just because of the profit they brought but the company. I could have told you ten thousand things about everyone of them.” She told him.
The bastard of House Garner approached and handed him his wine.
“I found Tansy,” She continued. “About… three days after the fighting finished. Her hair knotted and her throat cut.”
Preston imagined it.
With vividness.
He pictured the begging. The bleeding. A sight he knew all too well. He shook his head as so to rid it of the gore.
“What of the child? Ellyn?” Preston asked before taking a gulp of gold. The sweetness tingled his tongue.
“Ella.” Ermesande corrected him.
Preston drank. Waiting for her to tell him. She didn’t have to though. Her face told all the story he needed to know. He knew the child suffered a similar fate to its mother.

Ermesande showed him to his room.
It was the biggest one. The walls still smelled of its newest coat of white. She left him to his devices, saying that she’d be in the foyer if he needed her or a lover. “Though I’ve no silver haired boys available.” She snarked.
Preston poured himself another cup of wine.
He’d have to beg The Seven for forgiveness. Drink was a sin. I’ve been sinning a lot as of late. He sipped and turned to look at Cerrick. A boy of eighteen who more resembled a man grown.
“Tell the others at the gate that they’re invited to stay with me if they wish. The Lady Hill will provide accommodation.” Preston instructed.
“Yes, ser.”
He too left.
There was a retinue of twelve that travelled with him to the capital. He and Cerrick not included. All of them loyal. All of them in sin as well. For what we’ve done.
Preston shook his head.
It had to BE done.
He still remembered it. The shock. The screams. The blood. Preston regretted it to a degree. Or at least he regretted some parts of it to a degree.
But still.
It had to be done.

He woke to knocking. He had fallen asleep in an armchair. Wine still in his hand. The journey here had definitely left him tired. He sniffed. His under arms smelled of sweat. I need to bathe and change. The rain was still going.
He could hear it from outside the window in his room. He stood up and moved towards the door - opening it.
It was Cerrick.
“What is it?” Preston asked.
“The men are here. They’ve set up downstairs. We’ve brought your things as well.”
“Fantastic news.”
Preston went to shut the door but Cerrick stopped him -
“We also received a letter from some twit outside the city’s walls.”
Preston raised an eyebrow,
“A letter?”
He grabbed the parchment off of the once squire. His colour painted nails clawing at the seal. One that had a roaring lion.
Lynora.
He knew but instantly. The message invited him to dinner. A dinner he had to attend. The lion must get what it wants.

“Cerrick.” Preston started. “Run me a bath.” He had to wash. He had to clean himself of the sins he had made. So that his slate was clean until the ones he had to make.

Whisker · Feb 12, 2019

Father and Son

Prince Elaerion Targaryen
King’s Landing, 301 AC

Elaerion proceeded out the doors of Maegor’s Holdfast, flanked by his guardsmen in red and black. Gone were the tolling of the bells by the time he arrived, but in its place was a new cacophony; freeriders, men-at-arms, servants, and guardsmen from every House from Dorne to the Wall had come for King Maegor II Targaryen’s coronation. And as a result, every nook and crevice from the Lower Bailey to the pig yard seemed to be bustling with action. It’s more chaotic here than even in the siege encampment, Elaerion thought to himself as he stepped down into the muck. It was surreal almost, in a way, that this was even happening. Only a few short months ago, he had been at Riverrun, besieging Maegelle Targaryen as she and her trout bannermen hid behind the castle’s thick walls. His own aunt, whom had always been kind to him as a boy - who had given him sweets, and ruffled his hair, and called him ‘dear nephew’ to his face. A good woman, he’d always thought.

Until Aerys Targaryen had died. Until his uncle, Prince Aemon had claimed a crown that was not his own. Until kin began to spill the blood of kin … And like a mummer’s trick, all the veils had come off, leaving naught but treachery, lies, and pain behind.

In more ways than one.

Absently, his fingers came to trace the outline of his scar again. Aunt Maegelle or Uncle Aemon? Which had it been?

“Make way! Make way for the Prince! Make way for Prince Elaerion Targaryen!”

Garth and Steffon had gotten ahead of him. Frowning, Elaerion lowered his hand from his face and quickened his steps. Their journey took them downward to the gardens. In springtime proper, the gardens were said to be a sight to behold, with roses the size of a man’s fist and fruit as delicious as those grown in the Arbor. Yet, just now, they looked anything but impressive to the Prince of Dragonstone. Him, who had visited the Arbor, and seen the real thing. These were just another obstacle in his way.

As he and his men neared the end of the hedge growths and entered the sprawling courtyard before the throne room, a sight momentarily stopped him. Banners, a multitude of them. And recognizable ones, too. His eyes naturally lingered the foremost one: a golden lion rearing upon a crimson field. Aunt Lynora, he realized at once, his scowl deepening. For two-and-twenty years, she had been wife to Good King Aerys. She was also a Lannister. And while many of his father’s men had seemed to have forgiven the Lannister’s involvement in the war, Elaerion was among those who still remembered them to be Aemon’s men. Until Aemon proved to be an inconvenience for them, of course. His eyes skimmed past the others. There were some from Dorne, some from the Crownlands, some from the Vale. Most were from the Reach, as expected. But as he looked towards the gate, Elaerion noted an oncoming set of sigils, and to the distant figures to whom they belonged.

The lone woman, he could have identified without sigil at all. Tall, shapely, with hair like moonrays on a summer’s eve, the widowed Lady Velaryon stood out among the crowd like a peacock among an array of roosters. Indeed, she appeared to have already gathered a flock of peckers around her before even entering the Red Keep. He could make out krakens, and chevrons, and others he did not know. Smirking, Elaerion looked away and turned course towards the throne room. He half-expected to find his father sitting on the Iron Throne when he entered. But to his surprise, the King was nearly alone. Alone and standing in the ante-chamber as if lost in thought.

“Father?” Elaerion queried.

The word startled the man.

Maegor Targaryen’s shoulders jolted as he turned from contemplation to regard Elaerion. The king looked miserable. Not an ancestor’s crown upon his brow, fanciful armor, nor the two kingsguard in white at his sides could together make Maegor look any less uncomfortable than he had daily since that fateful evening within the great hall of Highgarden. The King in the Reach, his memory echoed. Tarlys, and Hightowers, and Tyrells and Rowans… and elsewhere in the Seven Kingdoms, he imagined something similar happening within the Eyrie. Such had Lord Arryn’s correspondences told of, Maegor recalled. What words had been used? The rightful king?

Nothing about this felt right.

And the thought of Lord Ormond Arryn lying within the great Sept of Baelor, painted stones upon his eyes, turned Maegor’s stomach.

Still, there was a sense of normality within receiving his son. Despite being sixteen, and now a man grown, nearly a head’s height separated them; for Elaerion’s sake, Maegor did hope the boy would gain another few inches. A man should be taller than his mother. Maegor stepped to look down upon Elaerion with scrutiny. A grimace settled upon his face, and he spoke with a tone of disappointment.

“Kesys pirtiapos iksis, Elaerios?” Maegor asked, raising a hand to gesture meaningfully to Elaerion’s scarlet doublet. “Meli hēnkī bianilluni iemnȳ zān umāzitē lī kesī issi. Kesi mērī ūndun otāpā?”

Is this a joke, Elaerion? These are the same red clothes you came in yesterday. Do you think only I will notice this?

Elaerion shrugged. “Aō aderī umāzitan. Sparos konrio mirrȳro iotāptegon otāpisi? Tolvys kostōbys tubī umāzitaksi. Kesyni tolī arlininna, Kepus.”

I was in a hurry. Who cares anyways? Everyone of importance just arrived today. I’ll change them later, Father.

He walked forward until he was nearly inches from his father’s side. His slender brows narrowed in concern. When had his father looked so … old? “Forget my appearance for a moment. Have you been sleeping, Father?” he asked, easily switching back to the common tongue. “The people will be looking for their king, I believe. The dragon. Not some old bear masquerading as one. Keep scowling like that and you’ll scare all the maidens away.”

It was easy banter. Familiar. A relic of a former time. All the same, it brought an almost smile to his face in spite of the elder’s visible displeasure.

Together Maegor’s hands came, his palms rubbing briefly. He listened to his son’s wit, clever boy that he was, exhaled a great sigh, and brought thumb and forefinger to massage at the dark circles beneath his eyes. When had he last slept, well and truly? Had it been before Aemon’s decapitated head rolled upon the stone at his feet? Or Maegelle’s upon the dirt in Riverrun’s courtyard? Before he’d rushed to Elaerion’s side as he bled on a Maester’s table, half a corpse? Maegor’s pale lilac gaze turned to trace the scar. No, he mused. Long before that, as well.

“You’re right.”

He lowered his hand, flicking fingers in the direction of the closed doorway. Wordlessly, guards moved to open it.

“And you should count your blessings I held until midday before sending for you. By the account I received this morning, you were not long for sleep, either. When did you return, Elaerion? The hour of the owl? The wolf?” Maegor preferred not to be answered in this, and moved a hand to gesture dismissively, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter.” He could do without uncomfortable details of his son’s… unsavory nighttime expeditions. “Next time, bring a proper accompaniment.” He sent a meaningful glance to the kingsguards at his side before catching, from the corner of his eye, view of a familiar figure.

Far down the long, grand hall, up the raised steps and at the base of the Iron Throne, an elderly lord stood contemplative. The sounds of the doors’ opening, and the sight of King Maegor and the Prince of Dragonstone seemed to have startled the distant Lord Argrave Tyrell from some manner of inattention. The man smiled, bowed, and summarily left; and Maegor’s brow knit once more.

But this Elaerion scarcely seemed to notice. His father’s words had stopped him cold in his tracks, his brazen smile from earlier slowly fading into a hard, thin line. Now that it was out in the open, it seemed obvious that his father would know. How could he not? The guards, the people, this place … It was all his. His home. His kingdom. Yet, Elaerion felt his chest sink just the same.

Despite this, he forced his shoulders to shrug and moved to catch up to the retreating king. “So why did you summon me?” he finally got courage enough to ask as they delved deeper into the throne room. “Not that I mind spending time with beloved father, of course, but I assume there is a point to my summons besides scolding me for my dress and how I spend my free time.”

“A few reasons, yes,” Maegor acknowledged. “Though I had thought you would have comment on this.” He reached up, gingerly holding the crown of King Maekar by the base, and lifted it off to hold at his abdomen where Elaerion could more easily study it.

Elaerion leaned in, but only for a moment. “That isn’t Daeron’s crown.”

“I did not prefer the look of it,” he lied, poorly. His stomach turned at the remembrance of his rage-induced indents on the soft, golden crown. This one, he placed back atop his head, sliding it to where it naturally rest.

Elaerion looked from his father’s head, up to the massive crown perched atop his brow, and then back down again. His brow arched. “You don’t say.”

In other circumstances, it might have been humorous, a situation in which he might have made a jest at the old man’s expense. But as Elaerion looked at the cold, imperious black spires that jutted out from King Maekar’s red-gold crown, all he could feel was unease.

Unease and a pinprick of gathering dread.

There was no going back for them now.

Written by:

Whisker

Mentioned:

Yarrow

Akio

deer

Hypnos · Feb 12, 2019

Ellyn Reyne

Receiving the Lord of some neighboring castle was not a foreign concept to Ellyn. During the lifetime of her father, Castamere had played host to near fortnightly gatherings of various members of the Westerland’s higher society, be it in the form of a tourney celebrating the anniversary of some great event long past, or a masquerade ball themed after a tragic tale or heroic song that had taken Lord Reyne’s fancy that week. Rafford Reyne had been as open handed as he was rich, and he had not been afraid to flaunt his wealth to those who needed reminding of his status. Ellyn could remember various occasions in which her father had graced his court with spectacles such as fighting lions, or exotic lyseni dancers, and even in his oldest age, when gout had long since claimed much of his mobility, Lord Reyne had still been prone to tapping his foot in rhythm with the sound of music. It had been under his insistence that Ellyn had taken to the harp, so that she might serenade him with sweet tunes, even when he was bedridden and infirm. Lord Rafford had been the life and soul of every event that he deemed to grace with his presence, and he certainly had an eye for the extravagant.

Criston Reyne was not Lord Rafford.

Upon being informed that Lord Crakehall and his daughter were to be visiting their manse, Lady Ellyn had expected preparation to begin to make their guests feel comfortable. She had expected wine of a good vintage to be wheeled out from the cellar, and bards to be called upon to entertain their noble charges. Neither of these prospects came into fruition. Lord Criston hated drinking, for he believed it dulled the mind, and turned honest men into fools, so instead of a strong wine, a weak mead had been lain out across the table, with tankards on hand only large enough to give each man two goblets. No bards had been procured either, much to Ellyn’s dissatisfaction, and the only entertainment on hand was the murmurings of several Reyne knights who were pretending to not still be hungover from previous nights of drinking.

It was a sad little feast, not worthy of the Brindled Boar, let alone the Red Lions of Castamere, and Ellyn was thoroughly disappointed, though she knew more than to run her mouth, not whilst her nuncle was in one of his moods.

Ser Criston had informed Ellyn that they were not only to play host to House Crakehall over lunch, but they were also expected to attend a gathering of Westerlords within the Maiden’s Vault for supper, hosted by by the Queen Dowager. A creased frown had not left his lips for the duration of the period in which the news was delivered to him. ‘Infamous’ was the word which Lynora Lannister had used to describe Ser Criston, and Ellyn knew that her nuncle did not appreciate such attention. He wanted to keep his head low, and get on with things. ‘Infamous’ implied that he had done something wrong, and it was best not to garner the attention of the Golden Lion.

For her own part, Ellyn was excited. The Crakehalls would make fine company for the duration of the afternoon, and it would be nice to chat with someone who was not currently on her payroll. As for the evening? Ellyn was never one to turn down a present, and this would be her first time seeing many of the Westerlords since her father had died. This time they were not her superiors. This time they were her peers.

‘Lord Crakehall. It was very nice of you to offer your company.’ It was Criston who greeted the Crakehall pair when they arrived at the door, though Lady Ellyn was not far behind him in offering her welcome.

‘My Lord. Please, we are all friends here. Call me Ellyn.’ Lady Reyne had been the style used by Ellyn’s mother, then it had been the one used by her stepmother, then the stepmother after that, then all subsequent brides her father had taken to bed, she was still not used to being addressed in such a way. Just ‘Ellyn’ was much more safe, just ‘Ellyn’ was much more familiar.

‘Might I invite you inside?’ Ser Criston asked briskly, not waiting for any confirmation, but instead turning to lead the guests towards the humble dining area that had been set up for the occasion. ‘I hope everything it to your liking.’

Ellyn doubted very much that it would be, but she was content nevertheless to sit down. The head of the table. ‘I heard that you had quite an important role during the war.’ Ellyn giggled, ‘Shield of the Westerlands, one might call your lordship, keeping all of our enemies at bay.’

Yarrow

ailurophile · Feb 12, 2019

Sabitha Vypren
Paramour to King Maegor II

"And Mother protect our lovely new queen."

That was one of the most important parts of her prayers that day, Sabitha decided. She'd heard plenty of people praise Maegor on their way into the Sept, naturally, but, not that he didn't deserve all of that and more, she'd felt a distinct lack in the support for the queen. Such a beautiful woman, truly. Charming and intelligent. In Sabitha's eyes, Leyla possessed all the qualities necessary to give the people the queen they deserved. Perhaps not the qualities necessary to be the wife Maegor deserved, if the man was to be believed, but even so. Nobody could be perfect, surely. That being said, she felt Maegor came very close indeed. She finished her prayers and smiled to herself as she rose, smoothing her new skirts to prevent any creases.

Oh, Maegor. What a man. What a King.
Her father had been particularly interested in that part, but it hadn't bothered her personally. When she'd met Maegor, he hadn't been King, there'd been no guarantee that he ever would be. Not that she hadn't believe in him, of course. Sabitha liked to think that the good men always prevailed, and there was no better man than Maegor. Everything that had happened between them still felt like a dream. Out of every girl in the Riverlands, every girl in the Seven Kingdoms, he'd chosen her to confide in. To reveal a deeper part of himself. To laugh with, to cry with.

He'd chosen her to love.
And then, he'd chosen her to carry his child.

Sabitha had been married before, and it'd been a fair marriage. Complaining about her previous marriage had felt so wrong: her husband had respected her, protected her, allowed her to experience motherhood. At the time, she'd thought she'd loved him. It was only when the gods had chosen to cross her path with Maegor's that she'd known what true love was. A mediocre marriage and the loss of the few children she'd had were all just tests to prepare her for her real future, she liked to think. That was what he father had told her. He always had the answers.

When she'd felt guilty because she'd had a family before, he pointed out that the gods had taken her husband and children to leave her free.
When she'd worried about Maegor's wife, he'd explained how he'd cheated on her own mother, in the interests of love.
When she'd thought perhaps she wasn't good enough for such a man, he'd reminded her how beautiful she was.

That wasn't why Maegor loved her, of course, not for her beauty. No matter the rumours, those first few nights together, they'd only talked, bared their souls to one another. Sabitha privately mused that she knew more about the new King than anyone in all of the Seven Kingdoms. He'd be a wonderful King, that much she knew, better than any who had come before. Oh, he made her feel giddy, like a young girl. This time, everything would be perfect. Certainly she felt that, because she loved the father this time, she could love the child. Not that she hadn't loved her late children, oh, no, that would be unforgivable, it'd just come harder than she'd anticipated. Surely that was natural.

Mother, forgive me.

As she left the Sept, both hands settled protectively over her stomach. Her blessing was barely visible, yet she felt that anyone who looked at her would know immediately the things she had done, would be able to see the product of fate that dwelt within her. It was not a wicked thing. When she'd heard of adultery as a younger girl, she'd pictured an evil and ugly thing. Now she was older, and wiser, she understood. Such things were necessary sometimes, necessary for ones happiness: love had to come before marriage every so often. It wasn't as though she was interfering with anyone else's life, that would be horrible. Heavens forbid.

She picked her way carefully through the streets. It was dirty, that was the main fact that stood out, but even so, Sabitha thought King's Landing was beautiful, in it's own unique way. Perhaps it ended a little time to get back on it's feet, to be returned to it's former glory, but even so. She thought it was wonderful, and she hoped she'd be around to see it's recovery. To explore.

Hopefully, one day, to call it home.

TheAncientCelt · Feb 12, 2019

A cup offered.

The wine drank, though a dryness in his throat persisted.

Not even the ambrosia of the gods would be enough to quench his thirst.

And then he listened.

Through interruptions from the soon-to-be Lord Piper, the careful words of the assumed successor to Robert eroded her vulnerable walls, letting these three chosen men near to her core. The shaking of her hands, the way her legs jittered, or her deep breaths as misery road through her mind was impossible to miss. Mallister did not intrude upon Alyssa’s proclamation, his attention nearly spent on the young noble before him. Not distant to him in age but in terms of exposure to the world, Mallister could assume such a forlorn child was sheltered compared to her now deceased elder siblings. From the corner of his eyes, Mallister spied the last of the Bracken clan. A jaundiced knight, Mallister paid him only a sliver of his mind lest pity consume him, with the speaking of this new Lady of his resuming.

“We can’t fight now, we’re too weak.”

An accusation that Mallister resented. The large man remained seated, but his visage slipped into an angry mask.

He was not weak.

They were not weak.

Fists formed without Mallister even registering, the grip on his chalice near enough to bend the weaker, ornate metals that the Snake provided to a guest of such high standing. Relaxing his grip, Mallister tipped the wine back down his throat. He smelled nothing from the aged grapes, there was no taste. He felt himself grow thirstier after his first cup, and in a brazen display, Mallister grabbed hold of the decanter. The red liquid swirled from the naked glass into the Riverlord’s chalice, then into his gullet as easy as his first.

Yet the second was as unfulfilling as the first.

Mallister could drink an ocean and he doubted that it would satisfy him now.

“We recuperate.”

Mallister found himself reaching for the decanter a second time, hiding a sneer. It was easy to discuss rebuilding - practically everything of value and most of the mindless chatter surrounding their homelands was of rebuilding. Mallister found himself empty of that drive, to both listen and indulge others.

“Then we do it.” The salmon spoke.

“Do what?” The Lord-to-Be questioned, his voice hushed now in suspense.

Mallister himself paused, the decanter held at close enough an angle to nearly pour the collected wine down his chalice yet again. Brown eyes found Alyssa’s bay blue.

“We destroy everyone and everything that ever crossed us in the winter that passed.”

What words followed were not heard, Mallister knew already who had to pay. The traitors of Frey, who did so little to support Mallister’s plight. The Ironborn, who brought his city to ruin and killed his king. Whose tentacle extended far beyond his reach and choked the life from House Bracken. Aemon the Atrocious’ stooges and Maegor the Malicious’ puppet masters. They would pay. Mallister promised himself that back before the wars final hours came, back when the claimants to the throne were three. Back when the sails, glittering with golden squid, were spotted on his horizon. They would all pay.

He hardly noticed the spilling of his wine, the stickiness of his fingers giving subtle clues. He’d nearly poured all of Tully’s generous offer on himself and the floor below. His face reddened for but a moment, Mallister returned the empty decanter to the table before them. Eyes of hardened steel did not retract from her words. There was no surprise or distaste as his new lady offered Mallister exactly what he wanted. What he needed.

The blood of his enemies.

Enough to drown himself in.

“Each and everyone one of them,” He finally spoke, the timbre of his voice great enough to frighten even the lions of the West. “We will make them rue this war and their massacre.” Mallister paused, the chalice of wine brought to his lips. His last and final cup, with rest of Alyssa Tully’s now sitting in a small puddle on the floor. “Rue that they did not finish their job and take all our heads. It will be their fatal mistake.”

The man who earned arguably the greatest victory for Maegelle’s swore himself to her daughters cause. It was not verbal, there was hardly any need. Mallister would not back away from this opportunity. To avenge his king, a man who need not of sacrificed his life for Mallisters, yet did so without grimace. To make right what crimes these powdered lords so casually took part in. For Darry. For Harrenhal. Stonehenge and for his own home of Seagard.

Already, he swore to his own name, long ago when the retreating sails of the Kraken skimmed the coast, far from his city now. He would have his vengeance, or he was not. . .

Jason Mallister

Hero of the Riverlands

Braddington · Feb 13, 2019

Argrave the Kingmaker
Lord Paramount of the Mander, Lord of Highgarden, Defender of the Marches and Warden of the South

Argrave sat, his fingers tapping the dark wood of the table before him in a rhythmic pattern, imitating the war drums he had experienced pounding his ears these last few months. Sounding men into battles, massacres and even breakfast. It was almost calming, a sweet song familiar to his old bones, relaxing him into a sense of complacency. Of familiarity. For even with all of his ambition, he was in a position entirely foreign. Aerys had shunned him, the King before him paid no mind either. Argrave was never anything more than the man who led the Reach, a powerful position, but not enough to merit anything more than a bow of respect. Now he was the Kingmaker, father of the Queen, grandfather of the Crown Prince and so much more than that. No matter how much he considered his own intelligence, his strength, his tongue. It was just as daunting if not more, for he knew more than the louts before him what this meant, like a mountain had been placed on his shoulders and it was his job to move it into its correct position. War drums were so much more simple. Not that he minded. Better a mountain than a flower. And now that he had it? The Gods themselves could not tear it from him, at least with no small amount of dead men to show for it. It was their turn to rule now, the old had their day, now the new would rise in their stead. A tad ironic to be sure, but the truth laid bare before him. He intended to show the realm that he would not be ignored, that he would not be pushed aside like a used pair of shoes. He intended to show that the arrogant pricks of the West were beneath him, the stags nothing more than game to hunt, the falcon a distant and subservient creature and the wolf an oversized pup.

Argrave Tyrell. A name the history books would remember. No matter how this ended

As the minutes dragged with no sight of the two he sent for, his fingers switched tact, the bony protrusions mimicking the funeral drums instead. It was a sound all too familiar, having lost old friends, family, acquaintances and anything in between during the pestilential war that preceded this “peace.” It was a mess, nothing more to it. The Stormlands front, back and forth, victory and defeat. The Dornish front, heinous massacres, genocide, starvation. The Reach had bled, and bled hard. It was time to mend those wounds, to sow them up beneath a golden rose. His vassals desperately needed a reward, and he knew just the sands in mind. If he is not content with simply sitting around after this war, they were no doubt in a similar situation. The first reward in his mind however? Gyles Hightower. He could do so much with that Hand.

As if by some act of the Gods, the prodigal son entered the room at that very moment. Dirty, unkempt and wholly obedient. The perfect vassal. He greeted the bows of the man with a wave, dismissing his words. He knew Hightower, he knew when he was uneasy, and it was certainly showing now no matter how much his face forced itself into different contortions.

“Lord Gyles. It is no bother. I was not forced to wait too long. Take a seat, the Queen shall no doubt arrive shortly. Help yourself to any of the food available, there is some wine in the flagon. I do not partake myself, but no doubt a man with your….stresses can appreciate our Redwyne friends.” As he said each word, in a pleasant tone, his eyes burrowed directly through the other and into his very being. He made a point of it. He did not appreciate being left alone for so long because of common criminals.

He arose from his chair, his body cracking and moving like an old wagon. A stiff pain in his neck, having started as a boyhood fracture now having grown worse with age. Each step he took towards the window, reminding him that he had a worldly limit, and that the years left to him were not as numerous as they once were. His approach was greeted by a view, a view that was somehow considered good. This horrible city, its many faults, its inhabitants. All stank. All needed to be fixed. This was what 300 years of Valyrian rule had achieved. A pile of shit at the edge of bay. No wonder most of them ended up dead before their time. They had to live in filth. Any man would be eager to get out of this monstrosity even if it meant killing your kin. Now it was Maegor's to govern. Hopefully he could do a better job than those before him, he certainly couldn’t do worse. Either way, he had Argraves support. His eggs were firmly placed in this basket, he had but to use his new found power to push the King in the right direction. And put his enemies in their place, with or without his liege’s consultation. The crown was all that mattered, his grandson, his daughter. All were tied to it now. He would not let it fall.

The door swung open once more, he turned to greet the sound. In waltzed his beautiful rose, radiating as she did everywhere she went. Wearing the dress he had given her, at no small expense. He smiled widely, truly. A rare thing for the man. His feet bouncing into life, energy returning to his old bones as they did so.

“My sweet daughter. You look positively stunning in that dress. Aye, I slept well, the coronation has been in my mind much though, of course. It makes concentrating on sleep much harder.” He hugged her, each sentence coming through the kisses being placed on her cheeks as he ignored the girl leaving behind her.

He directed her to a seat, next to his at the head of the table where the largest assortment of foods and beverages were assembled. Before returning once more to his own seat, the smile not fading.

Settling in, he directed their attention firmly on to himself, beginning what was to be a productive meeting.

“Thank you for coming, both of you. I have brought you here to discuss the future. The future we have carved with blood.” He gestured to Gyles, “And with marriage.” He gestured to Leyla. “It is not simply possible to sit back anymore. Actions must be taken, consequences assessed, rewards given….and threats neutralised. I wish to discuss these with you here today. My first point is rather simple, and I shan’t dally.”

He rose again, each time more smooth than the last as he became used to the motion. As each foot trod on the echoey surface below, his gaze move once more to Gyles. His hands placed themselves firmly on the shoulder of the man.

“I think it is high time you received a reward for your actions at Sunspear. That is why I wish for you to present yourself to his Grace with the intention of becoming Hand of the King. With my support, of course. I can think of no better man more suited, and more, you’re friends with our new King are you not? Is it settled then?”

His hands began to rub as his eyes looked down. Hand of the King. This was something that he had every intention of advising Maegor. He meant what he said. There was none better.

Interacting:

TheAncientCelt
Mentions:

High Moon · Feb 13, 2019

Erich Qarlon 'Repaer of Conquest' Harlaw
Lord of Ten Towers

On the way to the docks thoughts filled his mind, thoughts of war and damnation, war, it would plague them once more, consuming everything on it’s way. Erich didn’t have much to lose anymore. Two of his sons were lost to the seas, another three to the Corsairs of the Summer Isles, and many more. He could feel that his days as the feared Lord Harlaw was coming to an end, Nightfall felt heavy in his hands Would this be the last page in the book of his life? If so it would need to be a grand tale to end the Chronicles of Erich Harlaw. He wouldn't have time to dwell too much into the thouths as he hadn't been mistaken, barely a few minutes after his arrival, A ship bearing the Horn of Goodbrother on it's sails docked and his good-son, the unmistakeable Dalton stood beside him, yet he seemed to be in a hurry for he asked for the reason of his summoning to Harlaw with barely a few words to acknowledge him.

''You're as impatient as ever Dalton.'' he landed an heavy hand on the man's shoulder. ''I would expect some manners from a man of your standing. A 'how' have you been perhaps?'' He heard another ship docking and glanced to see which house had come to join them, he saw the seal on an island. ‘Farwynd’ it was fairly unimportant so he returned to talking with Dalton. ‘’...You see, it would be poli..’’ his words were interupted by a man, rather loudly cursing another. Turning back he saw Farwynd, and one of his men having some sort of disagreement, from what he understood from the loud swearing, Farwynd had confused the man for the Lord.

Nor was he the most intelligent the Isles had to offer, that much was evident from the rather humiliating mistake that they just witnessed. he beckoned for the young Farwynd to join them. ‘’Sealboy.’’ he offered his hand for a shake. ‘’Good of you to join us Farwynd, we were just talking about

A woman, yet crude and rude. While he couldn't recognize the woman, he did recognize the banner The infamous House Codd. ''Lady Codd.'' (Who I know has been rumoured to have had a very... scandeleous affair with a certain one handed high ranking official from Oldtown.) he said with a nod. Normally Harlaw wouldn't tolerate such behaviour yet he wasn't in the mood for a lecture, especially against some one who wouldn't listen and risk the plan, in addition her atitude reminded him of his younger days, when he was just as impatient and lacking in manners.

Drumm approached them not long after. ''My time is limited as well, that's why all will be explained in time Drumm. I can't waste the effort to do it two times. You'll hear it with everyone else.''

After waiting for a bit more, Harlaw decided it was enough, this was all he could gather, turning his back to the dock he started to make his way to the Keep. ‘’I believe, this is it. Come, we have a matter discuss and I have no intention to make you wait in the wind anymore.’’ He turned, looking to see who was the man daring to interrupt them in such a manner. He did recognize the man but his face soured. ''I did not expect to see the face a Botley today.'' ''We're not here to feast, my friend, unfortunately the matter at hand is much more, urgent. however I’m sure we can find something to appease your hunger. Now, let's get going.''

As they entered the Keep, it was bustling with people, Harlaw’s men, and the vassals as well. ‘’Bring some food to Lord Botley. Ale as well.’’ he said to the servant in the keep. ‘’We’ll be in the Western Tower.’’ a Thrall, a young maiden nodded. Erich did not even look back to the poor girl.

Once they entered the room in the western tower, it could be noticed that yhe room was relatively small, unlike the massive halls that’d host feasts. and barely decorated with anything aside from a table and a set of chairs with only thing on the table being a map of Westeros. Golden goblets decorated with dragon rims were the only thing that was of note. He made his way to the head of the table to take his seat, a chair that stood taller than all the others. he motioned for Goodbrother and Drumm to take their seats beside him.

Once everyone was seated, he begun. ''I will keep this brief.'' Pulling out the envelope that he had kept hidden until now. ''This letter you see, is one sent to me by me good friend Jaes Saan.'' ''Appearantly our 'King'.'' the word felt bitter in his mouth, what a King he was indeed.

''You know, the one who likes to sit on swords... Has ordered an attack on our Lord's ship. Taking him, his son and our fellow Ironborn prisoner.'' he threw the letter on to the table. ‘’If you do not believe my words, You’re free to read it. however I warn you, I wish I had not seen those words.'' he grimanced. the letter was vile, and he never wanted to touch it again.

He stood up, anger evident in his features. ''I hope y'all see that this can't be allowed.'' ''Lord Drumm, You wouldn't allow your friend Hrothgar, me Nephew. To rot in a prison till they decide he no longers serves his purpose and chop of his head like a commoner. Would you?'' he looked at her, expecting to see confirmation. ''Dalton,. you wouldn’t let you wife’s family waste away in a dungeon.’’ ‘’Lady Codd, this is a chance to prove that you are better than your infamous father and his predecessors. Show your loyalty to Drennan.’’ he passed behind Farwynd, and looked out the window, taking a deep breath to calm himself down. ''Farwynd, you've served loyaly to the Greyjoys and I have no doubt you will do so once more.'' and that was it, now that he thought he was calm enough he returned to the head of the table and took his seat once more, settling with unease.

''Now only one question remains.'' he took a sip of the fine Arbor wine from the goblet. ''Me Lords, Me Lady... Do you stand with I, who shall avange the crimes done against our Kingdom and kin, show that the Kraken is not to be mistaken as a pet of the Dragon, or do you stand with the foreigner, the Valyrian, The Tyrant who calls himself The King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men?'' he counted them all with his fingers. ''Because I don't see Ironborn among those titles. My king, Your King, is the one who rules from Pyke! And now he's rotting in the dungeons of that invader!'' he rose once more, threw down the golden goblet, and stomped on it

His eyes gazed into the Lords one by one. ''Because if your loyalties lie with the Mongrel. The door is right there'' His hands fell on the old wooden table. ''I shall not host traitors to House Greyjoy in my keep!'' The Lord of Ten Towers had made it clear. There would be no middle-ground and no discussion, no discussion. The Lords of the Isle were either with him or they were traitors.

Hypnos

Yarrow

JPTheWarrior

Asura

TheAncientCelt · Feb 14, 2019

Gyles Hightower

King’s Landing - The Red Keep

There was an all too familiar rhythm once Gyles entered the room. Hightower gave the bow, his hook hand limp at his side to avoid any unnecessary tears in his tunic. Proper greetings extended between both men, with the younger of the two keeping his eyes on the despot from Highgarden, near unblinking as the older man directed Gyles to sit. Hightower responded with a polite smile, stepping towards the end of the table without haste. A catch of the eye and Lord Gyles noticed the truer feelings that Tyrell withheld, only for the sake of appearances, and the Lord of Oldtown’s smirk fell.

‘The offer of wine isn’t genuine either, is it? I could use a barrel of Arbor Gold.’ Carefully, Hightower situated his cloak to fall over the chair provided for him as he reached for a cup. “You’re all too kind, Lord Argrave.” A smile that’d make a crocodile proud, Gyles leaned forward and took a pitcher of water in place of the wine. “However, I have many duties to carry out and must not poison myself so early.” Thorn-Hand carefully poured the water into his cup, while no small feat with having only a single hand to grasp, Gyles had caught on early into his disfigurement how to perform simple tasks such as these. Often, they impressed strangers, who thought him some lame lord. “While the war may be over, we’re not done fighting for our king, ey?”

Polite. Charismatic. Open and without vice.

That’s how Argrave raised him and Gyles was determined to give the man a show. ‘What a mummer I’ve become.’ A shallow smile spread over his lips. ‘At least a successful mummer.’ Hightower would relish in his duplicity for the time being, it appeared to satisfy his host. Any suspicions over exactly why he was called forward were put on hold whilst the older lord sat up, stepping from the table and towards the window. ‘Would you be so kind as to jump or must I shove you, my lord?’ Gyles would never be so bold as to say those words aloud. As useful as the Hightower was, he didn’t doubt that any perceived insult towards the Old Weed would be met with swift consequences. Tyrell was in deep thought and Gyles felt no resounding desire to tear the man away from his phantoms. ‘And what many he must have.’

The relative peace and silence was broken soon after, the door swung open and the ambient sound of the remainder of the castle filtered in. Invited, more like, by the two figures.

Her grace, Queen Leyla Tyrell. And -

‘Cerelle’ Gyles forced a smile to his face, though he did not speak a word to his daughter. ‘Of course that shrew would deem it proper to bring her here.’ Hightower had been against the notion of saddling his eldest daughter to Leyla, however under Argrave’s prodding, Gyles was forced to accept the proposal. ‘Because they know each other so well,’ He recalled the words of his lord and new queen. ‘Talana wasn’t delighted with this either. Now though, that woman is going to flaunt my own daughter in front of me.’ Gyles’ body language shifted with the arrival of the new queen, his shoulders tightening as his little girl was dismissed and Leyla greeted her father with more questions than Argrave likely wanted.

And gave him a mere hello.

Forcing himself to grin at the queen, Gyles instinctively stood. As he did with Argrave before, he bowed at his hip. “A pleasure for you to join us, your grace.” Somehow, Hightower knew she’d be here. Silently, to whatever gods listened, he prayed she would be else where. On her back or riding some new King’s landing loyalist like a prized steed, a simple yet effective means of rewarding loyalty. “How has the city been treating you, your grace? While it is not as pretty as Highgarden, it holds a certain charm?” Simple conversation, Gyles’ held his grin for seconds longer before planting himself back down in the chair, now wishing he’d chosen the wine.

The pleasantries were done with soon enough, and matters of the state were addressed. ‘Rewards’ Gyles curiously scratched his chin. He was not thinking in terms of what he could get, not fully at least. His eyes were on some honors and titles, but Hightower assumed most would go to those closer to Maegor or the paramount families. Especially Arryn, given what their foolish lord sacrificed. Optimistic, Gyles nodded along, finding the lingering eyes of the old man mildly discomforting. When the Tyrell Patriarch rose, Gyles swallowed softly. When he felt hands on his shoulders, Hightower tensed. His mind was blank, unsure of what to make of this man’s new actions.

‘My reward for Sunspear..?’ While Gyles understood the context, after the heir’s demise, the Dornish had been a constant blemish to the eyes of Argrave and his other cronies - Gyles included. Cruelty between peasants and the Reach soldiers was not minor, especially once Sunspear was taken. Gyles, however, found himself curious as to what Sunspear’s capture truly earned him. ‘Perhaps he’ll give me the city.’ A quaint notion, Gyles would enjoy seeing the fury on Martell’s face at the news. It was outlandish, however, nor would Hightower truly want it.

Learning of Argrave’s true intentions made Gyles almost wish he could claim the vipers den as a home.

‘Hand.’

His mind was white.

‘He dares…’ Gyles contained his fury well, though not his shock. ‘Is this some cruel jest, you disgusting mass of grey hairs and pork dinners?’ He wanted to shout. To slap the man.

He did none of these things. Instead, Hightower composed himself. And promptly thanked his lord.

“You are. . .Far too generous, Lord Argrave. Truly, you think I am worthy of the position?” Ignoring the idle chatter that surrounded candidates after Arryn’s passing, of which Gyles understood he was on some list for, never did he believe he would take such a position. Nor, if Maegor asked him, would Gyles. Thorn-Hand wanted nothing more than to return home with his daughter and leave Tyrell to this maggots nest. ‘And now.. I’m to feast with these vermin.’ His grimace rose to a slight smile. “Surely, my lord, your greatness would be better for such a prestigious seat among King Maegor’s council? I do not doubt myself capable, but you are oh-so-more. It was you who won the war.”

He pursed his lips. “However… I will not disappoint. If this is your wish.”

TheFool · Feb 14, 2019

♚ King’s Landing ♚
The Crownlands

Leyla Tyrell
Queen

She pecked her father’s cheek with a light kiss, listening to his blessings. It was always that way. He admired her at constant. Since she was but a girl.
“Your hair looks lovely that way.” He told her on occasion. Or - “What beautiful stitch work, my sweet.”
It was because of her father that she was the woman was. She forever thanked him for it. Other girls wouldn’t be as grateful for their fathers.
Most especially Cerelle Hightower.

“Oh, stop it. This old thing?” Leyla said about the dress she wore as her father gestured her towards the seat next to his. Gyles began talking as she took her place. His voice like an annoying itch in the back of her head. Gods,
I forgot how pathetic he could be.
He mentioned the city. King’s Landing. “The capital has been treating me well, ser. Though I’ve been here before - I can never get accustomed to the… smell.” She said to Thorn-Hand with a teetering smile.
She scooted in her seat and held her hands together on the table. Her eyes caught a glimpse of Gyles’ hand or the lack thereof. She smiled for a moment before turning her gaze to her dear father. He had things to say.
And everything he said was of some sort of importance. No matter how trivial it may, at first, seem.

Her father spoke of their conquests in Dorne. Sunspear, specifically.
That stack of shit.
Leyla extended her hand and placed it on the jug filled with wine. She shook her head. Her fingers danced their way towards the one with water instead.. She poured. She drank. She didn’t enjoy the taste of clear nothing.
Her mind turned to the sands to the south once more.
She thought of Allyria Martell.
She thought of Aemon.
The bastard.
Her brow furrowed. She pulled the cup away from her lips. The babe kicked her - softly. She put the cup down and pieced back into the conversation.

Hand?
Leyla smirked. The irony of it is not lost on me.
“It is his wish.” Leyla said to Gyles. “And you’re right. You will not disappoint. You have learnt to do a plethora of things with your one single hand, ser. Tasks both simple and intricate. I am sure you’ll be able to do all the same as Maegor’s hand.”
She remarked, a hidden snideness in her tone of voice.
“Perhaps even better.” She added.
Smiling.
She took another sip of water to wet her mouth. It dried so often. Leyla was woman forever in a thirst. A thirst for...
Many things.
“My husband,” She started. Looking at both her father and Gyles. “He was never meant to rule. We know this. He wouldn’t be ruling, if it wasn’t for us and those mountain freaks.” Her words were harsh but she was to soften them,
“He has proved himself, though. He fought. He sieged. He beheaded the two who opposed him - as much as he was against Maegelle’s death. She needed to die so that we could win.”
This was, without a doubt, the most praise she had given her husband in weeks. It came from somewhere though. She meant it.

“Maegor proved himself in war.”
She said.
“But the war is over. Now he needs to prove himself as King. If he is going to prove that then he needs what he needed when we declared him Maegor II at Highgarden. He needs a push.”
She looked at her father.
She looked at Gyles.

“So push him.”

Allyria Martell

ailurophile
Argrave Tyrell / Daddy

Braddington
Gyles Hightower

TheAncientCelt
King Maegor II Targaryen

Lingua Frankly Not · Feb 16, 2019

Leowyn Corbray,
King’s Landing
Coppersmyth's Wynd

Leowyn Corbray knew where he was going.

For some weeks had the two remnants of House Corbray been settled into the city, their troops having begun their march home at the heel of Leowyn’s brother, Ser Edgar Corbray. E’er the economical son, Edgar had quickly judged the expenditure of feeding their few thousand men within or outside city walls to be untenable. The crown had been won for King Maegor, but no stroke of luck had yet increased Corbray coffers. They must be near home, now, Leo mused, bitterly. Edgar, and the others. He wished to be near home. Where mother was, and where she would let him do as he wished, and where she would… she would make them laugh less.

The men had been laughing at him often of late. Since the siege of Riverrun, when he’d shied away from the further lines and siege weapons to travel amongst the maesters’ tents, asking questions of them. Since he’d hidden during the assault on the island keep, when Valemen and Westermen and men of the Crownlands had scaled the walls, damp with water of the river, and lowered drawbridges to allow their forces inside. During that battle, that titular fight in which the Riverlands had fallen in truth, Leowyn Corbray had hidden within an abandoned tent, underneath down-filled blankets, shaking. He’d been found there, later, by his house’s men… and not at the side of his great-uncle Qyle Corbray, to whom he was to have been squired.

Qyle Corbray had died that day. He would’ve died too, and what good would that’ve done? Leowyn liked to think it wasn’t his fault, his nuncle’s death.
It was easier that way. It hurt… less.

His opinions did little to dull the whispers and barbs of his brother’s men.

A shoulder slammed into his, and Leowyn’s attention raced back to present day. Leowyn tripped over his own ankle, falling to the beaten stone that marked Coppersmyth Wynd. “Excuse me?” He looked around himself, confused. No one stopped to answer. Some men were staring – at the brooch holding his cloak, a silver raven, and others at his fine leather boots – and Leowyn stumbled back to his feet. Amidst his turning and bemusement, he’d lost sight of whoever had sent him tumbling in the first place, and he muttered apology to the world at large. Had it been his fault? He knew not. Still, in the process of righting and dusting himself in the crowd, he made some certain to show the blade at his hip. It should scare pickpockets off. They, at least, he thought, don’t know how shite I am at swordplay.

And he had elsewhere to be. Leowyn sniffed, straightened his dirtied and torn doublet, adjusted his cloak, and looked around himself at various coppersmithing shops and overcrowded streets. This wasn’t his final destination. He took a moment to figure from whence he’d come, and turned to continue on.

From the inn, he knew the directions. He’d studied it, and memorized his way.
He didn’t need his great-uncle Yorwyck holding his hand, thank you. At sixteen, he was a man grown.

It was simple.

Down the Street of Flour,
Left onto the Street of the Sisters,
Left to Coppersmyth’s Wynd,
And right onto the Street of Silk.

Obviously, silk would be sold there, along with other stately regalia.

He turned right, onto the Street of Silk. There were men and women fashionably clothed, and others lacking in… quite as much clothing, but… that might be a style? Might it not be? Leowyn’s throat constricted as he spied a woman’s bare breast, and rapidly looked aside. What would mother think? Don’t, don’t. Don’t look, Leo. He needed to find the shops. That proved difficult. The lane was confusing. Before he knew quite what’d happened, he’d lost sight of the street’s turn from Coppersmyth, and mostly saw tall, painted establishments and a din of customers. The Smith’s Hammering, one building was called. Another, The Plucked Rose. A Taste of Dragon. The Pussywillows.

Leowyn Corbray took little mind of these places. He was here with reason, afterall. House Corbray may be lesser in its strained finance following the march of war and associated expenses, but this was precisely why he, and his great-uncle Ser Yorwyck Corbray remained. He was sixteen. He was a man grown… and he could be wed to a maiden for a sizeable dowry.

A maiden of House Frey, he thought, swallowing. A rich house, even if from another side. Maegelle's side. He looked away from a woman who beckoned him. He was to marry a maiden, and he was to meet her in this large, confusing city, and hopefully to secure that match from the Lord of the Crossing. He must make good impression. And in the travel from Riverrun, at camp one night, when bumped between his brother’s taunting men… his doublet had torn.

Nervous fingers tugged at the frayed edge of his doublet.

“You look lost, Ser,” a voice said from his side, silken and sweet. There were fingers atop his shoulder, and Leowyn turned, sputtering, to face a brown-haired woman with paint around common blue eyes.

He wasn’t, though. “I’m not. I’m where I meant to be,” Leowyn objected. He wasn’t a Ser, either, but that seemed more effort to refute. The bustle of the crowd continued at his back, ebbing and swaying as the tide. "I came to buy silks, and cloths, and–,”

“–Silks and cloths and we sell here, and less, little lord,” she said.

There was another hand, now. Between his legs, where Leowyn’s thoughts crashed to a stop, and his confusion reached a crescendo. Where something else occurred, too, to him when he reached for the coinpurse that had been at his waist. It wasn’t now. When had he lost it? On the Street of Silk? When he’d been shoved to the ground, on Coppersmyth’s Wynd?

What in the Seven Hells had Leowyn Corbray gotten himself into?

Mentions: Asura Whisker deer DarkianMaker

Asura · Feb 19, 2019

Ser Yorwyck Corbray
King's Landing

The Gods had seen fit to test Westeros in months recent. Dragon rose against dragon, and from the Greenblood to the Gift, the kingdoms burned with the fury of their dance. Proud warriors of high birth found tests of courage on the fields of battle, and the poor dregs at society's bottom found tests of faith against the plague, famine and slaughter that befell their humble homes. But for Ser Yorwyck, this so called Winter's War only seemed to test his patience more and more with every passing day. He had answered when his brother's daughter called for her banner men. He had ridden proud and strong at the front of the columns of farmboys and farriers alike when the levy marched to war. From Darry to Riverrun, he had done his to king and country in subduing the Riverlands and its belligerent lords. The war was over, and those farmboys and farriers who had left Heart's Home near a year ago were half way up the High Road by now. But astride his horse at the head of their columns Yorwyck was not. For he had been given a task far more important than leading their house's men back from a successful campaign, by the Lady of Corbray herself. He was to see her precious boy off to King's Landing, to ensure he safely found the stoat he was to wed, bed and carry home, along with the chests full of coin her weasel brother would offer their house in return for the match.

He had been relegated to babysitting duty, by a woman who he had cradled in his arms when she was nothing more than a babe herself. He had love in his heart for Helaena, that much was true, but there were times when he questioned the wisdom of letting a woman carry the banner of their proud house. Emotional lot, and weak of will, they tended to be. The Gods had been good to bless her with boys, the eldest of which had a good head on his shoulders and a strong spine to keep it upright and held high. The younger... he'd been found cowering at Riverrun, last he had heard it. While Yorwyck danced with his lady upon the battlements of that damned pink castle, his great nephew was hiding beneath a downy blanket like it was his mother's skirt. He blamed himself, in part. If he hadn't let Helaena coddle the lad so much, perhaps he would not have become so craven now that he was a man grown. A few good clouts to the head to steel the spirit would've done him good as a boy. But now, the old knight feared, it was too late. All his clouts seemed to do was make the boy whimper as if they were storming Riverrun all over again.

The futility of it did not make Yorwyck wish to strike him less, however. Especially when he had learned from the innkeep that the idiot had taken the lion's share of their silver and gone wandering off into the streets alone in the early morning, before he had a chance to rise. By a stroke of luck, the homely woman who owned their lodgings had overheard him declaring he had need of a new doublet of fine silk before he could meet his bride. A start if nothing else. Yet after an eternity of riding his old grey palfrey up and down the Street of Looms, flinty lilac eyes dancing between haughty aristocrats looking to clad themselves like peacocks before the king's coronation, he could not seem to find that shaggy headed simpleton for the life of him. There was a reason his mother had assigned him a caregiver, and it wasn't just because she treated him like he still needed to be swaddled in cloth. In a city on the brink of starving, after a sack, there was no end to the number of people who would gut him like a fish for the clasp on his cloak.

It was only in desperation and a vague hunch that Yorwyck spurred his horse northwards through Sowbelly Row and the Reeking Lane, the hefty animal allowing him to push his way through the masses of peasantry that huddled themselves out of sight of their betters, half or more left with little more to do than wander the streets in search of feed with their homes and businesses having burnt in the capture. The more he looked upon their downtrodden faces, the desperation in the crowd, the more he worried.

He bid his mount up the Street of Sisters, where the traffic was less congested and he could get a better view of things. He had walked this very street as a boy, he remembered vividly, more than half a lifetime ago. His mother had held his hand as they walked, to keep him close and keep him brave in this strange place, even though they were flanked by half a dozen armed men during their visit to the Dragonpit. He hadn't liked King's Landing then either, as the dank stench of the city's bends and alleys had soured his nose, but to hear his sweet mother regale him with tales of the beasts who had once called Rhaenys' Hill home made it bearable. How would those great creatures, fire made flesh, feel now, looking down upon the squalor? How would Baela Targaryen feel knowing her home had been reduced to ruin by the squabbling of her kin?

Coppersmith's Wynd helped bring him from his nostalgia. It may once have been a center of metallic finery, but the copper smiths seemed awful reclusive as he trotted swiftly up their street. Half the workshops had been looted of their goods, and what remained were likely being occupied by soldiers, their larders privy to the whims of whatever westerman or valeman or reachman had decided to set up shop with his fellows as their lieges rubbed elbows with the new court. Edgar had the right of it; marching home was the best course of action. The sooner these soldiers left the city, the sooner some semblance of order could return, when decent men and women could walk these streets without fear of rape and thievery by the victors.

The Street of Silk was a den of debauchery and sin, and it was certainly no place Yorwyck was brought to as a boy. But he knew its reputation well, a place where a man could come to meet wanton women from every corner of the world, and leave with both his purses thoroughly drained. It was only by name that he bothered riding down this road of raucous lechery. The boy had specified silk, if memory served. An unnecessary extravagance. Surely, though, he hadn't thought that the only place to purchase silk was...

By the Gods.

"Stupid boy!" The old knight barked from high in his saddle. His face had gone red beneath the wiry white whiskers on his face. Not out of embarrassment or arousal like so many in his district, but out of rage. He spurred his steed forward, nearly bowling over a few passersby as he rode towards Leowyn. "Did you forget who you were meant to be bedding in this city?! Or do you take every poxy slattern you see to be a Frey?!" He boomed, tightening the reins on his steed as he approached. The whore seemed to wither at his gaze, made sour and cold by the years as it was.

"What's this? Have I ruined your business? Here, for your troubles then! Use it to buy some damned dignity to go with whatever sawdust-laden loaf you sup on tonight! Tits out before the Gods and everybody, grabbing at a man's cock to meet ends. Disgraceful!" He had dug a handful of stags from his cloak and tossed them at the woman to go along with his scorn, pelting her with tiny silver circles. She took them just as she took his venom, picking the precious metal off the pavement with a quickness that almost inspired guilt in him. If not for the scorn he still had left for Leowyn, for whom his dagger like glare fell upon in her absence.

"Out with it, boy! Before I lay something more severe than silver on you!"