Fandom ♛ Blackfyre : A Game Of Thrones RP

[ailurophile]

Helya Goodbrother​

Her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth in concentration. Helya sat, legs curled up, in her sister’s chair, etching out her memory onto a scrap of paper. The image that was forming with every scratch of charcoal was a pleasant one: the Goodbrother sisters, happy, with Ros with an arm slung cheerfully around either sisters' shoulders.

She paused to examine her work so far critically. Her fingertips were smudged with black, and when she reached to brush a lock of blonde hair from her eyes, a single dark streak was left across her cheekbone. Helya didn't notice it.

For a long time, her proclivity for the arts had been a topic of scorn and a source of malicious jokes. It seemed that no matter how beautifully Helya could act, sing, draw, or paint, her talents were less impressive than those of a dog who knew to bring back a stick that was thrown for it. It wasn't surprising, not now. When she was a little girl, her dismissal had bothered her, but now that she had reached the wise age of seventeen, she understood the way of the world.

The way of their world.

With the familiar dull ache in the wrist of her dominant hand returning, Helya recognised it was time to pause her project, and delicately rolled up the picture to store beneath the desk. She rose, quickly, and stretched.

And immediately dropped down into her seat when the cabin began to spin.

With a shaky breath, she pressed her forehead to the cool desktop. Another breath, then a long, measured exhale. In her haste, she'd forgotten about that unfortunate occurrence-- sometimes, she felt as if she'd drunk twelve cups of wine, when she was completely sober. That was the best metaphor she could find to describe the sensation, anyway. Mostly she put it down to her prematurity. She'd heard the stories so many times, of how she'd burst into the world sooner than anyone had anticipated, tiny and weak. In fact, they'd presumed her dead on arrival.

But she'd pulled through. She always did.

Helya's resilience was her one useful quality, she'd decided. There was never going to be anything else she could do. That was probably why she was still in Al's cabin, rather than out in the commotion at her sister's side. The runt of the litter, Helya was significantly smaller than her sisters. Pale, fragile, sickly.

Although she wasn't sick that day, which was a welcome surprise. So often, she was plagued with a cough that left her throat raw, or a headache that saw her dead to the world in a dark room, or her dizzy spells would confine her to the floor. So often, she feared it was finally time to succumb to her various unexplained weaknesses.

So often, she rose again, bright as ever.
Resilience was her one useful quality.

At the sound of the door, Helya gingerly lifted her head to regard the new arrival: Alwyn. She scrambled to pour the water.

"I look forward to it," she smiled.

As she watched Al sip the water, however, her smile faltered and she pursed her lips thoughtfully. Running through various scenarios in her mind. Finally, she settled for simplicity.

"Was it bad, Al?"

Gently.

"Are you alright?"

She wasn't referring to the raid anymore, and they both knew it.

TheFool

 

[ailurophile]

Vaella Blackfyre​

In silence, she listened to her father's voice of reason. It was all going well. While Vaella had expected him to refuse her request, she hadn't expected him to do so so gently and so rationally: it gave her hope. She smiled.

Loyalty and action.
I wonder if he knows that's exactly what I'm seeking from Domeric.

"You're right, father. Of course, I understand." A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "Although I'm not convinced you're right about him enjoying his current living situation. Not all men have the same carnal instinct, you know."

She laughed, but cut her own giggle off, and cleared her throat.

Her father's hand was warm in hers and despite a nagging feeling that it was time to let go, she didn't want to, not yet.
So she didn't.
Because what if this was the last chance she had?

Vaella had been planning to pose her loose plan to her father right the and there, but doubt was creeping in, and that stopped her. So far, they were speaking amicably, and the last thing she wanted to do was spoil that by slipping up and saying the wrong thing. Whether she needed to or not, Vaella was still very much walking on eggshells, anxious that one poorly timed look or bad choice of phrasing would make her father's demeanour change. He'd hit Arlan.

What was to say he wouldn't react with similar impulse if she asked his opinion?

"I was wondering, also, about the subject of heirs. Because I spoke to... someone, and she told me not to bother. I'm not convinced I will. I think there are better candidates than myself, admittedly not all of them, but..." She paused, and frowned. Caught her lower lip between her teeth momentarily as she considered her next statement. "I'm worried, I suppose. About the others. There's always been an element of rivalry between some of them, and now?"

Finally, she released his hand.

"I'm just afraid you might aggravate it. With your decision."

Immediate regret.

"Not that I'm implying I know better, I only meant--"

The door opened once more, bringing relief or further inflammation: it was too soon to tell.

"Grandmother!"

TheAncientCelt TheFool

 

[QuirkyAngel]

Lord Elstan Waynwood
(Ironoaks, the Vale)​

To say Elstan was surprised by Cassandra’s words was an understatement. He was flabbergasted. Cheers resounded around the banquet halls even before he’d managed to even touch the letter, courtesy of those who were close enough to see and hear the interaction. Though, given that the Lady of the Vale was the banquet’s guest of honor, it was no surprise that many eyes had been on her.

Only years of composure training kept him from outright blushing or reacting in an exceedingly startled way. Elstan took the offered letter for formality’s sake. Broke the seal and quickly read through its contents to confirm his appointment. However, it was the young lady’s verbal words that touched him.

There really was only one proper response.

Lord Elstan dropped to one knee in ceremonial genuflection. He had never been a knight. However, he’d trained under knights and often knighted other young men, so he knew the procedure. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t want the title of knight. He’d just never actively pursued it. There was no reason to. As the oldest male child of Clayton Waynwood, he’d been set to inherit his father’s land and the title that came with it. Lord of Ironoak. That was what he trained to be. Anything else was just additional decoration.

Yet, at this moment, in the halls of Ironoak, he was clearly being knighted. Knight of the Blood gates, to be exact.

“Always,” he responded to her request to protect the Vale. “I swear it by the old gods and the new. You do me a great honor, my lady.”

Rejecting would be a smear at her trust and judgment. Therefore, Elstan wouldn’t. Not unless he was he really against the idea and especially not in front of a crowd. Though he did question her choice in giving the appointment to him. Hence his startlement.

Knight of the Bloody Gates was a military position.

There were probably more decorated lords that suited the role. One’s more suited to warfare. Not to say that Lord Elstan had never seen battle. Ironoak had its fair share brigands that cropped up every once in a while to trouble his lands. Trips to the Eyrie were almost always littered with mountain clansmen assaults. As a young lord, he’d been taught that riding alongside his soldiers boosted moral, so that’s what he did. Sparred with knights, dueled with ruffians, especially in his youth (though beating Henrik Royce and protecting his sister from dubious suitors had been the primary goal). He was present during meetings involving security and military matters. Knew basic battlefield tactics. If his cousins had not bent the knee towards the end of the Blackfyre invasion, he would’ve likely gone to war as well.

A lord’s primary duty was to protect their domain.

They were also obligated to answer the call of the lord they served. Had Roland wanted a fight, Elstan would’ve stood by his side. The same, he supposed, of the man’s daughter. Unlike Anton, he had never once strayed from duty. That was how he’d been raised. Taught. The only way he knew how to be.

In some ways he, he was jealous of his younger brother who was given the opportunity to choose and pursue his own dreams.

But he’d never regretted it.

Especially when Lilana was born.

Now that honor had been bestowed on him and his family by the young Lady of the Vale though, a bit of shame entered his mind. Honorable and true? He would break the wheel for his family if he could. Give a child with no blood relations whatsoever his family name and have it accepted throughout the lands as law to meet his own ends. His words, about her policies changing things for the better at least, had been a subtle push in the direction he wanted her to go. What he believed to be right for his family, even knowing the risk should she go to King’s Landing.

If she was his own daughter, would he have really said the same?

Elstan rose to his feet, amidst the heightened cheer of the banquet hall.

Looking at the slightly reddened face of his cousin’s last living legacy, he was reminded that she was only two years older than Lilana, yet far braver. Carried much more weight on her shoulders. If he could lighten that load a bit, it was the least he could do. At first, it had been in honor of his cousin, who he had sworn his loyalty, and his son, who had died for the Arryns. But now, it was also in response to the trust placed on him by the young Lady of the Vale. One that’d managed to touch him and the heart of Ironoak.

Elstan smiled.

Perhaps he didn’t have much to worry about after all.

“I will do my utmost to ensure that your trust isn’t misplaced and the Bloody Gates remain secure.”

***​

Of course, when Lilana came to his study after the banquet, begging him to let her go to King’s Landing with Lady Cassandra, Lord Elstan very nearly renegaded on all his vows. He was weak to her puppy eyes. Weak. Keeping her from going to Highgarden had taken all his mental strength, even with Matilda’s support. The fact that Lady Cassandra had been the one to make the offer made it even worse.

Or was it a request?

From the way Lilana described it, it certainly sounded like one. Requests from a liege lord weren’t easily refused.

Elstan trusted his instincts. He did with Conrad. Lady Cassandra as well. Winning over the Lords the Vale took delicacy. The fact that she was making the same decision as her father, while having just taken her throne, didn’t help matters. Staying longer to cement her hold on the Vale of Arryn, before making her journey to King’s Landing, might have been a more wise decision. However, kings didn’t like waiting long either.

“Conrad would want this too. You know he would.”

Elstan knew it to be true. The lad blamed himself for not having been with Nickolas in King’s Landing. He didn’t say as much. But it was obvious in the way he trained. In the way he complied with requests, as if he owed the Waynwoods more than he’d already given. The opportunity to take vengeance on the ones who killed Nick wouldn’t pass the former mercenary. Though younger, Conrad had a harder edge to him than Nick did. An innate survival instinct born from a harsh childhood. That was why he always sent Conrad to protect his reckless heir. The one time he didn’t, Nick died.

“Opportunities like this don’t come every day, Father. I like Cassie. I want to support her.”

First name basis already? Since when? It’d barely been a day.

“There will be lots of guards to keep us safe. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

There were only so many Ironoak knights he could send with her because he was responsible for manning the Bloody Gate now as well.

“I promise to keep up with my studies. Maester Arwick says my High Valyrian is passable now and he says he may get me started on Ghiscari if I can get through a book on my own.”

Just what was Arwick teaching her?

Elstan rubbed his temple. “What will you even do there, Gem? Bother Lady Arryn while she works?”

“Of course not. I’ve been to King’s Landing. I can show her around. Keep her company when she needs a female companion she can trust. Besides, it’s not as if you can’t keep an eye on me while I’m there. Please, Dad. I’m married now. If you send Conrad there, I want to be with him. Please?”

“…I’ll write to Conrad. That’s the only thing I can promise, Gem.”

He still had a bunch of letters to get through. Therefore, he was relieved when Lilana simply left with a nod.

Mion

 

[TheAncientCelt]

Naemidon Blackfyre​

A light snort escaped the king at the suggestion that the Stark boy wasn’t the type to indulge in desires of the flesh, followed shortly by the crinkling of his lips at his daughter’s apparent naivety on the matter of men. That was a promising sign, the father decided. “Your optimism is admirable.” His words held a sarcastic lilt to them, but he did not expand to insult his daughter’s views on the Northerner, the retort short as she broke into the simmering expression that signalled thoughts traversing her head.

Silence descending upon them, Naemidon felt himself ease into the conversation more. It didn’t seem like it’d go the way of the Stormlords, that was to say, fleeing Southward in an honorless display. It was vastly different to how Arlan approached him, where the intent was made known without standing on ceremony. He was loud, angered and without patience for the world around him. Traits that, if tempered, would be respectable. Some that Naemidon shared at Arlan’s age. It did not, however, make for good company. The bickering, the demands made, the suggestion Naemidon let slip and the outrage that followed. . .

No, this simple exchange was far more pleasant, if only plain at best. Voices were low still and his current child’s only request was simple enough to explain away - seemingly without any fuss.

With great patience, he listened to what she had to say next. As she pulled away from him, Naemidon sunk further into the sofa. Wrinkles deepened as he felt a scowl come over him at her outpour of words and doubt. At first, he suspected she’d have similar thoughts to Arlan. Vaella was the princess, born of two dragons and oldest of his brood. Her quick dismissal of her own potential as chief replacement was a twist, but he did not dwell on it for long. Her scrutiny of his methods were first and foremost what concerned him. As she fumbled around an insult, accidental or otherwise, Naemidon reached forward, the pitcher of cider having laid forgotten for some time. Pouring himself a full cup, Blackfyre barely kept the liquids inside as the doors swung open once more.

This time, with a figure he found unequally exhausting.

His mother.

“Rhaenys.”

Calling her queen mother would only encourage her. Naemidon left his drink abandoned after a long, purposeful sip. He stood, ignoring Vaella for the moment. “Should we call all other members of our family, for it seems each is after me for a particular reason.” He pursed his lips. Knowing his mother, Rhaenys likely had a hundred different excuses to storm into her son’s solar. “I’ll waken the dead, so we may fully remove all confusion in this House. May no Blackfyre go further, claiming I, King Naemidon, ignored them.” His voice was already thin as he regarded Rhaenys. The way she stood, the fire in her eyes, it was all too familiar. A fight was past brewing, the pot was bubbling over with unspoken words.

“Be so kind to wait outside as I conclude this conversation, Rhaenys.” With a dismissive wave of his palm, he eyed the sitting girl. Whether or not she moved, Naemidon touched ever so briefly on the core issue she seemed to hold. “As touching as it is that you’re concerned for your brothers, do not mind them so much. If they reveal themselves as incapable of coexisting, then they have only proven themselves incapable of inheriting what I leave behind.”

His voice was harder than he’d of liked it to be, but the open doubt from Vaella - quite literally after Arlan’s tantrum - and now the promise of a lengthy argument with his mother wore away at his thinning patience.

Mentions:
TheFool
ailurophile

 

[Braddington]

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

It happened fast. Lords were toasting a victory, a plain victory as he sat in the defeated's seat. A comfortable if unremarkable one. Yet like the tides that took him to his newfound chair the mood changed quickly. A woman was brought before them, a Dornish woman. Family. He had forgotten about that part. He thought them all in King’s Landing with their father, or in the Reach with their brutish occupiers. Yet here she stood, one of Martell’s daughters. Which one he could not say, the eldest? The youngest? He didn't even learn their names and ages before he took this castle. He knew Mors, and that’s all that mattered. Anyone else's name was a triviality, as were the names of those that died defending the snake. A captured defender brought questions he’d rather not have been asked. Was it a horrific thing to wish she had died? That decisions that now had to be made could be pushed away? That he had never seen her face, or known she had a form he could see clearly in his mind forever more? Perhaps, yet his mind wished it all the same.

Before he could even rise and answer her insults, the woman charged the Maester. The guiltiest man here by all accounts. A traitor to his oath, an oath keeper to his people. A double edged sword. It was only because he had betrayed for their cause that he hadn't raised objection, no doubt he would have done the same if he were in the daughters position. Though perhaps with one difference. He would have succeeded. He would forgive her for the move, it was noble, it was honest, it was right.

But Sunspear was apparently not Winterfell. The painful days of waiting, the wretched hours of Councils, the indecisive battles of words. No. This place was none of those things. This place was colder still even than the Northern snows. It was quick, and it was painful. The battle was over, but the war was still firmly in place. Lord Stark apparently remembered that fact even in this moment of triumph. A moment of glory he was willing to use in order to forgive and pardon.

This was the beginning. Not the end.

He visibly grimaced at the move, hissing like a cobra. Staring as the blood dripped from her now motionless hand. Was it necessary? He arose only to be interrupted once more. Another Dornish woman in the grips of Lord Velaryon. Another daughter? She shouted at them, cursing them, declaring the Usurper would take them. Declaring they would all be killed.

He was not his father. He had promised that.

His legs started moving by themselves, the King reaching the center of the room, staring down at the woman. Then to Lord Stark, glaring at the man but not saying a word, accepting what had happened without contradicting it. He couldn't contradict it. They accuse him of being weak, of being nothing but another stepping stone for Naemidon. That had to be remedied. And her father needed a message greater than any castle could send. A nod, slight but dutiful found its way to Stark.

“GUARD!”

He shouted, a man immediately rushing into the room, not questioning the sight in front of him.

“Get someone to take care of….that. We need her alive. I don’t want anyone let in to speak with her, and I want no men to gawk at her. She is our prisoner. If someone wants to even gaze upon her, they must have permission from myself or Lord Stark.”

The guard bowed, rushing out once more. His eyes still stared, burrowing into the girl before his eyes returned to Jacaerys.

“Thank you, Jace. The girl is useful. She’s seen a lot this day. Treat her well. For now, we keep her until ransom is asked or leverage is gained. I am sure Lord Manderly would appreciate a gift. A present from our trip south.”

He did his best to act like the King he was, dismissing the pain that emanated from his leg and speaking with a clear tone. A royal tone.

“Lord Stark. I believe we are done here. Round everything up that isn't bolted down, including those comfortable chairs. We have to leave before more vipers arrive. Inform the men that alcohol rations are doubled for the night. They need something to calm them.”

Immediately, without another word, he left the room. He couldn't stand the room anymore, every section of wall filling him with disgust. He was done here. He was done with this wretched place.

He wanted home.

He wanted her.

Hypnos TheFool Yarrow ailurophile TheAncientCelt​

 

[TheFool]

Alwyn Goodbrother
The Burnt




​

Alwyn sipped.
Cautiously.
As if the cool water was black poison.

“Do not look forward to it, Hel.” She said, finishing the drink. Al approached her. Her sweet sister. The littlest of the three of them. The Goodbrother sisters. Helya was the youngest and it definitely showed. She wasn’t as big or as strong as her older sisters.
She had a fierceness to her, however.

A fierceness Alwyn respected.


She’ll make a fine woman.


By a fine woman - Al did not mean one who kept hushed and allowed a man to put a few children in her belly. There were enough of those women, especially on The Iron Islands.

She’d be the type of woman Alwyn always wanted to be.

One who isn’t afraid?
One without scars on her body and scars on her heart?

“It was… awful.”
She answered her sister’s question. “I… I have seen a lot of things, Hel. A lot of badness. But… never like this. Something never so rotten - so evil. So many innocent people.” She felt her bottom lip quiver. She would not allow herself to cry in front of her sister though.

She stopped herself.
Took a breath.

“Innocent people. Tortured, raped and murdered. All because…”

She felt herself wince.

“All because I could not stand up to Erich Greyjoy. All because I could not command mine own crew to stand down. To lay down their weapons… and their bloodthirst.”

She sat down in a chair next to the desk.
Old and wooden.

“And now we sail for Starfish Harbour. When we arrive I assume it’ll be void of life. Our dear uncle Hrothgar will’ve made sure of that.”

She closed her eyes.
She saw fire.
She saw the rushing water. The waves hitting against her as her body panged - as if she had been stung by a thousand wasps. Splashing around.

Screaming.

Begging for help.

She opened them.
How many little girls faced a similar situation today? How many little girls burnt alive?

Another sigh.
“I do not know what to do, Hel. Do I continue going along with it all? With Greyjoy’s madness?”

Spoiler: Al's MENTIONS

ailurophile

Rhaenys Blackfyre
Queen Mother




​

Rhaenys.


She could not recall the last time Naemidon I called her his mother. She went against his wishes. Approaching him. Approaching Vaella. What was she talking to him of? What we spoke of earlier? She wondered. A wonder that soon left her. She did not care. As much as she would’ve loved to input an opinion - her opinion - it was not her place. It was a conversation between daughter and father only.

“Do not speak to me like that, Naemidon.”
Not even a simple greeting…
From mother nor son. “The last thing a mourning father should be doing is jesting as such.” Waking the dead? He truly has no compassion.
No respect!
She frowned at him. Her expression a mix of anger and disappointment.

I raised him better, did I not?

“Hello, my dear.” She stopped to greet Vaella. Putting her frail hand on the girl’s shoulder and giving it a soft loving squeeze. Her gaze was on her granddaughter for less than a moment before it turned back towards Naemidon. Towards her son.

The only one she had left.

“I will not wait outside. Most unlike your councilors and most unlike your wives - you cannot… you will not ignore me, Naemidon.”
Her tone was pointed.

“We must speak of your…” She stopped. She thought. “Your stupid decision. Your fool’s game. Your contest. Whatever it is.”
Her hand left Vaella’s shoulder.

Naemidon looked tired. Haggard. For a moment she thought she was too hard. Too vicious. A part of her thought about showing compassion. To practice what she was preaching.
She stared at him.
Her frown slightly fading.

A man who had lost his son.
Something the two of them could relate to.

As she had lost both of hers.

Spoiler: Rhaenys' MENTIONS

ailurophile
TheAncientCelt / Optimus Princeps

 

[Akio]

Mors Martell
Hand of the King and Prince of Dorne

​

As Mors made his way to the Small Council chambers he could see his words had already sent the castle into a frenzy. Guards, servants, and royal figures alike were running around, being escorted, or preparing for different purposes. The guardsmen of the Red Keep were mainly working on securing the grounds and taking an accounting of everyone in the Red Keep. He imagined they were also looking over the servants to see who was the last to see Agrave alive through such thoughts were slipping further into the back of his mind. Compared to the overarching nature of things such a small matter of who saw him die made little difference and most likely she would know nothing towards the circumstances of his death. There were bigger fish to fry at the moment and his mind left to consider the Small Council.

Even if he was to leave to check on his daughter he could not leave emptyhanded and without some preparations being made. He had not been Hand of the King for 20 years to leave this court to rot in the hands of those who might tear it apart or nip at his influence in his absence. He would set a plan for the future and deal with the problems in the Reach and make moves to end this war. The Norths continued defiance seemed to be rising all sorts of enemies to the crown who believed that had a chance of defying the Blackfyre hold. He was beginning to regret not pushing to finish the battle 20 years ago after the Golden Companies near defeat and destruction but he had been tired then and hoped the north would collapse on its own. That its lack of resources would do them no favors but he had underestimated their determination and loyalty to a young boy like Aegon. And it lead to large losses of life and the death of Maekar. 'It's a bitter pill to swallow... Knowing I caused the death of that boy.' Maekar had not been a child when he died but he still often remembered him as one. The young boy who walked the halls of the Red Keep, the main one who had been born before he moved into the Red Keep. A happy and bright soul, someone who would have been a good King.

But he died and it was partly he was to blame for not managing to kill Aegon and end the war early on. And now it seemed his actions might have even gotten his daughter hurt by those calling themselves the White Knights. He was questioning his own actions to the extent it made him doubt many of his decision over the last 20 years as Hand of the King. How many other mistakes had he made? How much had he been wrong about? All of it?

'No... I was not wrong. My actions were necessary to see to my people and the people of the realm. Mistakes were made... But not all of it was.' He and Nae Nae had managed to keep this realm together for well over 20 years and while parts were boiling over now, winning that war and the time after still counted for something. As he made his way to the Small Council chambers, the pitter-patter running feet soon distracted him from his thoughts and he turned his eyes on a servant running towards him. She was young, little more than a girl and clearly out of breath as she chased after him. While at this point he was loath to waste time he could tell the girl was coming to him and so he stopped so she wouldn't have to run further. Somewhat out of sorts, as if the air of chaos that had engulfed the council had affected her, she fell to her knees and addressed him respectfully. "Lord Hand, I bring a message from the King." She reported keeping her eyes down and Mors fully turned to regard her and somewhat impatient said, "Proceed." He was rarely so short with servants but in his mood, he didn't feel like wasting time on courtesies.

"The King reports, unfortunately, he won't be at the small council meeting and he will confer with you on the matter at a later time." She stated and he felt a flash of annoyance run through him. Of course, Naemidon couldn't make it easy, he rarely ever did. He was moody at the best of times and these were hardly that. Then as he calmed considering the idea he realized this would work for the moment. He hardly wanted to spend his time arguing with Naemidon now, pushing forward his plan in front of the Small Council were gonna be controversial enough without Naemidon being shouted at by Viserys, Durran, and the rest. He would inform the small council of their duties and inform Naemidon on it later. He could convince Naemidon easier then he could convince him with the entire small council whispering in his ear. Well, not likely to just be a whisper.

He gestured for the girl to rise and once she did he stepped close and gave her a silver stag. "Thank you for running that message so promptly. I will inform the King after the Council." He said firmly as for a moment he felt silence slip between them as what he meant to do truly sunk in within him. It had happened before once or twice but never in matters of this magnitude. He was gonna lead the council and decide without Naemidon, the decisions would simply be told to him after. The servant somehow seemed to understand as well as she bowed low and quickly got out of the way. Though that may have also been a reaction to the Stag which was likely two weeks of her wages. "Yes my lord." She said as she quickly stepped away and for a moment he watched her retreating back and think of his own children at that age. The thought gave him urgency one more and he set off towards the Council chambers. Usually, Mors was tempered and patient but today he entered the Small Council chambers like a roar of thunder, with quick and booming steps and a blistering pace as he came to the end of the table in the center of the room and came to glance at the two council members already there.

"Lord Baratheon... Lord Butterwell... It seems our council continues to get smaller." He observed with some idle irritation though at the same time these men of influence could hardly be expected to immediately assemble in a moments notice, even for a Small Council meeting so he took a breath to temper his impatience. He then looked at the chair in front of him, it was usually where Naemidon sat and rarely even when the King wasn't there did he deme to take it but today he pulled the chair out and with the barest hesitation sat in the Kings Seat. Given what he planned for today he wasn't sure if it would forestall or only add more arguments but today he needed to get things done and the idea that he would be speaking with the Kings voice in this would help with that. "We have much to speak on so once the other council members arrive we will begin immediately." He did not say directly that the King would be not attending the meeting not wanting to say it more than once for every council member that entered, but given his position, he imagined that would be assumed by those who were already here.

 

[RayPurchase]

Rogar Bolton
​

Rogar dipped his head in acknowledgement of Manderly’s invitation.

“Then it shall be agreed Captain Manderly, A most overdue affirmation of friendship between our houses. I shall bring he whole clan, wife and son, and we can see your newly cleaned and sparkling White Harbour.”

He knocked back his tankerd of ale. And pushed it from himself. A servant hurrying forward already with a fresh tankard, best not to keep a pair of Lords such as them waiting.

Rogar laughed at Tully's comment. It was not a comforting noise however, it did not carry merry notes, or hints of mirth. It was a dark laugh, a humourless laugh, the sort of laugh a man let’s outlast he sees his death approaching and the futility of jumping out of the way. A man who has excepted the inevitable, what he has refused to see, and has little else to do but laugh.

“Your attempted kindness is not needed Lady Tully, the evidence is quite overwhelming. Besides, with you Southrons and your king having fled here, there is rarely room for us humble Northern Lords in this hall,”

‘Your King'. Not my king, not our king, but your king, your kind. He may have offered Tully a seat, but he would not offer her a multitude of honeyed words. Such things quickly soured on the tongue, and provided no real sustenance, better the truth, even if it was hard to swallow. He pushed his plate away from him, still containing most of the bread. His appetite had somewhat disappeared. His eyes flicked over the girl as she sat. Half hooded, and green, there were no emeralds in these eyes however. They were a cloudy sickly green, almost diseased, the colour of rot and pestilence. Many had wilted under them before, unable to meet the gaze of the Flayed Lord, the pale skin, the dead eyes and gaunt face. It was an appearance few loved, and even more feared. Unlike Manderly's very much open disgust and mistrust, (there was little subtlety to the man, his emotions were equivalent to a Dire Wolf in heat, everyone in a 3 mile radius knew about it. It was one of the things that Rogar quite liked about the man, the chalk to his cheese) his own were kept in check beneath the facade he had so carefully groomed. She was but a girl, a southron girl at that. Had she ever known the bite of winter, to be cold, the kind of cold which bites to the bone, no matter the furs or fires you pile up, to be so hungry that rats become more prized than armies of mountains of jewels. May the Gods help them if this is what they had to now rely on.

He turned towards Manderly and his once again not so subtle attempt to exclude Tully, a United Northern Front against this southern invasion of their table. He sipped at his ale before speaking, wetting his tongue. He was sure that Manderly's spies were far more prevalent than his own, at least a woman, or even boy in every port depending on the stories. That’s a lot of eyes and ears. His own resources were far more modest, or at least that’s what he emphasised. Rogar was rarely one to blow his own proverbial trumpet, he was the quiet one in the corner. A much better view from the shadows however without glaring light shone about you. What’s more, blinded by the light, it was far harder to see what was going on in those shadowy corners, what may be lurking mere feet away from you.

“I have perhaps a few eyes and ears about the country, though I do feel perhaps you hear a bit more than you let on Captain Manderly. Surely your hearing hasn’t deteriorated that badly since we last met? Alas there is little news of yet, there is talk in the West of a clash of Lions, a clash of Flowers and Dornish in the south. Perhaps if we were still privy to the greater plans and tactics these stories and rumours would fall better into place. But alas not it would seem, information is useless without the light of knowledge sickened upon it,”

He turned towards Tully. There was something about her which caused a sense of unease within him. The demure dropping of the eyes , the prim and properness of her. Yes it ticked all the proverbial boxes of a southern lady, but almost too well, like read from a book. Where were the vices, the slip, the tell. What really lurked between that oh so well managed surface.

“We shall see Lady Tully. A sense of self purpose will go some way, but untried and untested in the eyes of your peers and betters, that it shall not overcome. You find yourself in the North, where actions speak far louder than words or good intentions,"

He did not say it unkindly or with harshness of tone, in fact he rarely said anything with such, he left that to Manderly. But as a simple statement of fact, like the sky being blue, or Royce being dead.

ailurophile TheAncientCelt

 

[Optimus Princeps]

Lucas Strickland
‘The Silverspear’

As Osman Mudd quieted himself and Vortimer took control of the table once more, Lucas hid his grin behind his chalice, waiting for the man to break for air or food. A follow-up remark was on his tongue, another pointed jest over the wine, only this time Lucas intended to loose it in both his hosts’ direction and that of the Redwyne’s nearby. It would be fair, meaning no ill will from the start-up vintner. The Arbor’s spirits had been a constant companion throughout the years, and not one Lucas was ready to part with just yet either. His own vintages were less than acceptable, for the vision he held for them.

As he sipped his Arbor Red, patient as the Hightower finally seemed to draw to the end of his mandatory greetings, the mercenary lord sat the chalice between his plate and Mudd’s in preparation. Grey eyes danced over Vortimer and Dorian with discernable amusement.

Yet, when Hightower finally finished, Strickland felt his smile drop harder than an overworked oxen. A silence encapsulated the table, despite the crooked strings filling the air with more than enough voices from the guests that a man begging for help would be smothered by the cacophony.

But Strickland felt as if his every breath was now heard. Composed, as least he tried to think he was, Lucas turned to inspect the others at the table. His lips formed a hard line as they pursed.

‘Mentions of another wedding would spoil your festivities, but inquiring about murderers is fair?’ The mercenary lord was ready to fire off, though the persistent presence of Osman Mudd kept these remarks hidden behind his tongue. ‘Precisely what answer do you want to know?’ It felt odd - their first true time together in the evening and Vortimer was already directing the conversation to the brigands, whose moniker has taken the Reach not dissimilar to a fierce fire would a dry forest.

Instinctively, Strickland prolonged his answer by grasping at his chalice, drinking what was left of his Red, and pretending to sip at more once it was barren. ‘Do I say that I oppose them?’ Lucas heard only rumors - rumors of rumors at that - when it came to this pillaging peasant troupe. Their animosity towards the Dornish and allies of the Blackfyre’s made it a simple choice, truly. He could not hope for the earnest friendship of the other Reach Lords, who had loved one’s taken to the Isle of Faces or lands confiscated over the past twenty years. ‘But is that the right answer?’ He scowled into his chalice. It was not difficult to understand that murderers such as these were likely taken as heroes in the company of some. Perhaps even those around him now.

Lucas would rather be honest with Vortimer than sink to the level of the cloaked mummers that infested the Kingdom. A mistake it might be, the mercenary lord’s integrity won out as he placed the chalice back between him and Osman. His eyes fell heavy on the Redwyne first, dragging across the table to the three Hightower’s presence. Osman Mudd was irrelevant to the topic at hand, yet no doubt the plagued man would have an opinion.

“I find myself largely ignorant on this banditry, if I’m honest my lord.” Lucas finally spoke, his timbre steady, contrary to how he felt. “To my understanding, they murder and conspire indescriminately as no respect is paid to women and other vulnerable groups. I find myself opposed to ilk such as theirs. Given the incident that transpired with the Peake’s, it is all the more likely that they wish to not just drive Dornish from these lands.” He paused, lost of how to conclude his thoughts.

‘How I loathe this position I’ve been placed in.’ A simple inn, ale or wine and some honest words would be welcomed. Forced here, in the bile of the Gardner’s kingdom where some considered him an estranged lord at best and others still an outsider with no claim to their lands at worst, he felt naked. Vulnerable, as if the wrong answer will reward him with a blade through the heart.

“It is unlikely that I too shall be left unmolested by these brigands. They are opposed to my very existence.” Not so eloquently put, with perhaps more of his mind out for inspection than Strickland was comfortable with. He relented that it was better than having replied dishonestly.

The Company bred two things in its denizens. Discipline and honor. No contract unbroken, no false word given. Especially in the house of a lord and friend such as Vortimer.

Resisting the urge to wince, Strickland half rose in his chair. “Lass,” The same young adolescent as before turned to address him, an eyebrow arching as she took in his sight and that of her lord’s. Upon seeing him, Strickland assumed she doubled her efforts to arrive at the table.

“Me’lords.” She bowed her head, especially as the salacious gaze of Osman recognized the trollep.

“More wine.” He insisted, shoving his chalice closer to where she stood. The girl moved and filled it with gold, the white waters splashing and mixing with remnants of his red. “My thanks.” He waved her off, and with a tentative stare to the others, she bid his order. Strickland found the wine on his lips before he could fully sit. His nerves afire with excitement.

Instead of keeping check on the others, Lucas found greater comfort in the wine as he drank it as a Mudd would.

Mentions:
TheFool
Arcanist
Braddington
Hypnos
Winterfell post(s) coming soon...

 

[QuirkyAngel]

Ser Conrad Stone
(Highgarden, The Reach)​

Both lances splintered on impact. However, he was still on his horse. His opponent was not.

The crowd roared its approval.

Conrad had seen the exact moment the bulkier knight fell over. Kept his eyes open the entire time. It was one of the first things he learned about jousting. About fighting in general.

Don’t close your eyes.

Never close your eyes.

At the last second, the knight had shifted body away a bit, trying to lessen the force on his body. A natural reaction, yet one that ultimately cemented his defeat.

Conrad raised his broken lance to the crowd, as if inviting more challengers, before guiding his horse back to the Waynwood tent. Fortunately, they’d brought plenty of spares in case of emergencies.

Clean his armor. Water his horse. Prepare for his next bout. A monotonous habit he’d acquired since Lord Elstan and Ser Anton had started preparing him for tournaments. The Tyrell tournament was only the first of many, or so Anton had promised him. Since he had no squire, and Anton ditched him to go god-knows-where, Conrad was surprised to find someone waiting for him at the tent.

It was the gray-armored knight he’d defeated in his first match.

Golden curls framed her heart-shaped face, a direct contrast to her sharp eyes and her even sharper smile. The fact that she was a woman startled him a bit, but not as much as it would’ve if he hadn’t known Iva. He’d also witnessed the Gilt of Crackhall in action the once when he’d accompanied Nick to one of his tourneys. Therefore, he knew better than underestimate women with swords.

“You’re better than I thought you’d be.”

Conrad tilted his head. “Do I know you, milady?”

Better to be safe than sorry.

“Hilda Ashford. I’ve seen you with Ser Nickolas a couple of times, but never as a tourney participant, so I assumed you weren’t any good. You were always hanging around him. Were you his squire?”

“Not quite,” Conrad removed his helm, reaching out to firmly take her offered hand. He never thought he’d meet someone who remembered Nick, least of all outside the Vale. “But I did learn a lot from watching him, so I suppose you can see it as such. Conrad Stone. I’m sworn in service to the Waynwoods.”

“A bastard of the Waynwood family, huh?”

“That’s what most people assume.”

He replied to her curious look with a smirk, but otherwise didn’t elaborate. Truthfully, he couldn’t deny it either, seeing as he didn’t know whose bastard he was. Waynwood was just as likely as Lannister, though he dearly hoped that wouldn’t be the case. The complications—especially considering who he was married to—would be too much.

“Why isn’t he with you today? Ser Nickolas never seemed like the type to miss out on tourneys ”

So she didn’t know.

“He’s dead,” Conrad kept his voice composed. “He was one of the knights that accompanied the Lords Arryn to King’s Landing.”

He watched the shock register in her eyes. Then grief. Then pity. She wasn’t very good at hiding her emotions. “I apologize. I didn’t know…”

“There’s no need, Lady Hilda. His funeral was a private affair and he now rest in the crypts of Ironoak where he belongs. More importantly, I’m curious how you know of him.”

Conrad had been with Nickolas for a good nine years and he had never once heard mention of a Hilda Ashford.

“We were almost engaged when we were younger. He encouraged me to pursue my dreams.”

“That does sound like him.”

Both the encouragement and the ‘almost engaged’ part. Nick pursued justice and honor more than he did women.

“He was a good man. Your joust would’ve made him proud.”

Conrad nodded. “Many thanks, milady.”

“Call me Hilda. Haven’t really been a lady since I was nine.” She studied him. “There weren’t many that thought to you would win. How in the Seven hells did you unhorse a man of his size?”

“His weight slowed his horse, I think. I just rammed him harder than he did me.” Jousting wasn’t very complicated.

“It was a difference in mount then?”

“The mount makes all the difference.” Conrad stroked his chestnut mare.

The fact that his acceleration frightened his opponent a bit also helped. In that sense, she’d responded wonderfully to his needs.

“Will it be enough against our mystery knight though?” She glanced at the white knight in question. His entrance had caught more than a few attention and he’d quickly climbed the ranks of potential winners—at least among the gamblers. “He dresses like a Kingsguard. Seems to have the skills of one as well. ”

“Who knows,” Conrad shrugged. “I’ll find out when I face him.”

Preliminary bouts were still underway, giving the crowd a chance to enjoy the show, pick out their favorite knights, while less capable participants were weeded out.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Ser Stone” Hilda’s sharp grin was back. “The Ashfords brought more than one knight to this tourney—some of which are more capable than I.”

“It will be my pleasure to trounce them all, Lady Ashford.”

Her laughter was bright and hearty like the morning sun. Truthfully, he’d much rather spend his time at Highgarden speaking with someone who knew Nick than participating in a mock battle for a glory he only half cared for. Still. He didn’t want to see all the effort put in him to go to waste either. Lord Elstan was his father now. By law, if not by blood. Lady Matilda his mother. They’d given him their daughter’s hand in marriage. Put a lot of faith in him. He didn’t want to disappoint them.

Yet, even then, there was a length he was willing to go to meet their expectations.

Conrad directed his eyes to the lists as the cheers of the crowd grew louder. Both knights had tumbled off their horses and drawn their swords, neither willing to let it end in a tie or a loss. True knights, he supposed. Nick was the same way. Uncompromising of his ideals. Unyielding even with the odds stacked against him. There was a reason Lord Elstan hired a mercenary to protect his young heir. Nick was fool who couldn’t turn away from the wrongs in front of his eyes. His honor was more important to him than his life.

"Words are wind, Ser Stone." Hilda's gaze was on the two dueling knights. "Who do you suspect will win in the end?”

“The one with the greater will to live.”


Mentioned: Arcanist , Elucid

 

[Arcanist]

Olyvar Redwyne​

The Redwyne was silent during the jesting exchanged between the two men. Of course, the jab towards the Arbor’s variety of wines didn’t go unheard. It wasn’t the first nor the last time that Olyvar would hear of such quips involving Arbor wine. He found it never quite offended him, seeing as the beverage made the contents of his stomach tumble like the fierce waves of the Straits. Too many horrid flashbacks to a hazy night of necking any bottle of Red he could get his hands on. He struggled to find something that wasn’t Arbor Red or Gold here, and often had to refrain from inhaling the heavy scent of that sickly rich wine. He wished for no repeat of that night.

“None taken,” Olyvar eventually responded. “I can’t say I’m a fan of the wine myself. I learned you can have too much of a good thing.” He then took a sip from his own cup, his eyes wandering around those gathered around. There came a short chuckle from the young man at Vortimer’s observation at their being hardly a tune to the music surrounding them. He would have responded to it, had that Lord Mudd not started prattling on about a proposal to the Hightower’s daughter. Olyvar had to turn his face away, take another swig from his cup as he rolled his eyes. The man had been practically squirming in his seat ever since Lord Hightower graced them with his presence.

Then, there came a shift. A heaviness lingering in the air after Vortimer’s words. The seriousness of the conversation seemed to be elevated with him setting down that cup. Olyvar eyed it, before they returned to the man. The Redwyne licked his bottom lip, staring between Vortimer, Dorian, Strickland, Mudd, though the latter he had less interest in.

Olyvar had forgotten about the music, the gossiping women behind them, the cheering and clanking of cups. His ears had homed in on the silence wavering amongst the men. No one rushed in with an opinion. Strickland drunk from his cup. Vortimer sat, undeterred, waiting for an answer. Olyvar sniffed, if to ease the silence amongst them. Unsurprisingly, the tension didn’t waver. He parted his lips, but found his mother’s earlier warning ringing in his ears.

By the time Olyvar had thought through his words, Strickland’s eyes had landed heavily on him, before they moved to the Hightower, and he was finally the first to break the silence. The younger Lord made no comment during his answer, only listening, considering his words. Of course, Strickland would give such answers, no doubt a viable target alongside the Dornish and the Blackfyres themselves. He could understand it. It was a difficult position to be in, especially when probed with such a question with a close friend, it seemed.

Olyvar had remained silent, mulling over the words of the man he shared his company with, his eyes moving to the girl, or rather moving over her, before he brought them back to the men amongst him. He finally opened his mouth to fill the silence that had once again descended amongst them.

“Their methods are unorthodox, that much is true, and with that, the dissent only grows more vicious,” the young Lord agreed; far from chivalrous as far as apparent Knight codes go. His tone lowered as he found himself watching each of the Lords again. “But are the Knights’ actions against those any different from the suffering those in the Reach have fallen victim to?” His words were blunt, dangerously so, but as cautious as Olyvar could be, his tongue could only hold back so much. “Their retaliations aren’t unfounded. Most people can only go so long before their patience wears thin, before they take matters into their own hands.”

Olyvar inhaled, paused as he gathered his thoughts. He could imagine some of his opinions could offend any of them here, no less the Strickland who could very well be caught up in the skirmish with the Knights. “I understand civilians caught in the crossfire of such attacks by them is undesirable, abhorrent. But the White Knights have not been the first, nor the last, to care less about the lives that get entangled within their attacks. Surely no other side can be completely exempt from those factors as well?” The young Lord felt a tremor rise in his voice, a fieriness rising from his chest, to the point he could feel himself about to rise from his chair. Though, he attempted to restrain himself, sinking back into his chair. Glancing down, he watched the liquid ripple and shake against the walls of his cup. Olyvar gripped the cup tightly, bringing it to his lips, gulping the rest of it as if to soothe him.

He debated asking for their forgiveness, to make an excuse that his weariness from travel and the combination of strong wine had fuelled his fieriness. It would only be as empty as his cup now was.

Spoiler: Honourable Mentions

TheFool Optimus Princeps

 

[ailurophile]

Vaella Blackfyre​

For a split second, Vaella's heart swelled with pride. He was asking his own mother to leave so that he could continue to speak with her, alone. To give her his undivided audience.

But then it hit her. She was the one being dismissed.

And that growing happiness collapsed in on itself.

In silence, she listened to his lament, and her resentment crept in. The way her father lightly referred to Maekar, the way he complained like a child, the way he acted as though he was being burdened by his own family. Vaella had always held the idea that family was the most important thing so closely to her heart. Yet, more and more often, she wondered if she'd been pouring all of her devotion into the wrong family.

She loved her grandmother. She loved her mother. She loved her brothers, some more than others. She loved her father.
Despite that, she'd only ever felt the love returned by a select few.

Vaella quietly accepted her grandmother's fleeting gesture of affection, but she knew her time was up. Rising, she delicately adjusted her dress.

"You're speaking in riddles again, father."
Coldly.
"It seems neither of us can help the other. I'll take my leave."

Before her collected facade could waver, she headed for the door with quick, purposeful steps. Unlike Arlan, she hadn't exploded, although some small part of her wished she had. Though confusing and ambiguous, her conversation with her father had been useful.

Slipping out through the door, she nonchalantly brushed at the frustrated tear that had begun it's descent down her flushed cheek.

It had been useful, because she had made up her mind.
At least in part.

-

Helya Goodbrother
​

As her sister spoke, she listened. Like always.

Helya pursed her lips and considered this, her expression beautifully somber. A young girl in body, perhaps, but her mind held a wisdom that surpassed her years-- and the years of many men, she and her sisters had often joked. But that in itself was no extraordinary feat. Being wiser than the men they knew was comparable to being wiser than a rabid dog.

Because that's what they were, in Helya's mind. Predatory and impulsive, foaming at the mouth, unhinged. She wasn't sure what other girls were frightened of, but men sent cold fear right to her core. Sharp teeth and creeping fingers and minds like cesspools. They'd do what they pleased with no regard for the human consequences, fuelled by bloodlust and the twisted desire to prove themselves to be stronger and fiercer and more emotionally detached than their peers. To show mercy was to show weakness.

Which was an idea Helya didn't understand. Because mercy, along with forgiveness, was one of the bravest acts of all.

That being said, there were some people who could never be forgiven. Not even she saw herself as being valiant enough for that.

"It's not a case of being able to stand up to him. You could lay down the most rational argument, and he would spit in your face. The man's mad, Al." She pointed out, gently. Again, she pursed her lips, thinking.

There was a severe lack of rational thought and good leadership. An epidemic, she often called it. Al or Ros would make the most brilliant leaders, but nobody else seemed to see that.
And they never would, without a revolution.

A small smile danced across Hel's lips as she relished in her own private fantasy. She'd drawn pictures of it before, her own's artist's impression of the event that would reinvent the wheel, that would change the way they lived her lives. Gorgeously violent, and scandalously explicit, her pictures had been inspired by the tales she'd been told of what happened when towns were ransacked. Except, of course, with the roles reversed.

She'd loved them. But she'd burned them.
The guilt of her own lust for justice had been too much, and to cleanse herself, she'd delicately placed each image into the flames, one by one. Because if she wanted those things so badly, then she was no different to those she despised.

"That being said... It can't go on like this. For your sake as much as anybody else's. You have to stop him, Al, you know you do, and it has to happen soon. Before this happens again. Again, and again, and again, until the man drops dead and another just like him takes his place."

Pausing, she poured herself a cup of water.

"I want to help, Al. It's too much for one person to do alone. Tell me what to do, and I'll do it."



TheFool TheAncientCelt

 

[Optimus Princeps]

Cap’n Manderly
Winterfell​

Manderly’s eyes were reduced to narrow lines as they focused on the intrepid Tully. Having retaken her own flagon with sugary words, the Captain found himself stunned. Otto Tully’s little guppy dared to cross him? He was certain she’d fly off from the table once it became apparent that neither the cripple nor skeleton wanted her there. Tongue tied, Rogar took the lead to Gregor’s relief. In the break from the conversation, Manderly grumbled into his soup and molded bread as the guppy and skeleton exchanged simple words.

“Actions speak more, aye.” He finally intruded. “Maybe ye’ can marry a good man and give’em some sons fer’ Aegon’s war. Some more Southron’s dyin’ fer us would bring ye’ great respect.” He said without much hidden enjoyment at the suggestion of additional Tully’s dead. If she earnestly wished to fill Otto’s place at court, Manderly would be happy to escort her to where Tully leapt from.

Despite the jug now being in front of Gregor, he held back from grabbing it and refilling his own forlorn flagon. It was ordered by the guppy, and he’d not indulge in that after she stole back her drink. Though, now invested back into the conversation, he worked towards blocking the girl once more. “Bring’em all! Yer favorite servant and house guards. White Harbor needs something to distract itself from this war’n good company will do both our houses better than some conquered castles ever could.” His smile expanded, renewed with vigor at the mention of friendship between another of the powerful Northern Lords. “Mayhaps I’ll send some ships to Braavos, bring those famous mummers over for entertainment.” Expensive, especially for the North, but Gregor would flounder around for this friendship.

And what brought people close together than mutual dislike for others? “My ears be focused else where. The south be most mysterious as of late.” He shrugged off the innocent inquiry from Bolton, absorbing the knowledge that he shared. Lannisters, Flowers and Dornish. Far, far from White Harbor. ‘I’d rather hear news of the Vale.’ After the death of the Arryn Lord, it seemed all channels of communication into that region were shut. “Mayhaps, we make plans of our own, My Great Lord?” His golden tooth glimmered in the candle lit hall. “Walt must have good reason for secluding us from his council, but that does not strip us from all other avenues of opportunity.”

A quick glance at the woman sitting with them and Manderly proceeded. What could a Southron girl with a dash of attitude do or say? She was harmless, he decided, and proceeded. “Me ol’ friend from childhood is married to th’ last true Lannister, is he not?” He recalled Alaric’s bizarre wedding to a “queen”. How, a good-for-nothing like Alaric Mormont secured that package, was unknown to Manderly. “And if there be turmoil in th’West. . Why, do we not have a valuable ambassador th’may soothe things over?”

Gregor honestly hadn’t a clue what was going down in the West. The mentions of Lion’s Fighting implied anything from a succession crisis for whatever misbegotten fools took over the Lannister lands, or to one of the other Lion themed Houses’ vying for power. He assumed there were a few, though Gregor could only recall the Red Lion from memory. ‘A question fer’ the maesters later.’ He decided. But the Captain was confident the skeleton of a friend he had would be more than capable of coming up with some scheme. ‘And leave gettin’ th’ woman to me.’ It wouldn’t be too difficult to convince the Southron queen to return to her lands, would it?

Mentions:
ailurophile
RayPurchase
Mion
TheFool

 

[TAC]

Naemidon Blackfyre​

Naemidon’s brow furrowed as he heard what Rhaenys had to say. Nothing too long winded. He could appreciate that quality in the Queen Mother, she was straight to the point. Vexingly so.

“You persist.” He observed with rising fury, barely hidden as he attempted to address the issues his daughter raised. Not too dissimilar, although Vaella hadn’t so far as insulted his idea nor stormed into his solar with wild eyes. Only his mother - and Arlan - would be so callous towards her sons dignity. Violet eyes clashed against one another as she crept up behind Vaella. For the life of him, Naemidon wanted to continue the conversation with his daughter, but the bile rising in his throat was hard to push past. “And then what, Rhaenys, would you have me do?” His eyes were sharp as they regarded the Blackfyre matriarch, seeing the haggard old woman for what she was. A meddlesome, influence less and bitter widow. Her jealousy of Naemidon’s success observant to all eyes, his especially.

‘She wishes it were Daemon who sits here now instead of me.’ Whether it be his father or brother, it didn’t matter.

“Enforce the Targaryen’s rigid doctrine when it came to succession, and give the throne to Arlan?” The suggestion was outrageous. The boy wasn’t ready for that degree of responsibility, and the visible reaction on his face explored those thoughts better than words ever could. “Unless you’ve forgotten who we are Rhaenys, Blackfyre’s are not given anything. They take what is theirs. No matter how long their journey takes them.”

Naemidon was ready to say more, much more, however the sight of Vaella shifting where she sat drew his gaze downward. A quick, off hand comment of riddles and she rose. Her posture stiff, she stood and began to pace for the door. His eyes were on her back as she fled past the wooden doors, shutting them and leaving Naemidon alone with Rhaenys. Once more, anger surged in him.

“It was pleasant in here before you invited yourself, Rhaenys.” Naemidon took another long, purposeful gulp of his cider. “You’ll need to apologize to Princess Vaella for your actions. Rarely do we speak, thanks to the looming phantom that is her mother.” Any personal blame that might’ve been deserved was easily and subconsciously shouldered away from him. Nothing Blackfyre said or did could be grounds for upsetting his daughter, he was careful enough after hitting Arlan.

Despite the day being early, Naemidon couldn’t deny how poor it abruptly shifted. The blows to Arlan were on his mind, as was Vaella being chased out of the solar and leaving him trapped with Rhaenys. ‘I wonder if I can flee to the Small Council?’ A delightful suggestion, though his mother would not allow him to leave without first having spoken her full piece of mind. Something he doubted would be over anytime soon.

Mentions:
TheFool
ailurophile
Hypnos

 

[QuirkyAngel]

Lord Elstan Waynwood
(The Bloody Gate, The Vale)​

Estan’s appointment as Knight of the Gate saw 500 new Ironoak soldiers to the Bloody Gate and a horde of supplies. Bows. Arrows. Swords. Horses. Wagonloads of food to feed the men that manned the Gate. Contributions that would smooth his reception as the new commander of the Bloody Gate, or at least soften it considering his lack of military decorations. More had volunteered to make the journey with him to the Gate than he would’ve thought, likely in part to Lady Cassandra’s display in Ironoak. It wasn’t so much the flowery-ness of her words but the sincerity they emanated. There was much Lilana could learn from that –a thought that made him feel a little better at agreeing to send his sole remaining heir with Lady Arryn’s party at least.

Elstan sighed.

Walking along the battlements, inspecting the fortification, shaking hands and introducing himself to the knights stationed there, Elstan’s thoughts nonetheless wandered to his daughter. That was now two heirs he’d sent with an Arryn to King’s Landing. No doubt about it. He was a fool who hadn’t learned his lesson the first time. His only consolation was that she promised to return to Ironoak once a child was born.

“If you’re going to regret letting her go, why did you do it?”

Boris’s bluntness when they were alone surprised him. The dark-haired mercenary had quietly followed along during inspections, only commenting when he had something noteworthy to say about the Gate’s defense. Elstan needed someone he trusted with military matters to accompany him and he couldn’t very take Ser Gendric from Ironoak. Only with Matilda, Maester Arwick, and Ser Gendric remaining there did he feel reassured enough to leave his lands.

“I can’t very well endorse Lady Arryn’s journey to King’s Landing while keeping Lilana safely tucked away in the Vale now can I? What would it say to the other lords?” Elstan directed his eyes to the highroad. “Lady Arryn’s departure from the Vale will spark much controversy—like her parents’ did. It’s to our advantage to support House Arryn in this. Besides, even Matilda took Lilana’s side...”

The battle was over when his wife joined. A smile tugged on the corner of Elstan’s lips at the memory. “Do you know what she told me? It takes more than one try to plant a seed.”

“I can’t say I expected that from the reserved Lady Waynwood.”

“Neither did I,” Elstan mused.

“Clinton and Iva have been informed. They’ll make sure nothing happens to her when she gets there.”

A small group of knights handpicked by Ser Gendric, 2 septas, and Lilana’s favorite handmaid would join the Arryn party along with his daughter. Conrad would meet up with them as well. Hopefully that would be enough. He wouldn’t allow Lilana to end up like Nick. His heart wouldn’t take it. “How is it that both my children give me cold sweats without a second thought?”

“If it’s any consolation, the young lady is smarter than she appears.”

“I know,” Elstan changed the topic. “Did you notice anything else amiss?”

“According to several soldiers, dead deers were spotted along the path down the Eyrie. More reports of robberies as well. It’s likely the mountain clansmen have grown more confident since the death of the previous Lords Arryn. ”

“Increase the patrols along the Highroad. I’ve sent letters to the other lords of the Vale requesting more men sent to the Gate, but only time will tell when they arrive. If they arrive.”

It wasn’t just the increase in mountain clan activity that had Elstan worried. The bells of Sunspear had rung according to his reports. How? Why? Elstan didn’t know, but if the North could sail their people all the way to Dorne and raid the shadow city, who’s to say that they weren’t next? Now, more than ever, the borders that separated the Vale from Westeros needed to remain secure. War was starting up again and it was happening far sooner than Elstan would’ve hoped. If they weren’t equipped to face it when either, if not both, dragons came knocking at their doors, they would suffer the consequences.


Mentions: Mion , TheAncientCelt , Braddington

 

[Arcanist]

Lysanna Peake​

Contrary to the personality exasperated by the scowl permanently etched upon Lysanna’s lips, there were a few things that the estranged Peake wife took enjoyment in. Though her mood had been positively sour en route to Highgarden, especially so after her travel sickness acted up, she had brightened slightly at finally arriving to witness the city's festivities. Another moment in that carriage with Bess, and Lysanna was sure there would have been a body less arriving at this tournament. She had wondered if her brother would have thanked her for it. She didn't understand how he dealt with her relentless harping in his ear.

When the first opportunity to escape the presence of the Tarlys had arisen after finding their tent and settling in, she grabbed it, insisting she needed to stretch her legs. Truthfully, Lysanna had been in need of a walkabout. It had been a time since she found herself in Highgarden, and wanted to reacquaint herself with the setting. That, and she couldn't stomach watching her pig of a brother and his son tear into some beef and bacon pie. Food would be off the menu for her for some time yet.

Many would have believed Lysanna would take to merchants' stalls or marvelled at the entertainment exploding throughout most of the city - but it was the jousting that ensnared her interest. It was a dangerous sport, everyone knew, with heavily penalties to be suffered, all hanging in the balance of a lance. Lysanna found herself tucked away in the corner of a stall, on her lonesome as she found herself preferring, watching each joust with heightened interest. She had only found her interest in it as a younger girl because of the handsome, armoured participants riding in on hardy steeds. She often dreamed of victors, their hair stuck to their temples, armour glistening in the sunlight, riding to her to present her with a wreath of crimson roses,

What a stupid little girl she was to believe such tripe. Now, she awaited each match, picking which knight she could see claiming victory. Which knight would fall. Which knight would find themselves being carried away from a tourney than riding home victorious.

Though, her predictions on these particular matches had fallen short of the mark at these particular jousts. Competitors met the dusty, tough ground or were about to meet with the Stranger. Not too many, Lysanna noted. And her predictions involving a particular Knight of the Vale, one named Ser Conrad Stone, had been trumped entirely. From any of the tourneys she attended in her lifetime, the name had never cropped up before, causing Lysanna to sideline the man entirely. Though, his baseborn origins were enough to not make her so much as blink an eye. Her husband's bastard had unfortunately coloured her view of most of those unlucky to be born with such a status.

Opting to stretch her legs after the latest joust - and to escape the stares and murmurings about the estranged wife showing up outside Horn Hill for once - she found herself wandering among the crowds, recounting all the tents and what Houses they belonged to as she passed them by. She was about to pass yet another one, only, noticed the broken black wheel of the Waynwoods on a nearby banner. She recognised the sigil as being on that of the shield of the Knight of the Vale earlier, remembering hearing something of his marriage to a Waynwood. She wasn't sure what compelled her to approach the tent. Curiosity, perhaps. A closer view of the Stone before he fell from his horse?

Lysanna's peer into the tent alerted her that the young man already had company. She recognised the armour from the first joust she watched. There was a momentary look of surprise in her eyes in realising the knight from the first round was a woman; though, she forced a rather neutral expression on her face, before she straightened herself up, turning to Conrad. A quick congratulations on making it this far before she would leave again.

"Ser Stone. I couldn't pass by without passing on my congratulations to you. You seem to be making quite a name for yourself here today."

Spoiler: Honourable Mentions

QuirkyAngel

 

[QuirkyAngel]

Ser Conrad Stone
(Highgarden, the Reach)​

Having just invited Hilda into the tent for some refreshments, because that seemed like the polite thing to do given the situation, Conrad couldn’t say he expected a second visitor to pop their head in.

“Thank you,” The response was automatic.

His first thought was that he didn’t know her. No surprise given his limited interactions in the Reach. His second was that she was a noblewoman. After all, it took a special kind of confidence to insert oneself in a stranger’s tent and express one’s opinion as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Much like the kind Anton and Lilana possessed; Though it could’ve easily been attributed to their personality, only a handful of sheltered smallfolk could claim such personalities.

His guess proved correct when Hilda’s tone turned formal. “Lady Peake.”

It was both a greeting and a farewell. She finished her drink, set the cup down on the small table, and bowed towards the newly arrived lady before departing the tent. For him, it was simply a raised hand as if to say ‘see you again’ without so many words. Their conversation had been mostly finished and, as far as he could tell, Hilda had only really dropped by to say hi.

Conrad poured a second cup of water. “Water, Milady? It’s the least I can offer in return for the honor you’ve provided me.”

He wasn’t about to bring out the wine. Not before the tournament was over at least. He wasn’t Anton. No matter what Lord Elstan’s brother said, Conrad wasn’t willing to risk getting intoxicated before a match. Drunk people did stupid things, especially with lances in hand and competitive spirits in the air.

Besides, there was something mildly improper about offering wine to a woman while alone in a tent. It was a hassle he’d rather not deal with. For that same reason, Conrad hadn’t dunked his head in a water tankard or stripped himself of his weighty armor yet, though he was sorely tempted to. Company or not, his moments of respite were limited…though the Lady of Horn Hill was a special sort of company.

Anton had gone over with him the different houses of the Reach he needed to be aware of. The one mattered at least. The Peakes were definitely on the list. Granted, the only things he knew about Gormon Peake’s wife were rumors about the “scorned” woman, some of which were dubious at best.

“Not many of your stature are willing to make the effort.” Conrad continued, holding out the offered refreshment while he assessed Lady Lysanna Peake. A middle aged woman, in her forties most likely. Mousey hair. Noble bearing. Her neutral expression made it hard to tell if she was serious in her compliments or not. Had his last match impressed her so much that she had to come all the way to his tent to congratulate him? A flattering thought, but Conrad found it a bit unbelievable. A whim, perhaps? Either way, Conrad wasn’t really the type to look a gift horse in the mouth. She didn’t strike him as the dishonest sort either, though Conrad was by no means a master of reading people. “Are you an admirer of jousts?”

Arcanist