Fandom ♛ Blackfyre : A Game Of Thrones RP

[QuirkyAngel]

Lord Elstan Waynwood
(Ironoaks, The Vale)​

From a window atop one of Ironoak’s many towers, Lord Elstan Waynwood watched as young squires practiced in the grassy courtyard bellow, under the mindful gaze of one of his knights. In time, they would become knights themselves, in service of Ironoak Castle. Taking in the pages sent by neighboring nobles. Molding them into proper knights of the Vale. Such was the duty of his father, his father’s father, and the father before his.

Now it was Elstan’s turn.

There was a knock on the wooden door that led to the interior of the circular room. “Forgive me for interrupting, my Lord. A letter has arrived for you from the Reach.”

“Thank you, Maester Arwick.” Taking the letter from the elderly man garbed in simple brown robes, Elstan returned to his desk before reading through its contents.

He was relieved to learn that Anton and Conrad had made it to Highgarden safely. A part of him feared that sending the two of them alone to the Reach, even at their insistence, was mistake. He trusted that they could take care of themselves, of course. Anton’s swordplay had surpassed his own and Conrad was a match for Nickolas when it came to riding and combat prowess. Neither of them seemed to require, or even want, a servant traveling with them.

Still.

If combat prowess alone were enough to keep someone alive, Nickolas wouldn’t have died in King’s Landing.

Elstan set the letter down, amongst many others, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he was grasping at shadows. Perhaps not. But he wasn’t fool enough to believe that the death of both Roland Arryn and his wife in King’s Landing were coincidences. The Arryns clearly had enemies in King’s Landing.

Was it the Red Dragon’s supporters who thought the Master of Law was too much of a threat in the Black Dragon’s court? Was it one of the sycophants of King’s Landing that wanted his position? Or was it the Black Dragon himself who planned on having the Lords Arryn eliminated from the start so that he could put his own loyal bannermen in the seat of the Vale?

Knowing the face of one’s enemies was the first step of uprooting them. And, as a house that had sworn allegiance to House Arryn, their enemies were his as well. “Any word from the Black Woodsmen?”

“Not yet, my Lord.”

The mercenary group Conrad used to work for were small enough that they weren’t very well known beyond the Vale. They were also cheap to hire. Lilana had suggested paying for their services. Conrad vouched for their capabilities. Ever since Nickolas’s death, Elstan had seen a sharper side to his daughter. He wasn’t sure what to think of it. Lilana had always been a sweet child in his eyes. A bit brash with her tongue perhaps, and a little too adventurous, but honest and forthright that he couldn’t really imagine her suggesting ideas for subterfuge.

Always Upright. Those were the family words.

But then, how could he really blame her? His firstborn’s death had changed them all. Matilda spent more time in the prayer house. Conrad trained harder.

And he…he had yet to meet with Lady Arryn—the sheltered, isolated child of his cousins. A girl only a year older than his own daughter. Now, more than ever, she needed his support. The Vale needed to be united against the coming storm. However, he’d been too busy dealing with his own family’s matters. Nickolas’s funeral. Lilana’s wedding.

He didn’t regret giving Lilana to Conrad Stone. There was no one he trusted would love her more. Who would better protect her than the young knight shielded her since childhood. Who was sworn to protect their family. An arranged marriage with a noble house might have been a better political move, but rather than create new bonds, he wanted to cement his current ones. Especially after Nick’s death.

Regardless of his dubious origins, Conrad was nearly as much of a son to him as Nickolas was. If he could, he would’ve given the lad his name.

“Do you think me a fool Maester Arwick? Marrying my only daughter to a bastard that isn’t my own. Wanting justice for my son and cousins who left the Vale to go down to King’s Landing of their own accord…”

“I do not believe so, Lord Elstan. Feeling strongly for one’s family is only natural.”

“For them, I would break the wheel.” Elstan agreed. “Please write a message to Lady Arryn for me, Maester Arwick. Let her know that despite my lack of presence in the Eyrie lately, the broken wheel will stand by the falcons as they always have.”

A message that was probably long overdue since Roland’s death.

“Any particular way you want it worded, my Lord?”

“I’ll leave that up to you.”

Maester Arwick bowed and left to do as ordered. Elstan watched the old man go for a bit before once more looking out the window. He spotted Lilana giggling with some of her friends underneath the shade of a tree. The Lynderly sisters and Belmore’s girl. How quickly girls grow. He still remembered time she was climbing trees and giving her mother heart attacks with her wily ways. Nick was a child born out of duty. Lilana was born out of love. That was probably why he had spoiled her so. Her happiness to him meant more than the world. Standing from his desk, Elstan stretched a bit. He'd been cooped up in the castle for too long. Perhaps a walk around the lake would do him some good. Help him think on what his next steps ought be.

The battle of the dragons.

The contest of heirs.

Ignoring them wouldn't make them go away. So long as the Vale was part of the Seven Kingdoms, they were obligated to serve the crown wherever it lay. But where should it lay? His cousins might not have been very well liked for it, but they understood the necessity of choosing a side. Or, at the very least, appearing to choose a side. Strength was needed to defend neutrality. And their position in the last war, while kept their lands safe, left them little in way of allies. How long could the Vale remain uninvolved in a kingdom they were still a part of?

Mion

 

[Yarrow]

Erich Greyjoy

Clearly his son was still not the man Erich hoped he would be. The Reaper of Pyke had never showed love to the children when he grew up. Erich wasn’t an expert in taking care of children. Erich’s father had never showed affection to him either and in the eyes of the Lord he turned out fine. He hoped that would work for his children also. His youngest son was a dumb fuck. Strong but useless for tactics, as was proven by the silence of the boy. The petite brains of the young lad were still processing everything that had passed in front of his eyes. He shouldn’t have allowed Loron to go. Had his first born grown a soft spot for the Greenlanders?

By storming out his son proved he wasn’t ready for the Seastone Chair. Should Erich have acted differently? Probably, but it was too late now. He would catch up on lost time during this trip with his son. Urragon was never going to lead the fleet, it should be Loron, his firstborn. Why had the boy to be so stubborn? That was something he got from Erich, not his mother. Loron his mother was no fun, that’s why she died. Erich had sunk deep in his thoughts when Hrothgar Harlaw spoke. Hrothgar was his left-hand, since his right-hand would be for his son if he was ready. Erich looked up and noticed that Urragon had left the room. Harlaw was saying something about Loron but he missed that. After that, his left-hand asked to share his thoughts on the marvelous plan of the Reaper. Greyjoy looked Harlaw dead in the eyes

“So, you think you have also something to say? Say it then! but watch out, or you will be found next to the Thrall”

Erich was heavily irritated. Why couldn’t people just listen and do as they were told. Why did they always have something to say, something to improve or something to change.

Akio Hypnos

 

[ailurophile]

Dyanna Martell​

There was something beautifully satisfying about mending. Dyanna sat, perched on the stool at Vaella’s dressing table, with the girl’s black dress draped over her lap. She’d torn it the other night, when she’d been so drunk that Dyanna had had to undress her herself and awkwardly hoist her into bed. Once upon a time, Vaella had thrown away every dress she stained or ripped, no matter how fixable the damage. She’d never taken to mending her own, no matter how many times Dyanna tried to guide her hands to show her how.

Vaella could keep her books and her long words. There were plenty of things that made Dyanna clever.

A knock at the door broke her from her pride and she rose, setting the dress down as quietly as she could and tiptoeing to the door. Had to be quiet. Vaella always hated being woken before she was ready.

Although, it was getting late, even for her.

“Rodrick!” Dyanna exclaimed, for a moment forgetting her temporary vow of silence. She groaned and lowered her voice to what she seemed to believe was a whisper. “Sorry. Have to be quiet. She’s sleeping. But… it’s been a while… and she wouldn’t want to miss you… I’ll wake her.”

She turned, leaving the door open. Then, she turned, suddenly remembering him.

“Oh! You can come in. Like always.” A pause, then gently but slightly louder, “Vaella! Wake up. Rodrick’s here to see you. Well, I think so. Maybe he just wants to be in here and see your books. Maybe he wants to borrow one?” She paused again, recognising her ramble.

No answer.
She tried again.
Nothing.

“Oh, seven hells. I hope she isn’t dead. That would really get me into trouble, wouldn’t it? If she was dead? I hope she isn’t.”

With a deep breath, and after straightening her hair, Dyanna took a sudden running leap at the lump on top of Vaella’s bed.
Which turned out to be a bundle of sheets, rather than the princess.

“Oh.” Frowning, she glanced back towards the door. “I could have sworn she was here. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lie.”

Akio

 

[Akio]

Hrothgar Greyjoy
Lord of House Harlaw, and Left Hand of the Reaper​

If Hrothgar was at all concerned about Erich's threats he showed no sign of it, his facial expression not even shifting from his general amusement at his earlier observation of Loren before he pointed at the map. "I don't think we should send our feint attack against the Reach." He offered before immediately launching into an explanation for his reasoning. "There are two reasons for this. One is a recent tournament in the Reach." He said moving his finger to point at the castle of Highgarden. Said to be the most beautiful castle not just in the region but all of Westeros it was one he had never seen first had as there was little way even during times of peace he would be welcome. Though perhaps that could change with this and he would see the legendary gardens and he thought this as he continued. "Lord Tyrell has called together a tournament and its likely most reach lords will be attending. If we attack the reach directly before we are already it may very well lead to a situation where those lords confer with each other and move to counter us as one before we are all ready to take them on."

The news of the tournament was still fairly recent news but trade at Ten Towers had kept him well informed as even he had never entirely left he still kept an eye on the mainland to hear some of the most recent news. This and his tendency to travel left him less naive towards the ways of the Greenlanders and he even knew a few among them he respected, though he did not cling to them as much as Loren did. "So with that fact I wish to change our feint attack to the area here." He said running a finger up the map to the Riverlands, to the fortress meant to shield the shores from their advances. "That is why I suggest moving our feint attack farther north. With the fall of Seaguard, the black dragon has lost his control over the bank, especially with the Rock still not being rebuilt. If we harras this area it will trick the Reach Lords to think we are focusing on the weakened north rather then the south. It will make them less wary and only leave them unprepared for when our main force takes the Arbor." It was a small enough modification but he believed it would increase their chances of success well enough to risk mentioning to the explosive lord of the Ironborn.

But still, he was not done talking, this time not strictly about the battle plan but rather turned the question to his two sons. "Perhaps Urragon would enjoy the job, lads a good fighter with a good temperament if nothing else," In truth, there was little else to him and he would likely get himself killed in larger battles. "And Loren can come with us for the true attack. Those two boys still have some growing to do and I believe this war might be a good opportunity to test them. They need not yet command the Iron Fleet but they should start taking some responsibility. Despite his misgivings, I believe Loren will come around." He said confidently though he would perhaps have to go talk to the boy after this to go make that happen, lest he attempts to run off and draw his fathers ire or worse try and warn the mainland though he did not believe he would go that far.

 

[Braddington]

Leo
Blacksmith in Training

Fuck this thing was heavy. Whoever’s idea it was to make a lance as a gift would be getting a grilling later, perhaps even a smack round the ear. Carrying something so tall and so dangerous in a place so populated and full of people to present to some Lannister? He knew the tormenting he would get from the ones that remembered his dumb fucking face as he walked upright past them all. It was probably Olyvar. It was always Olyvar. He could hear it in his head.

“Let’s make a lance Uncle! Lance’s are so cool! I saw one at a tourney near Castamere once and it was as long as you, and twice the size of me. Lord Lannister would love it. Leo could carry it like a battering ram! All the nobles joust.”

Did they? Maybe they did, perhaps the kid was right. But he didn’t know lances. Swords? Of course, maybe even axes, but lances? Who in the Seven Hells needs a lance? He’d heard of a knight once, people said he charged a cannibal from the North with a lance made of pure gold. Walton...Ryger? Ryswell? The name was unimportant. Apparently he hit him square in the chest, impaled him and left him to die before the other Northmen feasted on his remains. Auntie Cerissa swore by the story, said the man and his lance were in her tavern and stayed for the night before paying her with the tip of the golden spear. Brought it out occasionally when important people walked in. Not to him, of course, but she was no liar. Maybe this “Gerion” would use it for that? There was a war on after all.

“What the fuck is that?”

The reverberating sound of a familiar voice hit his ears in a drunken tone, a few surrounding ladies laughing in unison as ale spilt on their blouses. Willem.

“It’s a gift for Lord Gerion from my father. Hopes it will get the business going again.”

The drunken cunny stumbled toward him, liquid staining every orifice of his clothing.

“Is it some kinda giant cock? I’m sure his Lordship will like that. Glad your father finally found his true path as a whore. He was a shit blacksmith.”

Leo could feel the anger rising in him with each word that came. Yet, he said nothing. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t. It was too risky.

“A lance.”

Came his muted response, a defeated tone in his voice. He could beat the man silly if he wanted to, he was twice his size, working a forge gave him strength. Yet all he could do was take it. “It’s easy to fight, my son. It’s harder to hold back. That’s what seperates boys from men.” Repeating over in his mind, though it did little to calm him.

“Well, you tell your cocksucking father that he shouldn’t be wasting the money I gave him on fucking gifts. Maybe he should be selling things instead, eh? Maybe I need to tell your bitch mother instead. Send the lads round the make the message real clear.”

He kept pushing. Pushing and pushing.
“You stay the fuck away from her. We’ll get your money. Now leave me the fuck alone before I shove this up your arse.”

Civil. At least as civil as he could be and still keep his dignity. He almost believed his own pitch. Maybe they would make this work, or maybe the Lannister would take it, forget it, and never remember him again. It didn’t matter, he was loyal to his family regardless. Especially against dickheads like this.

“You better, boy, or maybe i’ll send them around for you as well. They like it rough.”

A lucky escape, all things considered. A passing guardsmen in red, a hand by his sword, clearly sending the message that the show was over. He’d almost forgotten he was in the middle of a festival. Eyes burrowing into him before returning to more fun entertainment in their mugs. The distinct sound of old hags laughing in corners unknown surrounding them all.

The noble area was quickly upon him, the banners of many houses fluttering from their pavilions. Memories of lessons flashing past his eyes. A boar. Was that...Greenfield? The Red Lion. Reyne. Everyone knew Reyne. There was even one with some kind of...chicken? A chicken with big feathers and many different colours. He had no idea who that was, or even what that was.

It didn’t take long to find the place he belonged, the biggest of the pavillions adorned with the Lannister lion. A symbol that even newborn babes knew. People in Lannisport liked them, they were from the very same streets, always been close unlike King’s Landing. Their Lord was good to them. His children, no one knew what would happen when they ruled. Hopefully that was a long way off.

Guards allowed his entrance, the lance indicating he was a merchant of some kind, and soon he saw them all. He’d never seen so many jewels in his life. The big chair must have been Lord Lannister, a sailor he’d seen in Cerissa’s the night before in conversation with the man. Golden hair, he needed to spot golden hair. There!

With a strident pace, almost as if he were marching, he approached a golden haired boy. He carried a tray with a bejeweled goblet on top. It must have been him. Lannisters had gold. It was obvious. Tapping the boy on his shoulder elicited a shocked jump and a glare.

“Apologies, my Lord. I bring a gif-”

“What?”

“A gift, my lo-”

“I serve Lady Lynora. Lord Gerion is over there.”

The boy pointed to a blonde headed trio, each wearing the distinctive red. Fuck. He was an idiot sometimes. A fumbled apology escaped his lips as he headed towards Gerion, far less confidently than before and with pink cheeks. He attempted a bow, the lance quickly putting an end to that as he catched it from falling.

“Ermm, my Lord? I represent my father, Benedict, a blacksmith from your Lordships own town. He wished for me to gift you this...jousting instrument to help….your endeavours in the future.”

Smooth. Real fucking smooth.

TheFool ​

 

[QuirkyAngel]

Lilana Stone
(Ironoak, The Vale)​

“Ser Gendric is so handsome.”

“He’s old though.” Gwendolyn Lynderly wrinkled her nose.

“So? There’s refinement in age.”

“Annie just likes older gentlemen,” Patricya Belmore teased. “The more mature the better.”

“I think the squire to the left is cute…”

“Perhaps if he could swing a sword.”

And so Lilana’s friends chattered on, making observations of the boys practicing in the courtyard. They were good people. Lilana pretended to be interested in their conversation. However, since young, she’d only ever had her eyes set on one boy. No one else interested her. Sitting on a picnic blanket laid out under the shade of a tree, watching the squires train, and giggling while they gossiped was only for the sake of company. Nickolas, her brother, was dead. Conrad had left the Vale to join a tournament. Those were the people she was close to when she was young. It was as if they were all trying to leave her.

She'd have gone to Highgarden with her husband if she could. However, her parents insisted she remain in the Vale for her safety. The heir of Ironoak, at least until she produces a child. There was much she still had to learn.

“Ser Gendric married to you know. To Lady Chesterfield. You'd have no chance with him”

“If the King can have multiple spouses why can’t we?”

“It’s not proper.”

“My father says the King is an affront to the Seven. A breaker of oaths and a horrible sinner. The Father will punish him accordingly.”

“Can a King be punished?”

“Sure they can. Just look at what happened to Prince Maekar.”

“Poor prince Maekar. He did nothing wrong.”

“The son punished for his father’s sins...”

“Speaking of marriages,” Gwendolyn changed the topic. “We have a married woman among us.”

“Oh, yes! Lady Stone.”

“Lady Stone.” Patricya echoed.

Lilana blinked as all the girls suddenly turned their attention towards her. Lady Stone had a nice ring to it.

“Tell us what it’s like to be married.”

“Is Ser Conrad good to you?”

“ What’s it like to bed a man?”

“Annie!”

“What? I just want to be prepared.”

Lilana smiled. Just a month ago, she’d been like them. Innocent. “It’s everything I’d hoped for. He’s everything I’d hoped for.”

All the girls sighed dreamily. Even Gwendolyn.

“You’re so lucky, you know. My father would have never allowed it.”

“Better him than some immoral bastard from King’s Landing. I hear they’re all immoral over there.”

“Isn’t Ser Conrad a bastard too?”

“Oh, you’re right. I’d forgotten because he was Ser Nick’s friend…”

The sympathetic expressions she received felt like a stab.

“Please be careful Lilana. It’s not your husband's fault, but the Father might punish him as well.”

They were genuinely worried for her. That was the only reason she hadn’t snapped back a scathing retort about their stupidity and baseless superstitions. The Father could punish them all he wanted. She was his and he was hers. She didn’t care what anyone else said. Their union was the happiest day in her life.

 

[RayPurchase]

Robert Reyne​

The bonds still held. He had no reason to doubt Gwyn’s words, as the nobility went she had always appeared straightforward and to the point, speaking her mind and her true feelings on matters. Very much an embodiment of the animal on her sigil, strong, resilient, and very much made its feelings known. Feeling the weight and warmth of her hand on his shoulder, he places his own hand on her shoulder, grasping it tight, and looking her in the eyes.

“As always you are a stalwart rock and a good friend Gwyne, if I wanted perfumed words with all the substance of horse dung I would have sought splice from a Dornishman. As long as our bond remains true, the Westerlands can only shake in terror, may it stay true in the testing times that are to come. In this time of hardship riches go to those who have the power and foresight to seize it, I believe we shall both do well, a mutually benefitting relationship which shall see both our houses rise above our current station,”

With that he have her shoulder a firm squeeze before releasing. He raised his goblet of wine.

“To Boars and Lions, not the likeliest of bedfellows, but a duo strong enough to bring the mightiest beast to its knees,”

Knocking back the goblet, he let out a contented sigh. It was nothing to do with the wine however bonds had been reaffirmed, even here in the heart of Lannisport, the home of these Lions pups wheels were emotion to bring their entire sham crashing down to the ground, bickering, squabbling and immature the whole bunch of them, children playing nobles. It was high time the Westerlands were ruled by a family worthy of standing in the footsteps of the Lannisters of Casterly Rock, the West by far deserved as much. And Rovert had supreme confidence that he had both the name and ability to fulfil that role.

He smiled at Gwyn anew. He genuinely found a sense of companionship with this woman. Not just through the bond of family that had been made, she was blunt, to the point, honourable, and brave. The above both sharing traits with him and some that differed. But here she had proved herself again. He placed his goblet down on a side table.

“You shall have to come to Castamere so I may share my own wine and hospitality, and where we may talk freely without suspicious eyes and ears in every wall and tent flap.”

He looked over his shoulder, as if expecting the golden locks of some minor Lannister poking through one of the folds.

“Speaking of which I suppose we should pay the current hosts a visit. Though I assure you it will not be a pleasant as your own pavilion, of that you can be assured,”

He pushed himself up from the sofa.

“Do you wish to accompany me into the Lion's den? If not you need not fear, I hear they’re claws have been blunted as of late,”

Arcanist

 

[TheFool]

Gerion Lannister
Lion



​

The shrill wail of a young woman dared to interrupt he and his sweet sister.
Lynora shot him a look.
That look.
Fucking hells.

Their cousin, Abbigail, was the culprit. Of course. She was the daughter of Ser Emory - their half uncle. A staunch supporter of House Blackfyre and their reign. He and their grandfather, the great Jason Lannister, were two of the main reasons why they were in their current position as Lords of The Westerlands.
If only our own father had half as many wits as our grandfather had.
Abbigail may have been Ser Emory’s daughter, but, in Gerion’s eyes, she did not share his intellect. Mostly because she was a woman.
And women are rarely smarter than men.

Gerion scoffed when she made mention of his and Lynora’s “intimacy”. Stupid cow. He folded his arms and stared at the girl. Not even gracing her with a word. His sister dealt with her swiftly enough, however, that he needn’t say anything anyway.
Abbigail walked off, trying to get in a last jab.
Gerion rolled his eyes.

“Someone should take that book off of her and smack her around with it.” He said to Lynora once their cousin had disappeared into the crowd. The Night Market was becoming more and more lively. The sun was now almost completely set.

“Any volunteers?” He added, glancing at his sister with another one of his grins.

Before he could even catch a breath, along came another interruption. Though this one came from someone far less annoying.
And much more pretty.
A young man with messy red hair and skin that was marked with sweat and soot. The muscles on his both his arms almost bulged in the tunic he wore. If Gerion wasn’t the master of subtlety that he truly was - he would have licked his lips.
He looked at the man and then at Lynora.
His eyes telling her everything she needed to know. He had never outright told his sister about his preference, but he did not hide it from her. She knew.
Many people did.
But who would dare say something against the heir to Lannisport?

“You see that, sweet sister? The people of this town continue to show their affection towards me. When was the last time you got a gift?” He stood up straight and let his arms fall to his side.
“That wasn’t the pox.”
He said quietly to her with pursed lips. A joke. One that was a tad bit tasteless. He felt he was being too hard on her this evening.

He approached the man. His chest puffed out. His head holding high.
“Benedict?”
He repeated the name of the man’s father.
“I’m not sure I know the man too well.”
If at all.
He put his hand on the man’s elbow and held it there as his eyes admired the lance. Up and down. “My, but the craftsmanship is something…”
His eyes darted to the man, lingering on him, before reverting back to the lance.


“And what would your name be, good ser?” Gerion asked as he took his hand off of him and placed it on the instrument.

Spoiler: Gerion's MENTIONS

ailurophile
Braddington
MedievalFanatic2023

 

[Braddington]

Daemon Pyke
Bastard son of Queen Daena Blackfyre

Daemon brought the Princess’s hand to his lips, kissing gently before twirling her around as if they were dancing, holding her in his arms with a smile, clearly imitating Domeric Stark. It was hard to imagine her as the type to suck a lot of….well, you know the rest. But perhaps he was wrong. It was always the good ones, after all.

“Oh Vaella, I have some beautiful flowers for thee, they match your dress. The sun doth shine brightly when you are near.”

A chuckle accompanied it as he let her free, a ruffle on the head as a parting gift. He wasn’t any older than them all, yet he always acted like he was. If immaturely. There were few people in the capital who would appreciate his natural behaviour, but these were two of them.

The next greeting came from Rhaenys. The best woman the Gods put on this land, if they existed. Everyone was so boring. She gave life wherever she ventured. If he could thank anyone for making his existence that bit more bearable, it was her.

He wrapped his arms around her tightly, lifting her up from the ground before dropping her back down again as to not break anything important.

“I’ve been preparing, practising, reading.”

His head dropped slightly

“Since Maekar I have had a bit of a revelation. I don’t want to stay here and do nothing anymore. I don’t want to waste away in King’s Landing. I want to explore! I want to see things, go places! Westeros, Essos, maybe even the Summer Isles. I want to make something of myself, grandmother. Like mother would have wanted.”

He took a seat, his speech over. He conveniently left out other reasons why he wished to travel.

“I am headed for the Iron Islands as soon as possible. I came to say goodbye.”

ailurophile TheFool​

 

[Arcanist]

Lysanna Peake​

Every bump in the road was felt by Lysanna in the carriage, whose stomach clenched tighter with every one. Hiding the twisting on her face proved a struggle, considering her brother’s wife, Bess, kept glancing up with a mandatory sympathetic and concerned expression. Though, she hesitated to open her mouth, lest Lysanna barked at her like a wild dog. Her mood around the woman was fickle. She had always regarded Lysanna with pity about Gormon, not only to the damage done to her House of origin, but over the blasted bastard sitting comfortably on the King’s council. Bess had a terribly short memory, considering her own husband had wriggled his way into another woman. Lysanna had reminded her of that, when she first sought to comfort her, in a bitter temper. From then, Bess had known to think carefully on her words.

Everyone had. The servants whose feet she once danced around as a girl sped past her, for fear Lysanna bared her teeth at them. Knights feared to open their mouth, other than to speak few select words. Her own brother jested and forced laughter in her presence; nervous, hesitant laughter. She felt sorry for them, for their son, being saddled with a bitter wife such as her. She was convinced that was why her niece kept herself at the Arbor, even after her husband’s death. Lysanna made the atmosphere at Horn Hill stiflingly sour.

There was a sharp gasp from her, pressing the book gripped in her hand against her stomach. She never had problems travelling, not until she left Starpike. From then, her stomach threatened to turn itself inside out. Her mouth had only invited the contents of it out a few times, and from then, Lysanna had learned enough remedies to keep things coming up. The nausea and the cramps never ceased, however.

“Lysanna, should we--?”

“I will not halt this carriage for a third time, Bess,” she hissed, watching the woman sink into her seat. She would have sunk further among the pillows if it was possible. Lysanna closed her eyes, inhaling deeply to steady herself. She found it helped ease her travel sickness, and her flickering bouts of impatience. “How much longer until we arrive at Highgarden?”

Bess blinked for a moment, humming, before she peered past the curtain. “I’m not sure…though, we are passing Dunstonburry now…”

Lysanna’s stomach gurgled at the mention of it. She found herself leaning further forward, a most unlady-like position, but all care had been thrown out the carriage window by this stage. Her dear sister by marriage seemed oblivious, or chose to be, as she continued to peer out.

“Doesn’t Lord Peake’s brother hold--?”

“Yes, he does,” Lysanna interrupted her through gritted teeth. She could feel the saliva build in her mouth, and she desperately tried to swallow it back. There wasn’t a day went by that she didn’t think of her husband. She cursed him, yet, could find herself crying over him. She never forgave his behaviour, nor the condition House Tarly found itself in, yet, she missed sharing a bed with him. Ten years. Ten years of no contact. She wondered if he ever thought about lifting a quill and writing her a letter, just as she had thought of doing several times. She had made the effort with her children, after all. Her sweet children. If ever she had loved another being unconditionally, it was her children. If anything worthwhile had come out of the shambles of her marriage, it was her sons, her daughter. In the early years of her sojourn at Horn Hill, she had considered returning to Starpike for her children alone when she was tormented with the presence of her nephew everyday. But she remembered why she had stormed out of Starpike in the first place; because she couldn’t stick being alongside Gormon any longer, even if it made her the wife of one of the most prominent players in the Reach.

Lysanna heaved. Her fist flew to the carriage door, thumping on it incessantly, causing Bess to squeak. “Stop the carriage,” she mustered the order in between her retching. Her thumping continued, until movement completely ceased. She flung the carriage door open herself, almost taking out the man who had rushed to it with the steps for her to get out. He barely got the steps down until Lysanna flew down them, and she doubled over at the side of the road, barely making it before she done something she hadn’t in years.

The woman found herself staring at the contents of her stomach swimming in the puddle below her. It wasn’t long before she found herself surrounded by the men accompanying House Tarly, asking after her, shoving handkerchiefs and a waterskin in her direction. She would have slapped them away, if she didn’t need the support so desperately. Lysanna managed to retain her dignity as she accepted these offerings, wiping away the substance dripping from her chin, taking a swig from the waterskin to cleanse the bitterness that developed in her mouth.

It wasn’t enough to get rid of the bitterness she held in her for so many years.

Gwynesse Crakehall​

Gwynesse smiled, a brief but firm nod following it. Robert always did have the ability to move and inspire with his words, even in times of difficulty. He was a tribute to his late father in that way. But by no means did she find his speech empty; it carried substance and a genuine want of kinship between the two nobles. A quality she found lacking in the faux-Lannisters. It was refreshing to hear it in a Lord whom many tiptoed around. There was more underneath the brooding scowl of the Lion as with any other face.

The woman raised her own goblet, a chuckle accompanying the smile that never ceased. “To Boars and Lions.” She repeated, before she too swallowed the last of the wine. When the last of the liquid dripped down her throat, she found herself missing it. She could do with another swig if she was to plaster on a smile and regard their hosts with honour. Gwynesse’s nose wrinkled in disgust at the thought of it. She couldn’t be as blunt as she had been around those of her own House, yet, she wouldn’t stoop so low as to suckle on their teats like so many have.

The mention of more wine and a visit to Castamere made Gwynesse hum with delight. “You had me at the mention of wine. I would be honoured to return to Castamere and share in your company there.” She had responded with the same genuine manner that Robert had afforded her. She watched his eyes move elsewhere in the tent as if he sensed another entity sloping around. Her gaze returned to Robert, sighing as she set her own cup down. “No, I suppose not. Though, that wouldn’t surprise me, seeing they act as if they have a sword permanently stuck up their…” She had begun in earnest, feeling the climax of her insult build, before she paused, reconsidered. “Forgive my curtness, Robert. I’ve learned to speak too freely among men that I forget myself.” She explained, though, a smirk played upon her lips. One that symbolised that her grievances may be fully aired at Castamere. Given the amount of wine involved, of course.

Gwynesse’s brows raised as she considered the offer, though, in all honesty, it took little consideration. She rose from the sofa, smoothing out her skirt – a habit that wasn’t considered unruly or crude for once – and smiled. “I would appreciate the company to pay the hosts a visit. But be assured, I have no such fear. Should such kittens pounce upon the Gilt, they’ll discover her tusks have remained well and truly sharpened.” She felt her chest puff out at her own words, pride swelling in her chest. Just like the pride her father had possessed to the last moment. She turned to Ser Luthor, who had stood silent in the background. She almost forgot his dutiful presence among the two nobles. “I will return in due course, Luthor.” Gwynesse smiled at the knowing smile the knight had given her, responding with a nod and a courteous ‘my Lady’, before turning to Robert with a short bow, and equally courteous ‘my Lord’. She turned towards the entrance of the pavilion, gesturing to Robert to follow, before she had left the pavilion first.

Upon exiting, her eyes had scanned for the banners of House Lannister, her eyes settling on a pavilion not far. As she began walking with Lord Reyne towards it, she noticed the activity swarming around it; of people loitering, of others debating to enter. Some were brave enough to bring themselves in front of the supposed Lions, like little lambs. Perhaps her and Robert were no different. Their presence beside one another would no doubt send a clear message. At least the two unlikely bedfellows would have one another to fall back on. “Seems as though we’re not the only ones paying our respects to our humbled hosts,” Gwynesse pointed out, watching a younger man stumble into the Lions’ Den. A smithy? No, not quite, not yet, it seemed.

Spoiler: Honourable Mentions

RayPurchase
Braddington

 

[Hypnos]

Ashford​

The horse stumbled as its hooves struggled to find hard ground against the watery mulch of Reach soil, the harsh winds accelerating what would otherwise be a gentle drizzle into a much more serious downpour, posing a significant threat to anyone wishing to traverse the stormy banks of the Cockleswhent, and threatening to pull any passersby into the river’s domineering embrace. It was a cloudy night, with the darkness offering yet another obstacle to the horse and its rider, the ominous crackle of lighting revealing, but for a few moments, a thousand angry faces in the misty air. Jeering. Glaring. Were they real? Or were they simply the wisps and demons who had come to haunt this sacrilegious land after years of bloodshed and betrayal? In his current state, the rider could not say, though neither option detracted the power they had over him.

He had been riding continuously for nearly two days now, with his only pauses being given to refill his deerskin with more hard ale from a nearby hamlet, and to exchange his noble Dornish sand steed for a better rested, yet poorer quality Reach destrier. Both situations he was less than happy with. Wine had been the rider’s preferred drink, though he had exhausted his supply of Dornish red five days past, and he would rather stoop down and drink rain from a puddle than resort to the pisswater they served in the Arbor. Ale was not much better in terms of taste, but it was strong and poignant, and dulled some of the pain of recent times, prolonging a hangover that had been several days in the making.

Despite this inebriation, or perhaps because of it, the rider had been able to make quick work of the Roseroad and now swiftly approached his destination, a place which he had not expected to be back to so soon. The rider had visited the castle Ashford only a week prior whilst traversing the Reach alongside his brother, hoping to earn a few more coins from the local barons before returning home to Dorne. It was an ugly little keep on the edge of Peake lands, squat and whitewashed, overlooking a small town whose inhabitants had already locked up their stores for the night and hid inside their houses. It was for the best. Reachmen did not take kindly to his people, especially so close to the Marches, and the rider didn’t want to get distracted from why he was really here by the lesser squabbles of the flower folk. No point wasting a thought on them. No point wasting his sword on them.

He abandoned his horse along the riverside, just beside the keep, barely able to drag himself off of the beast without stumbling downward into the stream. His vision was a little blurry, perhaps due to the darkness, or perhaps it was the intoxication, though he continued onwards regardless, steadying himself upon the walls of the keep, breath jagged from the long ride, moving along the castle until he could make out the faint flicker of torches around the main gate.

‘Ser Garin, we did not expect your return so soon.’

He didn’t even acknowledge the man, instead pushing past him to make his way inside of the keep. It was not wartime, so the gates remained open, and Garin’s position meant that no one would try and bar him from entry. He was Dornish. They owned this country, and anyone that tried to get in their way would have to answer to the Lord Hand.

‘I want to meet with Ashford.’ His words were slurred, quiet and directed at anyone in particular, his voice lost in the almost empty courtyard. ‘I want to meet with Ashford!’ The words were repeated, but louder this time, a scream with enough volume to wake the dead.

‘Ser Garin.’ It was the same man that he had ignored at the gate, only this time Garin got a good look at his face. He was an ugly c unt, with ginger hair and a large boil protruding from his nose, and his voice hit Garin like a sack of bricks. ‘Lord Ashford is abed with his wife. If you’d like we can quarter you and you can speak to him upon the morr…’

Garin drew his sword. ‘I want to meet with Ashford.’ He repeated again.

Without skipping a beat, the boil drew his own sword, and gestured for his friend to do the same, a wiry man with straw in his hair, and a cut upon his upper lip. ‘Don’t threaten me Dornishman. You can wait till the morning.’

Garin spat at the man’s feet. He was in an enemy castle. Surrounded by enemy people in an enemy land. It was not wise to push his luck. Perhaps a wiser man might had backed down, but the little voice in the back of Garin’s head was telling him not to let it go, not to give in. He raised his sword a little higher. ‘The Lord Hand knows I’m here,’ he lied ‘it’s official crown business.’

‘And what does the Lord Hand want us to do.’ The boil scoffed, ‘Drag his Lordship down here in his bed clothes.’

‘Kicking and screaming if you have to. His whelps as well.’

It only took them a few seconds to realise that he was not joking, and after a brief glance at each other, and a conferring look, they finally conceded, though not without a little huff and puff.

It was not long until they returned, an indignant Lord Ashford trailing not too far behind them, two young boys shadowing him, and a third resting within the arms of a woman too pretty to be Ashford’s daughter, but young enough that it might have been the case.

‘What’s the meaning of this, Ser Garin? I thought you and your dolt of a brother had ridden off for Whitegrove. Why awaken me at this ungodly h…’

‘Ulwyck is dead.’ Garin interjected before the man could get any further with his irritation. Ashford was fat. Fat, red faced and balding, with a nose that looked like it had been broken in two places and beady little eyes that now glared down at Garin. Eyes that made the Dornishman feel ill at ease.

‘You have my sympathy Ser, but I do not see what that has to do with me?’ His words and his tone expressed very different sentiment.

‘He was ambushed by them White Knights. We were riding for Starpike, and he’d just got off his horse to take a piss in the Mander. They gutted him where he stood. Cock still in hand. Disappeared before we even found out it happened.’ Perhaps it would’ve been a comical tale if he voice wasn’t filled with such malice, the taste of cheap ale still fresh upon his breath.

‘It’s a dangerous country Ser. Your kind have been dropping all over. Ser Drinkwater was…’

‘I don’t give a shit about Ser Drinkwater. My brother is dead.’ Garin drew closer to the Ashford Lord, squaring up to the man. He was shorter, perhaps by a few inches, but as he slowly rasped down Ashford’s face, neither of them seemed to notice.

‘Then why are you here? Go home Dornishman.’

‘It was you.’

‘What?’

‘It was you.’ He repeated. ‘We only just collected the Hand’s tax from you a week ago. You were the only one that knew we were riding for Starpike. You killed my brother.’

‘I did no such thing!’ The man looked somewhere between angry and confused, though in his current state, the only thing that Garin saw upon his face was guilt.

‘Don’t lie to me.’

‘Or what? You wouldn’t harm a Lord in his bed clothes. You wouldn’t harm a Lord in his own castle. Why don’t we all go inside and…’

‘You see this?’ Garin pulled from his pocket a single golden dragon, worn and dull.

‘What of it.’

‘You see whose face that is?’ He gestured frantically at the coin with two fingers. ‘That’s Naemidon Blackfyre’s face. That’s the King, and I’m a King’s man. You see this.’ He pulled out yet another object, this time a small wax seal with a speared sun emblazoned upon it. ‘That’s the Hand’s crest. You know what it means?’ Ashford was about to speak up, but Garin cut him off before he had the chance. ‘It means I can do whatever the fuck I want. If I want to cut three pounds off your fat fucking corpse then I will do it and you’ll be glad. Touch a single hair upon my head and Mors Martell will raze this pathetic little keep to the ground. Sack your town and burn your people. Divert the Cockleswhent over what’s left and it’ll be like nothing was ever here.’

‘What do you want. Uller?’ Ashford said bluntly, his eyes shifting between the Dornishman and his guardsmen, perhaps weighing up his options.

‘I want one of your boys.’

‘I don’t think…’

‘You took my kin, so I’ll take yours. Take him back to Sunspear and…’

‘I didn’t…’ Ashford tried to protest, but the Uller would not hear of it.

‘It’s a mercy. When Mors hear about what happened here, heads will roll Ashford. Better with me than on a pike. I’ll take the little one.’ He moved over to the woman, and half tugged and half wrestled the little boy from her arms.

‘Unhand him Dornishman!’

‘Fuck off Reachman!’ Garin pulled away from the Ashfords, his heart racing. He was too drunk to really consider the danger that Ashford might just have his men gut him right there, but he still had a certain appreciation of the gravitas of the situation. ‘Fuck me again, and I’ll take one of the others.’ He pushed his way out of the gate, not looking back as he returned to his horse, a small child in his arms. Perhaps he hadn’t really thought this through. Perhaps he would come to regret such brash acts when the morning sun rose and the effects of ale began to fade, but right now he sure that he had made the right choice.

 

[TheFool]

Gwayne Golden-Eyes
NPC




​

His green painted sails flailed in the warmest of winds.
The waves of The Summer Sea steadily hitting against the hull of his ship, like an armourer’s hammer hitting against steel. She was his ‘Rosie’ - named for his second of seven daughters. He was her captain and she was bound for Planky Town, carrying crates and crates of Arbor Gold.
He peered over her edge -
Watching.
Taking all of it in.
This had been his first voyage in two whole months. Coming down with a nasty cough and cold had had him bedridden, unable to personally oversee his trade deals. What good was ol’ Golden-Eyes if he couldn’t do what he did best and sell expensive wine across Westeros.

Luckily - his first mate, Aemon - had took to looking after things in his absence.

“Enjoying the view, captain?” Pate shouted down from where he steered.
“It’s beautiful!” Gwayne replied, his brown eyes lit with excitement. Excitement to be back. He looked as if he was a young child who had never seen the ocean before.
He felt as such too.

The sun was setting when they finally docked.
Planky Town was, in the words of he and his men, a bit of a shit hole. Its port was big but unimpressive. The buildings that ran alongside of it mostly made of wood and clay. The only unique thing the town had was its floating market, situated next to where they docked. It was a sort of canal built along the Greenblood river and was a bustling hub of commerce for many.
In the morning I’ll start selling some crates there,
Gwayne thought.
Not all of it though.

He carefully stepped down off the gangway. His boots providing a thumping sound as they hit the wooden dock. It was a quiet night. The only sounds he heard were his men shouting orders and the gentle humming of waves. There was also the sound of flickering flame -
Coming from the torches that had already been let a light. They stuck to parts of the decking. Illuminating the way into the town centre.

The air was crisp and humid and salty.
Too humid for him.
He felt his underarms dampen with thick sweat.

He spotted Aemon ahead of him, standing next to several men. Talking to them. They looked like town guards. I wonder what -
His train of thought crashed, like how a storming sea brought a boat towards rocks, when one of the men’s fists connected itself to Aemon’s jaw. The first mate fell back, his body slamming against the wood of the dock. “Aemon!” Gwayne let slip.
He was in shock.
“Stop it, men. Stop it!”
Was all he could manage to say. As if it’d help.
“Reach scum!” He heard one of the guards say as they all joined in. Punching and kicking and stomping and spitting.
“For Ulwyck!”
He heard another.
Frozen, knowing not what to do, Gwayne continued to yell. In hopes that his crew would hear and come to help. In hopes to alert Pate or Jon Ninefingers or even Deaf Glendon.

It did.

They all came running off of the ship. Off of Rosie.
“Get ‘em boys, they’re hurting him!”
Gwayne said. Still standing there, unable to move. Unable to do anything else but scream.

As his crew began fighting the guards, one of the former managed to run past them. Towards Gwayne. Gwayne fell to his knees, cowering.
“Please no. Leave me be. I have done nothing of wrong.” He said, his words trembling.
The guard ignored him and, instead of throwing a punch at him, he grabbed one of the burning torches. “Torch it, Ryon!”
One of the other guards shouted.
Gwayne looked as the torch-wielding guard, who he presumed to be Ryon, hurled it at the ship.
At Rosie.

No!

Gwayne stumbled back up. His hands reaching out towards the ship as if he could somehow save it, but it was too late. The torch bashed against one of the sails - setting it a flame. Ryon grabbed another one and this time held it against the hull.
“No! Stop!” Gwayne yelled.
He looked back to see a sword going through Pate’s back. Jon Ninefingers was being repeatedly slammed against a docking pole. Deaf Glendon was nowhere to be found.

And Aemon…

His first mate was crawling towards him, as the soldier who punched him thrusted into his back.

Gwayne looked away from one horror and stared at another.
His ship.
His Rosie.
He watched as she and her sails burnt like the Summer’s sun.

Ysilla Martell
Sunflower




​

She read the words.
Again.
And again.
And again and again and again.

No matter how many times she read them, Ysilla was still convinced that her brother was in danger. He’s a viper without his venom and he’s surrounded by those who will have him as prey.

“I will see you soon.
With all of my love and affection,

- Lewyn”

​

That was what he had written her, from supposed safety of The Citadel. She knew though. She knew that not even a maester-in-training was safe amongst the scum of The Reach. Her fist clenched but she soon let it go - keeping her breaths paced. Breathing in and breathing out. With each and every exhale, she let it all go.
The stress of it.
The fear.
I wish he was here. I wish we were all here - safe and sound at Sunspear. Lewyn. Nym. Dyanna.
Father.

Their enemies couldn’t get them here. Not in the Old Palace.

She closed her eyes and took one deep breath.
One to rid her of every poisoned worry.
She exhaled and then took hold of her quill. She dipped it in navy ink. Once. Twice. Then she blew on the pen’s tip gently.
Before writing her reply.

When it was finished she rolled it up and pressed the wax seal against it. An orange sun, with a spear at its back. She then put it in the pile with the others. Letters to lords and ladies and Dornishmen in The Reach and Dornishmen in The Crownlands. One in particular who was important.
More so than her father even.
She picked up that letter noticed the Martell seal. Curses. She broke it. Rereading the words she, herself, had wrote -

“I hope all is well and that this letter finds you.

I’ve heard of your endeavours.
I applaud them.”

​

Her eyes glanced over the final lines.

“The city is a grove of blood oranges.

You get your next pick.

- Y”

​

She rolled it back up.
Her hand hovered over the seals in-front of her. Most of them were all the same, but there were a few that were unidentifiable. She chose one of those and stamped.
Resealing it.

“My princess?”
A voice came.
Mossador.
“What is it?” She asked him, turning back in her seat so that her face faced his.
He fumbled with his links, “It is almost noon. I think you should hold court. There are a few things that need be discussed.”
She nodded.
“Of course. I’ll head to the great hall now. Please, get these letters to the ravens.”
“At once, princess.”
She pointed to the pile and told him where each one was headed. A letter to her sister in Whitegrove. A letter to one of her father’s most loyal soldier, stationed in The Reach. A letter to Lord Santagar. A letter to her brother, Lewyn. And the letter with the unmarked seal.
“That one. It goes to King’s Landing.”
She said.
Her words somewhat venomous.


The venom the rest of her family so lacked.


She sat in the great chair. A fine crafted seat, situated in the great hall. It had two seats. One part of it resembling a spear and the other resembling Nymeria’s sun. She sat on the side with the spear. Her arms crossed. One leg over the other - her foot softly tapping.
A serving girl poured wine for her. Ysilla took a sip and her face soured. “What is this?”
“It’s Arbor Red, my princess.”
Arbor Red?
Ysilla nodded and shooed the girl away as Mossador took a seat on the small stool to her right. “How goes it?” He asked curiously.
“It goes well. The Tyroshi delegate was delighted with his stay.”
“That’s good.”
“It is. Did you send out the letters?”
“I did, my princess.”
“Many thanks.”

A trio entered the hall.
Mossador eyed them up before announcing their presence - “Here comes our acting captain of the household guard, my princess. Nyme-”
“I know who she is, Mossador.”
“Yes, princess.”
Ysilla took a breath. “Nymella. How are you this afternoon?”
Nymella had been captain of the guard for several years. She did not fully hold the position. That belonged to a man who spent most of his time by her father’s side. She was a wide woman. Wide with muscle, not fat. She wore her hair in a bun and had a face that resembled a mongreled dog.
“I could be betta’, princess.”
She replied to Ysilla.
“Oh?”
Nymella extended her arm towards two of her men. Soldiers. One in the colours of House Martell and one in plain brown - the colours of the Planky Town guard.
“Olyvar is, as you know, my second in command.”
“Welcome Olyvar.”
“My princess.” The man said, kneeling.
Ysilla smirked and sipped. The smirk leaving her face as she tasted the bitter wine. She wanted to spit it out but she kept herself composed. “He came to me this morning with this young man. A soldier of the town watch at Planky Town. Walter.”
“Welcome Walter.” Ysilla droned on.
“Princess Ysilla. Your beauty is -”
“What is this about, Nymella?”
Nymella cleared her throat and bowed her head before answering, “There was an issue last night. A ship of Reachmen ported at Planky Town and started drunkenly causing fuss. Walter here captured a few of them and has them held in cells. They beat he and his men and started… defecating on the docks.”
“Defecating?”
“Defecating.”
Walter spoke up, “They were pissing and shitting and throwing slurs at us. Saying we were sand scum. Saying they’d skin us alive and eat us like they would wild dogs.”
Ysilla shifted in her seat.
Well, it wasn’t hers.
It was her father’s seat but like Nymella’s position of Captain Of The Guard - Ysilla held it in the absence of a man. When her father first let her hold court when he wasn’t there, she sat on the stool Mossador would sit on. That was until she realised that sitting on a half-broken stool does not inspire anything in the people.

“They ended up, in their state, set light to their own ship.” Nymella said.
Ysilla raised an eyebrow,
“What was on it?”
“Wine, me thinks.” Walter spoke.
More Arbor wine.
“So they burnt down their own ships and they… what… are being held prisoner at Planky Town?” Ysilla was trying to get the story right in her head.
“Yes, my princess.” Nymella nodded. “Walter came to Olyvar this morning and Olyvar came to me. We want to know what you’ll have done with them.”
“What would you advise, Nymella?”
“I say kill the bastards.” Walter put in.
Ysilla eyed the man.
He was thin but tall. His eyes black, with tired circles around them. Besides the lack of sleep - it didn’t look like he himself had been beaten by these Reachmen.
“You don’t seem to have any bruises.”
“What?”
“You said these Reachmen beat you and your men. Yet I see no sign of their harm upon you.”
“My ribs are killing me, princess.”
“I am sure they are.”
She stood up, with her cup in her hand. She took another sip. She cringed at the taste.

Ysilla studied Walter as she approached him.
Her heels clicking against the coloured tile flooring. “I didn’t ask you what to do with them.” She spoke. Getting closer and closer. Her stare filled with fire.
He plays a right fool.
“I asked Nymella. Your superior.”
Ysilla stopped.
She was a foot or two away from him. She towered the guard, even more so in her heels. She looked down at the cup - half full with Arbor Red - before emptying it out on Walter’s head. The wine soaking him.

He stood there.
Drenched.
Not saying a word.
And the fool knows his place now.
Ysilla looked at Nymella and Olyvar and then made her way back to her seat.

When she sat back down, she let loose a sigh.
“Execute them, so.”
She said firmly.

“At once, my princess.” Nymella said before she and the other two took their leave.

Ysilla and Mossador shared a look. He didn’t agree with her decision but he had to deal with it. He didn’t share the temper that the Dornish were known for. He was a man from The North. He always would be no matter how much sunburn he suffered through.

“As charming as always, Princess Ysilla.”
A voice came.
As three people left the great hall, four entered. The voice belonged to Edric Drinkwater. Brother to the recently deceased. Behind him were the handsomest couple in Dorne - Lord Quentyn Allyrion and his wife, Lady Arianne. There was also another figure. A small woman with a sagging face.
Lady Elia Uller.
The wife to Lord Uller.
“Would you rather I let unruly Reachmen run free in our lands, Edric?” Ysilla asked. “It was, after all, unruly Reachmen who killed your brother.”
Edric didn’t like that.
“Lord Quentyn, it is a pleasure. Lady Elia. Lady Arianne. May I offer my sympathies. All of us in Sunspear grieve for Ulwyck.”

“Alas,”
She added.
“I am glad you are all finally here. We have much to discuss.”

Spoiler: Ysilla's MENTIONS

ailurophile
Yarrow

 

[ailurophile]

Lynora Lannister​

A laugh of disbelief almost escaped Lynora as she watched their cousin walk away. As if that little dog actually thought she had gotten the upper hand in their exchange.
It often baffled her how she and Gerion were the only true lions amongst a litter of scrawny alley cats.

Just as she was about to voice this observation, however, they were interrupted once again. This time, perhaps with a more interesting element. Lynora kept her mouth shut for once as the arrival stumbled through his sentence, allowing her gaze to unabashedly give the young man a once over. She glanced away briefly to accept a goblet of wine from a servant -- late -- and only just caught Gerion's look when she refocused.

That look.
Her heart sank.

In one blink of an eye, the boy went from possible plaything to definite distraction. Lynora's gaze hardened as her brother quipped, and she took a long drink. She didn't even bother to respond, instead falling back to allow Gerion to begin... whatever it was he was beginning.

"I don't like it." Lynora interjected. "It's a little gaudy for my tastes."
She took a sip from her jewel-encrusted cup. The irony of her childish remark seemed to escape her.

As Gerion admired the lance, Lynora's gaze wandered elsewhere, and she caught sight of two new arrivals entering. Gods, it was like an infestation. Even so, her interest piqued-- perhaps her brother had been too hasty in staking his claims, she mused, for the fresher arrival was equally appealing. More so, in fact, for Lynora, who had been carefully considering keeping her distance from Gerion's target to avoid getting soot on her dress. In that moment, she didn't even recognise Reyne and Crakehall for who they were.

She laid a hand on her brother's shoulder and leaned up to whisper in his ear.

"We have guests."

-

Princess Vaella Blackfyre​

"You're much too kind, my dear," Vaella laughed as she twirled, and came just short of avoiding Daemon's ruffle of her hair. Not that it really mattered-- she was suddenly grateful that she'd decided not to spend any time on it. Still, even if she had, she wouldn't have minded. Daemon could've dyed her hair bright green and she'd still have giggled and smiled and loved him even more for it.

She took a step back as he addressed their grandmother. Listening, but in silence. His plans filled her with a sense of excitement on his behalf, though she feared she'd never be brave enough to venture out into the world the way he was going to. The conversation took a turn, then, and became one for two: it was time for her to take her leave.

"Good luck, my dear. I hope you find what you're looking for." With that simple offer of goodwill, though her words held so much more than they seemed to, Vaella bent to plant a parting kiss on Daemon's forehead. Following that, a curtsey for her grandmother. "Thankyou for the advice. I'll leave you two to discuss."

Gathering up her skirts to make walking easier, she set off back the way she had come, considering Daemon's departure.

And also a nap.

-

Arianne Uller​

Her hand gripped Quentyn's arm as though her husband was the only thing keeping her upright. In a way, perhaps he was.

Arianne Uller was drunk.
She'd been drunk since news of her family's bereavement had reached her. Grief, it seemed, was not one of the many things Arianne knew how to handle: far from it. The fashionable eyeliner she usually wore was smudged now, and she was walking the fine line between exotic seductress and wild crone. For the most part, she'd been functioning as normal-- she'd always been somewhat erratic -- but there were a few key hints towards the fact that she needed relief. The six pillows and four bedsheets she'd torn up in a mix of sadness, rage, and frustration could attest to that.

But, as stated, for the most part she was functioning normally. Arianne liked to drink and she liked to fuck. She was not failing in either department. Additionally, she could hold her alcohol: this was why she hadn't stopped drinking when she'd been informed of their meeting with Ysilla Martell. It would be stranger for her to be stone-cold sober, a state she hadn't been in since her most recent pregnancy.

That had been her justification.

Snapping out of her haze, Arianne glanced up at her husband to offer a smile of reassurance. A smile that promised her best behaviour, a smile that promised her own sanity. She'd never been the most docile of women anyway: this was nothing that Quentyn hadn't dealt with in some capacity before.

"Thankyou for your condolences," Arianne smiled as they came to greet Ysilla. A fine woman, in her personal opinion, the sort of leader one could die for without question. If there was one thing Arianne admired in people -- besides physical prowess or impeccable taste -- it was intelligence.

With that being said, she fell back. Best to allow her husband to have the first say on the matter.

TheFool Braddington Yarrow

 

[Mion]

Cassandra Arryn​

A variety of plates rested atop the table of the longtable in the Morning Hall, where the guests of Lady Arryn sat and ate and drank and japed.

Plates of bacon, soft boiled eggs, blood sausages, sweet biscuits and berry tarts. It was more of a late breakfast than a lunch in all honesty. But it was good and warm food, and for the formerly freezing group of visitors, it was more than welcome. They hadn't exactly had a filling breakfast on their journey up, and the chance of them having a comfortable one during that time? Well that was out of the question.

At the head of the table Lady Arryn herself sat, with a hard to read expression on her face. She smiled and looked fondly over her visitors. But there was something on her mind, she did not join in on the conversation but still seemed to be listening intently. She would look down and chew on her own lip. A habit that her guests knew all to well. Anxiety. Cassandras stomach felt that it was turning itself inside out. Knot after knot. She nibbled on her food and would allow herself to laugh along with her company but...

Well one could not blame her for thinking about that letter. After all, this was perhaps the first major decision that she must take as the Lord Paramount of the Vale. The Vale of Arryn. She would repeat that to herself as she mulled over such things as. What if they do not recognize me as their liege? What if they simply mock me and my house behind my back? What if they just saw me as they saw my parents? Such things ultimately did not matter. They were her Lords, it was her people, it was her land. Despite the animosity between the people of the Vale and the late Lord Arryn, they had always been kind to her. And they had always followed their house. But I should not take that for granted... I must be a respectable leader. One that people can say that they follow proudly, not one that they drag their feet behind begrudgingly.

"My Lady... Is everything alright?" She looked to Ser Ronnel who had called out to her in a worried tone.

"A-ah yes. Thank you. It's. It's nothing." She responded rather unconvincingly...

"Cass. Sorry... My Lady. Please, if there is something bothering you then you can tell us. That's why we came after all isn't it? To support you, to keep you company in this hard time." Rhea spoke softly... She was always a kind one with her words despite her reputation of being rather. Wild. When they were kids she would always get scolded for hitting Ser Lyonel and Ser Gawen far too hard with the training swords and... Those two were scolded for letting her do it to them.

Well... It does seem that everyone has had their fill with lunch... I suppose I can say it now.

Cassandra stood up from her seat, pushing her chair back a little.

"Thank you Rhea. I am thankful for everyone of you for coming here. I would not have held it against any of you if you were to have refused."

"My Lady, if you need us then we will be there. Isn't that what friends do huh? And well we aren't just friends now my Lady." Ser Lyonel spoke, he made a rather valid point albeit a humorous one. She was their Lord.

She nodded her head with what appeared to be a pained smile.

"But still I feel that I must express my gratitude. Especially since well... I had other reasons for calling all of you here. I wanted to ask all of you for your council."

The mood of the room changed ever so slightly, there was still a rather relaxed and friendly air about the place but. There was a sense of seriousness now. The guests moved a bit forward in their seats, properly at attention to what was about to be said.

Of course she had others who she could have asked for guidance on her decision. Lord Royce for one, her uncle. Lord Grafton, Lord Corbray, Lord Waynwood, Lord Redfort... But she knew what guidance those men would have given to her. If she were to have called on those men then she likely would have caved to that advice without a second thought. Perhaps she wished to hear and alternative position. Or I at least would like to feel it was my choice...

Cassandra took hold of the piece of parchment and unrolled it before placing it on the table.

"A letter from Kings Landing... King Naemidon has appointed me Master of Laws in place of my late father." She looked at her company with troubled eyes and a heavy heart. By the look about them they had seemed to have somewhat been expecting that. Well except from Norbert who spat up some of his wine.

"My Lady. If I may..." Ser Gawen started. She nodded his way, giving permission to continue.

"I know that your father held that position and that being in Kings Landing does bring some benefits to us but... Your father and mother both went down there. And they are both no longer with us."

"Gawen?!" Lanna blurted out shocked.

"It's the truth Lanna." Ser Lyonel spoke up as well.

"Two Arryns went down to the capital. Two Arryns died. Many Lords among us don't just think that is a coincidence. But lets just say it is for arguments sake. Our Lady would still be riding down to a pit of snakes and turncloaks. As a member of the Small Council? I don't think so, more like a glorified hostage if you asked me." Ser Lyonel spoke his piece with a view-able passion behind them. He would not sit by and watch a friend put themselves in harms way.

"What exactly would you suggest then Lyonel?! Do we just say, 'sorry King Naemidon but no thanks!', are you so naive to think we can just get away with that? You will alienate us from the crown!." Lanna retorted.

"Well... One of the crowns..." Norbert mumbled.

"Careful now. Let's not get ahead of ourselves bert." Ser Harys urged caution. Although did not disagree...

"Come now Harys, it's not getting ahead of ourselves. Many among us believe we should have never lowered our banners... That we should have continued to take up arms with the Northman." Ser Gawens comment was received by a grin from Ser Harys and Norbert. But a rather disappointed shake of the head by Lanna and Ser Lyonel.

"What you are speaking is treason Gawen." Ser Lyonel put bluntly.

"Nay Lyonel. Ever taking a position on that cursed Small Council was the treason." Gawen did not back down.

"That's enough... All of you. It's enough." Although it was quiet. Lady Arryns faint voice brought the short spat to an end.

"Sorry my Lady." Gawen apologised.

She looked to Rhea, who had not said a word during the whole thing except for at the beginning. She sat there with a smile of encouragement. Spurring her on from the side. Perhaps that was advice in itself. Be more confident Cass, your voice must carry a power to it... Oh who am I kidding? How could my voice ever carry something like that? Lady Arryn was known as a soft spoken and polite girl. She had a lovely voice yes but. An authortitative one? Not by any definition of the word.

"Ser Gawen... Norbert... I am well aware of the Targaryen King, and I am well aware of the Lords who would happily pledge their swords to him. But I am not so eager for war, for bloodshed.. And I believe that Ser Harys was correct in advising caution when it comes to that topic." Deep breaths. Honestly, this had already been much more than what she had expected. How could she have thought she was prepared for this. I am only thankful that these people are my friends... As she had thought before, if these had been the Lords... Would she have even spoken?

"But... The points brought up about Kings Landing... I would be lying if those thoughts had not come to my own mind. But like Lanna... I find myself rather anxious to refuse this Blackfyre King. I do not wish to alienate my people from the rest of the realm." She spoke openly and she spoke honestly. That is what Cassandra felt would be for the best.

"I must ask you... No matter what decision I make. Will all of you here support me? I will not ask of you to aide me and you certainly do not have to change your own feelings on the matter. But as friends and advisers. Will you follow me as your Lady?"

"Of course my Lady." The group spoke at once. They may be divided in their perspectives. But they were united as allies all the same.

"Thank you. All of you." Cassandra pulled her seat back forward before seating herself once more.

"For now... I do not think we should rush to a decision. A delay. I believe that would be for the best and would not come to a surprise for King Blackfyre." Nods of agreement from all around the table.

Yes. That could work.

"Ser Ronnel, please call for Maester Kyrie. We have a letter to write." Cassandra turned to her captain of the guard before discussing the contents of said letter with her company.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------
TheAncientCelt

Spoiler: A Letter to King Naemidon I

Dear King Naemidon I Blackfyre, The First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.

Today I write to you to express my gratitude and my respects. I am thankful that you have appointed me to my fathers position as Master of Laws and I can only hope that I will be able to live up to my fathers name. If I was able to provide a service to the realm, even if it was something that could be considered insignificant. I think that would really be enough, that it would be something I could be proud of even if it was all I can manage. Not very encouraging words I know but I will ask his grace to pardon me for that. Mayhaps it's just a young woman doubting herself.

If your grace would allow me just another pardon then I would wish to express my condolences for Prince Maekar. Not only my heart but the hearts of the Vale wept when we heard the news. I am sure Prince Maekar would have made a fine King. And his loss is a loss for the whole world. Not just the 7 Kingdoms.

Death is a large part of why I wrote this letter today I am afraid to say your grace. The death of Prince Maekar. The death of my father Lord Roland Arryn. I believe it was a little much for me to take. I am afraid that the grief that struck me has taken more out of me than I really would like to admit. Illness has taken me ever since the news of their passing and with the weather at the Eyerie. I am afraid I am finding myself very weak at the moment.

Furthermore there has been mouvements by the Mountain Clans. Something I am sure my uncle, Lord Royce could handle on his own. He is a very competent man and one I could entrust anything to. But I can not deny that the Lords and Ladies of the Vale look to me for leadership on this matter.

And so I must sadly postpone my journey down to Kings Landing. I do hope that I recover quickly and everything here is handled smoothly so that I may serve on your Small Council. Serve the realm. As soon as possible.

With Kind Regards
Lady Cassandra Arryn

 

[Braddington]

Leo
Blacksmith in Training

As the Lord placed his hands on his elbow, he couldn't help but wince. He’d heard of men being sent to the Wall for less than even simple skin contact, he’d heard of women being sent to the Silent Sisters for nought but moving too quickly in a Lord's presence. Was he about to get the same treatment? Seven Hells, he hoped not. He stood, eliciting a rugged smile that he hoped was enough to seem amiable. His eyes quickly found the others in this state, staring, unable to move from them, almost challenging, stupid, but inevitable. What was he thinking? What was behind them? He knew. He’d seen that look before on others. Did he mind? No. No he did not. Was it odd? Yes, by the fucking Seven yes. Yet he kept his eyes lingering, he wanted to keep them there.

“I helped on making this one, my Lord. I can assure you that the craftsmanship is top notch, the best in Lannisport. I swear on the Smith you’ll find none better.”

The Lords...mother? He didn't know her, though she looked similar and wore the same colours, interrupted his eyes. He didn't know nobles, he didn't know their world, but he knew people. People would come to his father's shop to get presents, to become killers, to serve others. People had the same emotions no matter their walks of life. This one was quite clearly jealousy. But what was she jealous of? The lance? No, it was deeper than that. Whatever it was, it triggered a response in him, a response he regretted almost immediately.

“As are tourneys from what I hear, my Lady. Though I suppose you've never seen one. I’m sure his Lordship will appreciate what they are and the gift I present to him today.”

What the fuck was that? It didn't even make sense. He’d never been to a tourney. Was it meant to be some kind of swipe? Why was he swiping at her? Leo, stop fucking swiping you idiot. This was no place to make enemies for reasons unclear. He had a simple job to do, and that was all.

“Leo, my Lord. Named for my uncle who fell -”

He pointed to the cliff face where now nothing but rubble sat.

“In there, not twenty years past.”

It wasn't meant as an insult, and his eyes conveyed that, just a simple statement of truth.

“And whilst I might wish it, I am no Ser. Blacksmiths rarely get to even meet their like.”

He had been so fixated on the conversation he had not even seen the others Lords and Ladies enter the area. He didn't really care in that moment either. He knew none of them, their names or their houses. He knew the Lannisters. Was that a good thing? He knew not. It mattered not. It was but a simple statement of truth.

ailurophile TheFool ​

 

[TheFool]

Gerion Lannister
Lion





“We have guests.”
​

Gerion removed his attention from the blacksmith’s apprentice. The one who revealed his name to be Leo. A name that rolled right off of the tongue. Maybe other parts of him roll as easily? He’d have to wait and find out. For first came greetings.

“Robert Reyne.” Gerion bellowed.
His stance tall.
Eyes like a lion’s. Ready to take the other down. Though Gerion would be lying to himself if Reyne’s appearance was never a bit intimidating.
The Red Lion was fierce.


As fierce as the ones crushed under Casterly Rock, I am certain.


“And who is this charming fellow bes-”
He stopped.
He smirked.
He knew.
“My apologies, Lady Gwynesse.” Gerion clasped his hands together, “It so kind of the two of you to join my sister and I. To join us all for the festivities tonight. The Night Market is a pride and joy of Lannisport. One of many. Your appearances here only makes us prouder.”

Gerion looked back at his sweet sister,
“Doesn’t Lady Gwynesse look so dashing in her... attire?”

“I must admit - I am surprised you’re not in that exquisite armour I’ve seen you in. It gives mine own a run for its money.” He looked back at his underlings. They were technically his father’s but his father was nothing but utterly useless.
A lord of little.

He made his smile wider.
Hoping to irritate the two of them like a child would intentionally torment the other children.

“Maybe your father could do something about that, eh Leo?”
Gerion asked.
Looking back at the young apprentice.
Golden lions.
Red ones.
Bronze.
So, so many.
And by the end of the night, Gerion would ensure that Leo had a bit of lion in him as well.

Spoiler: Gerion's MENTIONS

ailurophile
Arcanist
Braddington
RayPurchase

 

[TheFool]

Rhaenys Blackfyre
Queen Mother




​

His words hit her.
She always endorsed it. Seeing the world. As there was much more to it than only Westeros. However, this was a young man she viewed as a son. A grandson. Someone she was closer to than anyone else. A part of her winced at the thought of it -
Of not seeing him often.
Will I live to see him when he returns?
Her mortality was lingering. Rhaenys knew it. She’d known it for some time. “My dear.” It was all she could say at first. All she wanted to say.

Vaella stood, thanking her.
Rhaenys smiled at her granddaughter as she curtsied and took leave. It was only her and Daemon Pyke then. She pointed towards one of the vacant seats. As if she was commanding the bastard to sit.

He already had.

“My dearie.” She said.
A slight variation.

“That’s wonderful. You yourself know that I am always an advocate for sightseeing.” Her words were quiet, “I do hope, however, that The Iron Islands are only the first stop in this revelation. I’d hate for you to not want to waste away in King’s Landing only for you to do so in Pyke instead.”

Spoiler: Rhaenys' MENTIONS

Braddington

 

[Hypnos]

Loron Greyjoy​

Alone. Alone with his thoughts. Alone with himself. Although from outwards appearances it might seem that Loron Greyjoy was best accustomed to solitude, having spent the majority of his time upon these dreary isles secluded by himself, sulking and festering in his own self-pity, this was not the case. As he watched his sister’s swaying form vacate the room, he couldn’t help by feel a twinge of guilt. Her words had been true, and spoken from the heart, more eloquent than any that might have come from their father’s lips, but bearing the unmistakable tone of Erich Greyjoy: blunt and harsh. They were not wrong. He had left them. Abandoned his family every time he got the chance, in favour of spitting upon his own culture to galavant upon the greenlanders with Mat and the others. Was his father too hard upon his son, or was it true that he had gone soft? Was he about to betray his own family? Defile the name he took such pride in? Whilst he truly believed that Lord Erich deserved his scorn, he knew that Esgred did not, yet the two were so closely intertwined that he could not hit one without harming the other. He had survived barely ten and six years with Erich Greyjoy before venturing out into the mainlands to find his own way, yet Esgred had lived through twenty and five and emerged unscathed, perhaps she was stronger than him as well as smarter.

As Loron dwelled on the miserable vestige of his youth, sitting upon a curled driftwood bed frame that had born neither blanket nor sheepskin as long as he had lived, he had time to think. The rain continued to pour gently upon his head like small reminders of the Storm God’s great power, the tiny specks of water catching themselves upon Loron’s dark hair, and pushing it downwards upon his face, removing any trace of the southern styles that had previously adorned it, and allowing it to fall into its natural scrawl. More apt for the Iron Islands, though Loron detested the resemblance it bore to his father. ‘You look like a girl’ a sailor had jeered at him when he had first arrived upon the island at Lordsport, ‘prettier than half my daughters.’ A simple jest, perhaps, but Loron had heard the meaning behind those words. He looked like an outsider. An outsider in his own home. The castle he one day aspired to rule.

When he talked with his companions about ascending to the Lordship of Pyke, he never really thought about the people. The wealth he would mention in depth. The power, the castle, the influence, but at the back of his mind he had always hoped that the legacy of his father would simply die with the old man. Like the rest of Westeros, the Ironborn would move on under his rule to better and greater things, but coming back here, seeing these people first hand once more, he knew that it wasn’t the case. Urragon wouldn’t die with father, raiders would continue to raid, and Harlaw may be skulking around for years to come. If he wanted to be lord, he would have to earn it, however detestable that prospect might be to him.

Loron stood, attempting to dry off his doublet with his equally soggy hands, though to little avail, as he only succeeded in spreading the water deeper into his clothing, much to his own chagrin. He glanced around one last time, still weighing up the possible outcomes of his next decision. How was everyone else so calm? They sailed off to war against a force so much stronger than themselves, with almost no chance of returning successfully, and yet Erich Greyjoy and his cronies just cackled along like always. Bravery and stupidity were such similar things, though Loron lamented that his personal brand of idiocy seemed to breed little more than cowardice and parental issues.

Fumbling for a second with the broken latch on the door to his bedchamber, Loron once again made an exit, though this time the only one whom he was storming away from was himself, and perhaps the dreary memories of his formative years. That room had meant a lot of things to him as a child. It had meant lessons and beatings, mockery and scorn, fear and miseries, but although he was quick to forget, it had meant many good things as well. Him and his sister had played in that room for years, away from their father’s judgemental glare. It was in that room where himself and his wife had shared their first kiss, and although things had not quite worked out the way that both of them had hoped, he still had a fondness for those memories. Pyke was a terrible place. An ugly and monstrous behemoth, that bred stubborn and rugged people, but it was home, and he couldn’t sit around blaming it for all his problems.

The Greyjoy made his way slowly along the narrow and winding corridors of Pyke, retracing the steps he had taken not long before to return to a place he had only recently vowed to never return. So quick was the chance in tide that it might have been considered comical, though the levity was lost on Loron in favour of the return of a bloody and beaten pride, weathered by the storms of his own petulant nature.

Moving closer towards his destination, Loron paused for a moment as he approached the driftwood door that separated himself and returning once more to his father, taking a deep breathe before laying his fingers upon the woods, preparing himself for a less that proud return.

‘Back so soon? Usually it takes you a few moon to grow yerself some balls and come back with yer tail between yer legs.’ The familiar voice was matched with an equally familiar tone, as Loron came face to face with the only encounter that was perhaps more difficult for him to stomach than that with his father.

By all rights, himself and Urragon Greyjoy should get along. They had both suffered the tough love (or lack of love at all) parenting technique of Lord Erich Greyjoy, and any hardship that Loron had spent years complaining about, Urragon had experienced too, though the younger of the brothers seemed eager to take such things in his stride. It was a queer fate that two men with such a similar story would grow into such different people, and queerer too that they would so despised each other, though Loron supposed they both had Lord Erich to thank for such animosity, for Erich Greyjoy bred conflicts like a kennel master bred pups. ‘I suppose they sent you outside whilst the grown-up were talking, brother? I wonder if they think you’re stupid, or if they simply don’t trust you?’

‘Better than storming off like a little girl. We’re not twelve anymore, Loron, fucking grow up.’ Urragon gave his brother a toothy grin, revealing a full set of completely yellow teeth.

The younger Greyjoy was an ugly beast, though that did not have to be the case, for Loron had often contemplated that he might have been a handsome man had he learned to shave the shaggy, brown and sea-salt beard from his face, or paid more regard for personal hygiene. He had a strong jaw, and high cheeks, traits he had inherited from his Botley mother, though the mean eyes and arrogant gate came directly from Erich Greyjoy. His most defining feature was perhaps the gaping scar that ran from the center of his forehead, all the way to a patch of skin just below his left ear, a wound that Loron and Esgred had often japed allowed his brains to spew out into the sea, though in the Iron Islands it only made him look more rugged and worn, something that had not failed to help him attract admirers from many of the lesser houses on the Isles.

‘You stood there like a nodding idiot, Urragon, silent whilst father plots all of our demise. He’s going to get himself killed.’

‘I’m better off staying quiet than opening my mouth and showing myself a twat like yerself.’ His smile only grew larger as he spoke. ‘If the old man wants to kill himself, that’s his business. As long as I’m still in his good grace’s when he kicks it, I’ set to be next Lord of Pyke.’

‘I’m still the heir, Urragon.’

‘Not if you keep up like that, dear brother.’ Urragon placed a meaty hand upon Loron’s shoulder, giving his brother a firm pat. The two men were of comparable height, but Urragon was much broader in build, and even with just the pressure of his hand, Loron could feel his strength weighing down upon him. In their youth, they had been in a lot of scraps, be it over their father’s attention, or smaller matters like food, or simply because one of them made a distasteful jape at the other’s expense, and it was a rare occasion when Loron wouldn’t find himself coming out of these conflicts with a black eye, or on paticularly nasty occasions a few broken ribs. Not that Loron did not give it as bad as he took it, for Urragon rarely emerged unscathed, though it was clearly apparent which one of them bore the Drowned God’s blessing. ‘When I’m Lord, I’ll still let you come and visit this place. Ye’ll just have to come and kiss me hand like all those southern lords you love to much.’

‘Fuck off Urragon.’ Loron could hear his brother cackle as he pushed past him, though his brother’s mocking nature had given the elder Greyjoy brother the motivation he needed to simply take the plunge and approach his father once more, lest he stay here and continue to talk to this idiot.

As he entered the room, Loron was pleased to find his father and Lord Harlaw still talking about their plans, mumbling and conniving about new ways that they could drag the rest of the realm into their dick measuring contest. He stood at the door for a moment, listening as Lord Harlaw prestended his own proposition for their conquest of the Reach, stepping forward into the main room only once the man had finished.

‘It wont work.’ His words were quiet, and perhaps went unheard, so he cleared his throat, the loud noise hopefully drawing in the attention of the older men. ‘That plan won't work.’

He stepped forward until he stood side-by-side with the Lord of Ten Towers, uneager to address his previous exit, so instead pushing himself straight into the conversation. ‘The Red Dragon has pushed out the Black all the way past Oldstones. You attack anywhere in Ironman’s Bay, and you’ll end up attacking the beast, and wasting our ships on rubble and burning towns, there’s nothing up there.’ Was this betrayal? Loron Greyjoy had not been privy to the war councils of the Blackfyre King during his time on the greenlands, but he had been told certain information that might be considered confidential. It had been idle chatter between friends at the time, but now it was seemingly becoming more important. May the Drowned God forgive him.

‘The entire idea of a faint is foolish to begin with.’ He ran a single finger along the map of Westeros’ western coast. ‘You attack the Riverlands? The Redwynes will see the Ironfleet is moving again, and ready their fleet. You attack the West? The Redwynes will see the Ironfleet is moving again, and ready their fleet. You even attack the North? The Redwynes will see the Ironfleet is moving again, and ready their fleet.’ Loron took a deep breath. Was he really doing this? In what world was he living that he was standing around advising his father how to better accomplish his dream of raping and pillaging his way around the greenlands. He had been to the Reach. Not often, but he had been there. Sampled their wine, and rested lazily in the summer suns of the south. He supposed this trip was like to be much different.

‘You want to kill a snake, you aim straight for the head. The only way to maintain the element of surprise here is to attack the Arbor directly. No warning. No feint. Take three fleets; Ryamsport,’ he pointed his finger at the largest of the Redwyne’s settlements, ‘Starfish Harbour and Vinetown. Once their fleet is destroyed, the rest of the Island can be consolidated.’ Loron felt a little sick hearing those words come out of his own mouth. After all these years, perhaps he was cut out to be an ironborn.

Yarrow Akio

 

[TheFool]

Several days earlier,





Gilliane Manderly
Pearl




​

Gilliane swept summer’s snow off of an old stump in The Godswood, facing in front of its weirwood tree. Readying it for sitting. She’d dressed herself in cozy furs coloured shades of blackish blue. Her hooded cloak, however, was white - like the snow that fell during the early morning hours. A wolf’s pet - grey with flecks of auburn - was fashioned around her neck. She stroked it as she sat as a hopes to keep even warmer than she already was. She stared at a face. The face of The Old Gods.
Or is it only the face of one of them?
She didn’t know.
Gilliane was raised on a belief in The Seven. Her mother believed in the olden ones but she never put her piety on any of her children. Her mother never put anything on her, unlike her father had. Unlike her father continued to do to this very day.
She put her hands against her stomach.

Her thoughts wandered.
She remembered a time before. A time where she sat in this same spot. Brandon Mormont and Domeric Stark stood by her - dulled swords in their hands. Play fighting.

“I’m the only King.”
“No. Me.”
“My father’s a Stark.”
“Your father’s a fool, Dom. That’s where you get it from.

​

She remembered herself giggling.
Their arguing was amusing to her and to them. Words soon turned to laughter. Especially when Domeric elbowed Brandon so hard that he happened to fall face first into the snow.
How long as was that?
Eight years?
Nine?
Another thing she didn’t know.

She clutched her stomach.
Her furs.

She let out a stuttering breath. One that she could see in the cold. She missed it. Missed being young. Missed being so unaware of what was to come. The horrors of war. The things people could be capable of doing. Gilliane hugged herself harder.
SNAP.
She turned her head at the sound of a twig being broken. The man who broke it was a man she’d been admiring. She stood up and bowed her head.

“My King.”
Her voice slightly hoarse.

Spoiler: Gilliane's MENTIONS

Braddington

 

[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​

He had wandered through the castle for hours, direction-less and with no true purpose other than the act itself. It took his mind off encroaching spectacles and all the things they entailed, it gave him a will to continue. Mainly, it passed the time. That’s all he could ask for in these moments. With each step, however, the very walls of Winterfell seemed to close in on him. With each repeated stretch of the battlements they seemed to grow higher and higher. Every time he did this routine he felt more and more caged, and he wanted nothing more to tear down that cage and escape.

He couldn't.

No matter how loud he roared, no matter how much fire he spat, he was trapped. Trapped in the snow that extinguished his own flames and shut him in never to fly. The Freezing Dragon they called him. They were not wrong. He had known nothing else. Distant echoes of the south littered his mind, of the red stone that made up a castle he could barely recall, of the gleaming knights of the Kingsguard in their white cloaks and of his sweet mother attending to him day after day. But they were just that, echoes, were they even true? Perhaps they were. What did it matter in the end? Echoes were nothing, it was the roars of the present that needed attention. And he would not allows these growls and snarls to be trapped in the snow. A memory that would one day seep into but dissipating waters that snuffed out the oxygen of his own pyre.


Things were about to change, and the dragon would soon be on the thought of every man from grocer to Usurper.


They had to be.


It soon came to pass that he couldn't stand staring at the grey stone any further. It was lifeless, and old. Another symbol of bygone eras. He decided instead to go to a place of quiet, perhaps it could calm his mind. He was not a worshiper of the Old Gods, at least not publicly, but they had a strange comfort. A comfort hard to deny even for the most zealous of foreign worshipers.


It was there he saw her. Gilliane. She had been on his mind for days, creeping into every orifice of his thoughts. Her hair, a fiery red that seemed to burn away the snows around her and penetrate into his eyes like the sun itself. Her face, beautiful and pure, yet with a sense of deep emotion. And her eyes. Her eyes were what he could remember the most. There was something behind them, something he had never seen in a woman before.


He approached the enormous Weirwood that overlooked the pond, his feet landing on weak branches and snapping the other to attention.


His head bowed to her, not smiling, but his eyes conveying all he needed to say with his features.


“Sorry for disturbing you. I had no idea someone else would be here. I simply came to relax. If you wish, I could return another time.”


“And please, call me Aegon.”


TheFool​

 

[TheFool]

Gilliane Manderly
Pearl




​

She studied him with a fascination.

He was a dragon. That much was so. Silver locks with a violet stare. She could see something else in him as well however. His cheekbones were high and his face structured in a way that wasn’t entirely Valyrian. That must be the lion in him, no?
His lips looked gentle. She had the urge to touch them with her fingertips. With her own lips even. Though she shook those thoughts from her head. Not here. Not in sight of Gods. Not until they were wed. If that was what was to happen. Gilliane’s father had been saying it to her for days.

“You’ll be his wife, pearl.”
He had been repeating. Over and over and over again.
“You’ll be his queen.”

Was it a lie?
A story?
Was he only telling me all this so to keep me silent? To stop me from saying something I shouldn’t say?

She rid herself of those thoughts too.
One hand still on her stomach.

“The only thing you’re disturbing are... disturbing thoughts. So I thank you for that, your grace.” She said to him. Her feet shifting slightly in the shallow snow. She smiled a small smile in hopes to combat the one did not. He looked sad.
Like he had his own bothers.
I’m sure he does.

There was quiet.

Before she broke it,
“Is everything alright, Aegon? I know you sail soon. Are you… frightened?” She asked him. Gilliane regretted her words once they left her. A King was rarely afraid. At least she’d been taught to believe that was the case. She could see it in him though.

Something that was troublesome.

Spoiler: Gilliane's MENTIONS

Braddington

 

[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


His smile was genuine, if brief. A quick sign of happiness before his thoughts once more wandered to distant pastures. To troubles of the future. She comforted him nonetheless, and his body could not help but react to it, moving closer to the red that blinded his own distant violet eyes.

“Then I am glad for it, my Lady. Our minds seem prone to thoughts that illicit no good emotions. War, death and many more things of which you are no doubt aware. If I can be a brief distraction, then it is a good deed I am performing. I wish someone would perform it for me more often.”

Another smile, far less genuine, consumed his lips. A joke. Yet the truth. He was a King and a King could never be distracted from the things that made him worry. It was his job to worry. A curse, a burden, but one that was not made easier by his present situation.

He paused.

Was he frightened?


His eyes darted away from her, a panic setting in that did not leave. No one had asked him that, not once. Dragons were never afraid.
​

The words of his father bouncing off the trees, their blood red eyes burrowing into him like the court he ruled over. Judging him, his response, his reaction.


Yet there she was. Amid them all. A red rose. He cared not for their judgment in that moment. Mayhaps he could be honest, mayhaps he did not need to be a dragon or a lion in front of her.


He was scared. Just as he had been at Seagard. Just as he had been when facing Maekar.


God’s forgive him.


He was frightened.


Looking toward her once more, his lips parted slowly, the cold having closed them tightly shut.


“I…..am.” It was simple phrase, but it meant more than could possibly be gleaned from the words themselves. A damning statement if many ears were to hear it.


“I was before. I am again. I thought the second time would be different, that if I only did it that one time I could stomach it again. Yet here I am, in the forest of Gods I don’t believe in, begging for a reprieve. I’m frightened Gilliane. I don’t want to die, not like him, not like Maekar.”


Were those tears he could feel? Cold against his hot skin. He’d almost forgotten the feeling. It was wrong. It needed to stop. Yet they flowed all the same, dropping down to the snows below, melting them away.

TheFool
​

 

[RayPurchase]

Robert Reyne

Lannisport​

Robert stepped out into the cool night air, the silence of the night was shattered by the ongoing festivities however, they would still be going on for some hours yet. The Lannister tent loomed ahead of himself and Gwyne. The lair itself, draped with finery and ostentation, there was making an impression and there was this garish display, the sort of tent that would only be found in the centre of a city, out in the field it would muddy and collapse under the weight of all those decorations and finery, how fitting as Robert believed the same held true for its inhabitants. He straightened his clothes and stretched out his neck as he and Lady Crakehall breezed past the lesser nobles and gentry who were awaiting the chance to present themselves and grovel before the Lannisters, as if they would wait with the commoners and proles such as these.


The pavillion itself was already quite occupied as the pair of them entered, 2 Lannisters in attendance were easily identifiable. Lynora and Gerion. Robert forced a smile onto his face as his name was bellowed out by the latter, alas it appeared more sickly than showing genuine pleasure, as if an unpleasant stench had just so happened to waft under his nose at that precise moment. Their father was nothing but a fool and a weakling, but these pair trampled about in his shadow as if it was cast by a titan. As well as this the rumours that purveyed the darker corners of inns and fireside around the Westerlands regarding Gerion Lannister were none to kind, for a boy barely reached manhood he had already built up a dark reputation. The fact that Gerion addressed him simply as Robert did not faze him, but a note was made, many notes had been made over the months, of allies and friends, enemies and rivals, debts owed and debts to be paid, and Gerion fell onto a couple of those. He looked the boy up and down, as a hawk's gaze might be turned to a beetle, interesting for a moment perhaps, but if no real consequence to the predator. Much like this his response was similarly to the point, and kept short.


"Unlike your own I'm sure it could actually stand up in the heat of battle Gerion. Has yours even been bloodied yet...?"

Robert near enough shook his head, he time for verbal sparring could wait.

" Is your father about? Or has he simply left you to… entertain in his absence?"


A true Mummer's farce if he ever saw one, he did not care about this well, or the golden haired sister who near enough clung to his side and every word, not quite as irksome as her brother, but they may be down to the fact that Robert had not spent as much time about her company. His eyes turned towards the figure who was present. Clearly not a Lord, even the Westerlings were better turned out than this one, a smithy, or apprentice perhaps, too young to have his own Smithy, most likely presenting a gift for some sort of favour. Of little consequence, he turned his humourless gaze back on Gerion.


(Interaction: TheFool Braddington ailurophile Arcanist )

 

[Akio]

Rodrick Pyke
Bastard of the Greyjoy Line

​

Rodrick soon found himself alone again after leaving Vaegors chambers, leaving him to stew in his thoughts once more. While he usually would have stayed with him to help him organize his thoughts after such a bold declaration he felt he had to get his own thoughts in order. Vaegor as king? It was an idea he had never had to consider. Vaegor was a royal so it was always a possibility he supposed but Vaegor hadn't even been the heir and had no desire for the throne while Maekar was alive, merely wanting to serve at his side and make his rule easier. He had respected and loved his brother but it seemed he had none of those fond feelings for Arlan. The brothers were just too different in both mentality and in goals and now Vaegor meant to steal his throne from under him. King Vaegor Blackfyre... He was still trying to work his head around it. He was his friend, and even if he was always a prince he had a hard time imagining him as king.

There was also the matter of how to become king. The battlefield. Naturally, they trained and fought but they had never been involved directly in the war against the Red Dragon, and it was a war Maekar died. While his condition perhaps hastened his downfall against the Targaryen prince anyone could die in war. In fact, it was quite amazing Maekar had fallen to the prince at all with how many ways there was to fall in the field. Would they be able to end the Red Dragon when so many had failed? So many ways to fail and on top of that would Vaegor even be a good king? He was an intelligent man but he knew that was not all it took to be king. All those thoughts swam in his head as he found himself wandering the castle halls.

Yet when he found himself looking up from his idle wanderings he almost wanted to laugh as he realized where he was. He was near Vaellas chambers as he often found himself going when he was troubled, this time without even meaning to. He wondered when this had become the trend, for him to go to Vaella for comfort whenever he was feeling unsure of himself. How long had she been his comfort? He supposed it didn't matter but if he found himself here he might as well go see her. Rodrick came up to her door only to hesitate as he went to knock. At this point of the day he had no assurance she would be here but there was little harm in knocking so he rasped his hand against the door and soon could hear movement within. However, it was not Vaella who opened the door but rather her handmaiden and friend Dyanna.

Dyanna Martell was an incredibly beautiful girl in her own right, though different than most of what you could find in Kingslanding. With beautiful olive colored skin and deep brown eyes as deep as the bark of a tree her face had an exotic set to it while her body was also incredibly firey. She was rather short but had curves in all the right places and her breasts could fill a full handful as he himself had tested on more than one occasion. This was, however, a sight he was used to and he could only smile with some amusement and indulgence as she loudly called out his name before hurriedly speaking quieter as she said Vaella was sleeping and she had somehow forgotten about it. Dyanna was a rather simple girl and to be quite honest wasn't the brightest either. She had some more exotic tastes but overall was a simple and kind person. He always treated her kindly even though sometimes he could get exasperated with some of her empty-headedness as she was a sweet individual and her father was Hand of the King and was far from one to be trifled with.

"If she's sleeping I could always wait another time." He said though he doubted if she was sleeping she would still be asleep after that noise but as he went inside, once she remembered him, he looked around and saw Vaella wasn't in the room, a fact Dyanna herself noticed a few seconds later. I guess he should not have expected she would have been here at this point in the day. He smiled almost sheepishly and just shook his head. "I know you didn't Dyanna, it's not an issue. Perhaps ill come later." He said though within a few moments of him saying that he could hear the door opening behind him as he turned to regard the person coming in.

 

[Hypnos]

Viserys Butterwell​

The broad visage of the Black Dread cast its shadow wide upon the Harbour of King’s Landing, threatening to obscure the very form of the sun itself, and covering the bustling dockyards and markets below in complete and total darkness. It was a vessel like no other, a giant behemoth that rivalled the size and girth of several lesser holdfasts, with a hundred rows of oars upon each side, and sails so vast that initially hoisting them upon the ship’s great mast had taken a dozen strong workmen almost two weeks to complete. It’s deck was as wide as the throne room in the Red Keep, adorned periodically with various scorpions and ballistae that were themselves coated in silver and gold inlays, a testament to the vast amount of wealth and craftsmanship that it had taken to construct such an impressive structure, with shipwrights and architects from all across the known world being contracted and conscripted to add their input to such a grand vessel. Alongside its sister ships, the Vhagar and the Meraxes, it dominated the shipyards of the capital, occupying the spaces that would normally be filled by two dozen smaller boats, though ones had remained empty for the better part of two decades. It was truly an awe inspiring sight, a message to be proud of, and when its construction was finished sometime in the next six moons, it would dominate the shores of the Blackwater Bay.

Atop such an impressive specimen, Viserys Butterwell couldn’t help but feel a little small. He was an Admiral, the Captain of this great vessel, but standing upon the front deck of the Black Dread’s starboard side, he simply felt overwhelmed by the beast. It scared him. The way its sails cast darkness upon everything that stood below, the way it creaked under foot everytime he made a step, the accusatory eyes of the ship’s figurehead, carved into the exact likeness of the great drake that gave the beast its name; Balerion, the conqueror's dragon. It was not just the ship itself that gave Viserys pause however, for the judgemental gazes of every sailor he passed was enough to make the Butterwell draw breath. ‘You’re not good enough’ he saw in every man’s eyes, ‘failure’, ‘traitor’, ‘mistake.’ After all these years, Viserys had never grown accustomed to such stares. Other men simply laughed off his worries; ‘You see ghosts around every corner, my Lord, no one thinks any worse of you than they do any other man,’ but Viserys couldn’t shake the little voice in the back of his head that told him they were wrong. ‘They hate you’ it said ‘everyone hates you.’

For the past twenty years, Viserys Butterwell had fallen into a mostly cyclical routine, spending his mornings pouring over various books, tombs and ledgers that corresponded with the assorted duties that he had accrued over years of loyal service, until noon, where he would take a stroll along the dockyards to survey any progress that was being made upon the construction of the royal fleet. His royal fleet. He had been fourteen when he had first been named Lord Admiral. A green boy whose only qualifications included the murder of the man to whom he had dedicated most of his youth. Ships had never been much of an interest of his, and still, in his adult life, the love of sailing and the sea that many other men claimed still eluded him. He had been prone to seasickness when he was younger, though luckily such inclinations had mellowed with age, and whilst the pronounced distaste for harsh winds and smell of sea salt still persisted, he had learned to persevere. ‘What kind of Admiral couldn’t find his sealegs?’

For the better part of two decades, very little progress had been made in terms of new vessels for the fleet. The Targaryens had taken the majority of his ships when they had fled North with Lord Velaryon, and the rest hadn’t long survived their departure. Viserys had struggled with this for many years, lacking even the basic knowledge of seafaring or naval construction. In the early years it had been fine. No ships, and no budget to build them. But as the years passed him by, the need for a strong royal navy shifted, even if the budgetary problems remained stagnant. Every day that Viserys failed in his duties felt like a lash upon his back, confirming all the worst things he thought about himself. In the Small Council he would adopted a false smile, and claim that progress, however steady, was being made, but the reassuring confidence of the King and his Hand only made Viserys feel like even more of a failure. Was he to let down two of his Kings?

The Black Dread was a start. He would change. He had to change. He couldn’t keep stewing in his own failures, though at this point they were mounting to such a point that it would be hard to climb them.

‘She’s truly a beauty, ain’t she?’ Ser Clement Manning was Viserys’ right hand, in terms of naval issues, having been appointed overseer of the Black Dread’s construction. He was a portly gentleman somewhere between forty and fifty years of age, with salt and pepper hair, and a wet cloth that obscured heavy scarring upon one side of his face. Clem was one of many Lords and Landed Knights who had been forced to flee their island homes upon the Narrow Sea due to the Grey Plague. One of the few good things to come out of the epidemic, which had severely limited Viserys’ own capabilities, by cutting off access to the shipyards of Driftmark and Dragonstone.

‘She’s, uh, very beautiful, Ser.’ Viserys replied in a less than reassuring tone. ‘I’m especially fond of the, uh…’ He struggled for a second. ‘Woodwork.’

‘Aye. We had carvers in all the way from Myr. Expensive stuff though. With the Wolfswood cut off in the North we’ve had to start importing lumber in from Qohor. Hayford will have my ass if we touch any more of his precious timber.’

Viserys tried to smile as Clem chuckled, however the motion did not quite reach his lips. Lyle Hayford was Warden of the Kingswood, and over the course of the last few years, he had proved the bane of Viserys’ existence, continually denying the right of Butterwell’s woodsmen access to the vast groves on their very doorstep, for fear of overforesting, and scaring off game. Unfortunately Viserys was neither confrontational, nor strong willed enough to stand up to him. ‘I’ll, uh, I’ll bring up the matter with Lord Durran. Ask him to, ask him to find some more funds.’

‘Aye. Very good m’Lord. And what of the King? The Dread is growing ever closer to completion, wouldn’t his grace want to see what all his money’s been building.’

Viserys frowned, a deep and miserable frown. He had not spoken to Naemidon Blackfyre since the funeral of Prince Maekar almost a week prior, and the guilt of neglecting perhaps his oldest companion weighed heavy upon his shoulders. ‘What sort of man abandoned a friend in grief.’

‘I’m sure, well uh, I’m certain his grace will come to see the ship when he’s good and ready.’ Viserys replied.

‘That he will. That he will.’ Clem left Viserys alone upon the topdeck, allowing the Lord Admiral to once again look over the ship and examine the progress that was being made. ‘Any progress is good progress.’ He tried to reassure himself. ‘No longer an Admiral without ships.'