Fandom ♛ Liar's Court ♛ - A Game Of Thrones RP

[ailurophile]

Clea
Whore
​

"Sorry to steal him away from you, don't be a stranger!" Clea drawled to her target's companion, before turning away and heading for the bar, weaving her way nimbly through the crowd and tugging the fortunate man with her.

She selected her clients in a very particular men. Anyone could arrive and ask anything of her, provided they had the money, and more money than they initially required: there was little point in exhausting herself showing off all of her little tricks if they were only going to pay her once. Besides, men were simple creatures in her eyes. Being less readily available made her ever the more attractive.

They craved the exclusivity of it all.

Though people often expressed pity for the girls in her line of work, Clea loved it. Which was why despite a handful of proposals from various men -- influential men -- she was still spending her days and nights in the relative safety of of Kettleblack's Honeypot.

His spider's web.

"I'm Clea," she divulged, as though it was some sort of secret. "And yourself?" Before he could reply, she pressed a long finger to his lips. "You can trust me, you know. I'm attracted to honesty. If you lie to me and give me a stupid answer like trying to pretend you're King Lucerys, I'll lose interest."

She chuckled, and the seriousness of her tone dissipated. Her face broke into a smile, and the finger on the man's lips moved to stroke his cheek. "My apologies. You'd be surprised how often I hear that sort of thing in a day, my... Lord?"

Clea cocked her head to the side, apparently inquisitive as to how to politely address her new acquaintance.

Really, she was trying to deduce his identity.



Rusty of Shackleford

 

[ailurophile]

Rosaline Florent
The Shy Vixen
​

Carriage rides made her nauseous.

They made her feel ill at the best of times, but this one was particularly unpleasant. For one, her brother was sat opposite her, with his glassy stare and his gentle words and that smile. Nobody understood him the way she did, they called him charismatic, commended him for his bravery, liked him. Ros knew him better.

Secondly, but still related, his shadow was accompanying them. Not that she expected any less. Ludd was sat at her side, his sheer size cramping her against the wall of the carriage, licking syrup of some sort off of one hand.

The second was nestled between her thighs. Fat fingers creeping up her legs.

"I'm going to be sick," Ros moaned.

"Have a lemon cake, Rosie. You're probably just hungry." Ludd suggested, waving the pastry under her nose as his other hand dug into her flesh. Her skirt provided a barrier, but she could have sworn her skin was burning.

But she took a single delicate bite of the offering anyway. To humor him. Because her brother loved him.

It was her brother she turned her attention to as Ludd finished off the bitten cake himself, stuffing it into his cavernous mouth only to snatch another from the plate in his lap. Ros looked at her brother, but from the corner of her eye, all she could watch was Ludd gorging himself.

"Brother, I don't think you've said. Who is it you support in this trial?"
Her hands quivered, and she clasped them together to steady herself.
"I-If you don't mind my asking, that is."

The corners of her vision began to darken, that familiar blackness framing her vision. She cursed herself mentally.

Not now.
Stupid bitch.
Weak.

She squeezed her eyes together, willing the feeling to subside. With her eyes shut, all she could hear was voices outside, and the rhythmic sound of horses' hooves.

And chewing.
Squelching.

The fire of annoyance burned brighter than the threat of fainting, and her bright eyes fluttered open. She turned to Ludd, then, lips drawn back in a snarl.

"A girl might be killed. Can you stop eating for one second?"

Ludd chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. There was a pause before he turned to her brother. For a moment, Ros expected him to whine and complain that he was being bullied, as he'd done so many times before. But he didn't. Instead, he grinned.

"Huh. Looks like one of us is getting her flower, right, my Lord?"



Kek ???

 

[ailurophile]

Tyana
Handmaiden
​

She held her breath, but was relieved by his response.

"That is a great relief to me, Your Holiness. I was afraid I'd overstepped my boundaries."

He was interested in her story, and while she wasn't surprised, the prospect of telling him made her nervous. If she were to divulge the real reason a girl from such a lowborn background as she had had ended up in such a prestigious position, she -- and by extension, her beloved father -- would lose the leverage they had over Rhaenyra. Something told her that a man of religion would not look kindly upon the sordid tale.

Because how could she tell the High Septon that she had become Rhaenyra's handmaiden through extortion?

Fortunately, his mention of the vase diverted her attention from the immediate problem, and she handed over the object gratefully (albeit with some surprise).

"You're terribly kind. I was going to fill it with flowers again, but in hindsight, it might look as though we were following the Princess into the gardens. I expect she'll want to be left alone. If it's not too inappropriate, we could return it to her chamber and wait for her there?"

It was inappropriate.
But then again, Tyana expected that a man like the High Septon was free of such societal restrictions. Any other unmarried man entering Rhaenyra's chamber would be met with whispers and salacious rumours, and yet he was likely to be able to do as he pleased.

And it would be the perfect opportunity to learn more about him.

She decided to push her luck a second time.

"I've been with her for... I think we've celebrated three of her namedays together, now."

Her now-free hand moved back to the door handle.



JPTheWarrior

 

[JPTheWarrior]

Daerys Celtigar - Heir to House Celtigar
​

When your brother is the High Septon and your mother is the Mistress of Coin, you are bound to become the black sheep of the family. That's how Daerys always lived, covered by the achievements of his family, trying to make a name out of himself. Even in Essos, where he spoke to the representatives of the Iron Bank and many members of the Rogare family, founders of the Rogare Bank, he was always there in his mother's name. Those men he bargained with always said 'Tell Lady Celtigar this' or 'Like Lady Celtigar promised', like Daerys himself was of little importance, maybe of none at all. However, even if his name itself wasn't big, his mother couldn't deny that he had been a key player in raising the family's wealth. The most important deals that Lady Celtigar couldn't personally attend were made thanks to Daerys, who made sure everything went smootly. This time was no different.

These last couple of days had been chaos. Who would end up on the throne, none of the Celtigars could answer. They actually had been kept in the dark this past week, even the High Septon didn't get much information. Why was the court being so silent about it, they couldn't really know. New alliances needed to be made and old ones needed to be reminded of. His mother was to speak with Lord Aemon, the one who should have the better grasp of what is going on. Luceon would speak with Rhaenyra. Daerys wasn't there to get information out of people. No, his purpose was to forge some new agreement between two parties, make a new friend of the House. Someone that would give much more freedom for the Celtigars to move around.

He reached a wooden door and clenching his hand he knocked twice, then a moment of silence, then twice again. "Lord Oakheart, it is I, Lord Celtigar" he greeted, waiting for the Master of Laws to open the door.


Interactions:
BELIAL. - Brynden Oakheart, Master of Laws

 

[Rusty of Shackleford]

Lord Erich Reyne
The Raging Lion
Location: The Honey Pot

Erich smirked, replying, "Well, shit. I suppose my fwke identity won't work anymore. Hard to claim you're a dead man, especially when he's the King." Erich was hesitant to give his name away. On one hand, Erich was a somewhat common name. Then again, he wzs well dressed, polite. Obviously of noble birth, and it wouldn't be hard to track down who he really was just by his given name. So he'd have to use a cover. Not the name of anyone connected to him, that could explode in his face later down the road. He perused his memory for names, and one came up: Alastor. Supposedly, he had an ancestor with the same name. Though it might contradict his strategy of not choosing someone close to him, Ser Alastor had been dead for centuries, and it was not a unique name by any means. Plus, he was sure that his distant ancestor wouldn't mind having his name used in a whorehouse, seeing as he was currently dead.

"My name is Alastor, My Lady. Clea is quite the beautiful name, I must say." To be perfectly honest, Erich had never heard such a name. Probably foreign, like the woman herself. The Raging Lion had no prejudice for foreigners. Well, not any more than the average man. Not that his opinions on the hatred of others mattered right now. "So...how much for your...services, Clea?" It was high time he got to the point. He was there to fuck, not have tea with the High Septon, though so his knowledge of septons, he was surprised he hadn't seen the Celtigar among the customers of the Honey Pot. Erich reached into his coin purse, saying, "I make it a habit to pay beforehand, regardless of the quality of our time together. Call it chivalry." He slowly pulled a dragon out of his coin purse, running it through his fingers tantalizingly, beckoning the woman to do her thing. After all, he had more than enough coin to spare, and all the time in the world. Well, until the Lannister's arrived, that is...

Interacting:
ailurophile ​

 

[BELIAL.]

Brynden Oakheart
Master of Laws​

location: MoL room

with: Daerys C.

tags: JPTheWarrior

He kept his chamber dim, and the curtains drawn most days. He thrived in the darkness, or at least in the dull light of a handful of candles. They were placed around his desk, where he did most of his work. Sometimes, usually on days when he expected company, he let the natural light in. King’s Landing had plenty to spare, but Brynden didn’t like open windows. He imagined little hands and little eyes peering in, judging his worth. He didn’t like to risk it. He had nothing to hide.

He had been spending the last week, after Lucerys’ death, reading. Reading and writing, the petty matters slid onto his table, but the biggest matter of all loomed like an axe over his head. Did he want to save the young Queen? Did he have the capacity to? Whatever judgement the jurors had would decide her fate at the end of the day; and with little evidence to prove her contrary, a list of charges could hang the woman before the executioner could lay a hand, an axe or a flame on her.

Regicide, first and foremost. A slew of other things, depending on the story that could be weaved. Treason. Kinslaying-- where was that damn child?

Was Ashara Arryn this monster that the people could vent their frustrations, or was she just a piece in the game of some pathological machinations?

He sat at his desk now, but the lights were up. A breeze swept in, catching the flames of his candles. The shadows shook, and Brynden leaned forward. Running his left hand through his hair, he twisted the quill in his other hand. Staring at the feather, he wondered if answers would come sooner than later. If all things went according to a plan he was not aware of, Ashara would burn. The new ruler, be it the crippled Dragon or the little Dragon, would slide into place.

All of this reading factored toward that too. Gods be damned, Brynden had a lot on his mind. He could use an outlet to vent his frustrations…

His dark gaze flickered to the flame, and without much apprehension he lingered the edge of the quill toward it. It sizzled and steamed before catching a small fire. He twirled the thing, staring at the flames. It was relaxing, and the warmth pressed against his face and smothered him and he wished the feeling would persi--

A knock at his door. Brynden’s face did not move but his eyes darted to the wood. “Lord Oakheart, it is Lord Celtigar,” the voice said. Brynden raised a brow but otherwise kept his surprise within.

Blowing the flame out, he swiftly moved from seat to standing. Opening the door, Brynden gave a bright grin to the man. “A surprise, my lord. Do come in.”

He gestured inward. “To what do I owe this visit?”

The room was simple, but had its share of luxuries. Drapes of lush green, accenting expensive furniture. Nothing shouted, but the lull came from its comforts. Brynden spent days at times locked in here, so he maintained it well.

codedbycrucialstar​

 

[Braddington]

The Seahorse

He mulled over the Mistresses words. She was right. Together they could no doubt be a force unseen in Kings Landing politics for a long time, and one unknown to most at that. It was almost tempting. Yet, as he looked her over, he could not help but feel sickened. How could he work with such a creature?

She had rejected his sweets.

She had tried to use him for information.

No. It was not something that would work. A hunchback was one thing. A power monger was a completely worse and dangerous thing entirely. Maybe one day he could work with the crab, but under these terms? It was not how he had planned things. And plans were important.

“Apologies, Mistress. What you propose is most admirable and no doubt beneficial, but sometimes time must pass all by itself. I have my job.”

A glance over to his table, a letter with the King's seal falling off next to where his own letter had nudged it.

His eyes jumped to the wall once more, narrowing his clouded dots in a serious and knowing manner.

“And you have yours.”

His legs jumped into action once more as he stood, walking around the table where he placed his hand upon Lady Celtigars shoulder. Rubbing gently.

“I thank you for coming nonetheless. We rarely ever meet. Should you wish to talk of other matters, my door is always open. As is my cauldron of tea.”

The hand, bony and spotty, lifted her up as he began pressing them both out of the room with a single glance back.

“No doubt we shall again, when the trial comes.”

He locked the door behind him, bowing his head low, creeks flowing like song from his hump.

“Until next time, my dear Naerys.”

Before he began to walk at a slow pace, off to wherever the Keeps halls would take him next.

JPTheWarrior ​

 

[ailurophile]

Clea
Whore
​

He avoided her question, which confirmed her suspicions: she was dealing with a wealthy man.

Clea smiled. He was upfront, and she liked that. It made things much quicker and much smoother for the both of them. Too many men liked to 'beat about the bush', so to speak, dancing around what they really wanted and wasting her valuable time. They always insisted they were not looking for anything illicit, that they were just exploring.

And explore they did.

She didn't thank him for his compliment.

"I charge a gold dragon as my standard rate," Clea put it bluntly, because there was no better way to be, in her opinion. Her smile stayed on her face as she elaborated, stroking his upper arm with her fingertips. "It's expensive, I know."

With the acknowledgement out of the way, she leaned against the bar and gestured around the room. "But you're paying for something different. Of course, if you wanted to, you could have one of the other for much cheaper, but..." She sucked her lower lip.

"They're not me."

Moving from his arm, her hand smoothed her jet black hair. "You can move on and pay for a standard experience, of course. But something tells me you aren't going to do that. You want something new, right? I get that a lot. I'm different from the rest of them, you see. I'm smart. I'm witty."

Her hand went back to his arm and she leaned in to whisper to him.

"I'm the only one here who can perform a real Meereenese Knot."

She moved back, suddenly indifferent. "If you aren't serious, that's alright. I'll point you in the direction of somebody more your style."

Clea grinned, as though they were sharing some sort of private joke.

"Alastor. It's a nice name. A persona, right?"


Rusty of Shackleford

 

[Braddington]

Tommen Tully


Jae. He could see him even from his carriage. That little cane of his was hard to miss. Yet, he was not alone. The Baratheons had arrived as well. One of them had shagged the Queen. Not this one. One of the others. They were probably smiling like the cat that got the cream right now.

A chuckle.

A joke forming in his own mind, something about him being a tomcat with his own taste of cream. It was enough to remove the distaste of the stag from his thoughts.

Without a quip back to his mother, he lightly let go of Mariya’s hand, jumping out the carriage as servants rushed around him. His legs led him to one of his knights, quickly grabbing the Tully banner from him and proudly stepping up towards the gathered group.

Smiling from ear to ear he planted his flag down in the ground, hands on his hips with a somewhat stern face.

“The brave Tommen Tully, Lord Paramount of the Trident and Snake Charmer, at your service.”

He could hear the audible groans from his own men, looking back at them.

“What?”

He shrugged his shoulders. He was childish, there was no denying that. But what was life without a bit of fun?

Quickly jumping forward, he grabbed Jaehaerys into a hug, practically suffocating him.

“By the gods you look ill. Been hobbling about everywhere?”

It was at this moment he noticed the Baratheons once more, a bow of his head as he held out his hands towards each of them.

“Charmed, I am sure.”

He had never met them. Never really wanted to. But manners were important, as his father once told him. And these were great lords.

Like he now was.

A gut punch as the thought of his father flooded once more, snapping his attention back to reality and his family as he withdrew his hands. Clearing his voice before opening the doors of the wooden cage. Guiding his mother and sister out.

“Jae, you know Sylva, have you met Mariya yet? She’s single.”

He nodded towards what he could only assume were brothers.

“You haven’t met either of them.”

His eyes glanced towards his beautiful mother.

“Yes, she’s single as well.”

ailurophile TheFool RayPurchase Yahhah ​

 

[BELIAL.]

Wylla
​

location: Silk Street

with: no-one

tags: Braddington

Wylla had ducked into the room, just a half a step behind the older woman. The shadows were her friend, and for a skinny girl she had freakishly light steps. The door scraped behind her, but the Lady was busy cringing at Lord Aemon’s touch. Wylla understood that people had their reservations, but she saw nothing but the kindness in Lord Aemon. She stayed nestled in a corner, hardly breathing and making use of her small frame. She watched from this hiding place as the conversation took place. She knew this room almost as well as she knew Flea Bottom.

Pressing her back against the wall, feeling the cool stone seep through her rags, she willed herself to listen in. There were fancy words exchanged, but Wylla was anything but dumb. Slightly illiterate and all the more unable to write, she still caught on quickly. Lord Aemon had even been teaching her a bit of both. It helped to make her useful, as well as have half a leg up against any others.

She listened intently, waiting for the opportune moment to slink away. They talked rather swiftly, as clearly Lady Celtigar wanted more than Lord Aemon was willing to cough up. Her eye caught the letters on his desk, and one that’s regal seal stood out like a sore thumb. She recognized it, as well as its final destination.

Lord Aemon urged the older woman out and the two quickly disappeared with a lock of the door.

She breathed out, removing herself from the wall and creeping out. Her mouth had watered at the sight of the candy that the old lady turned down. She could have at least faked it. It was rude, to Wylla. Also a waste of a good candy that someone could enjoy…

Stooping down to grab the things that Lord Aemon had dropped and knocked over earlier, she quickly found a home for everything. She then made her way to the letter and grabbed it gingerly. Gazing at the thing, she wondered what secrets it held. Where it would go, she recognized as a place of utmost secrecy. If anyone found out about these, no doubt would there be trouble.

Wylla slipped the letter in the skirt and ducked for the bookcase. Rifling her fingers across the spines she found the key volume. Smirking as she read the title, wondering how a humpback got his hands on a Asshai sex manual, she pulled down on it. A click sounded as the book was dipped from its place, and a following pop as the bookcase lifted from its spot. It opened a crack against the wall, clearly attached to a mechanism. Behind it there was a small hole in the wall, but clearly leading to a pathway.

She pulled the handle, placing the bookcase back in its place as she entered the hole. It was a passageway, one of the many that existed within the palace. Wylla didn’t know them all, but she had a few locked in her mind. Flea Bottom was a hole that swallowed all who lived in it, but there was a rhyme to its madness. The Red Keep was a massive puzzle, deliberately placed and put together. To find all the exits, entrances and side-hallways that it had would take a longer time still.

Dipping through the dark, a few corners and slopes had her descending. The exit would be soon. She remembered it, for her own safety. If she didn’t, she’d be lost in the darkness.

Sunlight soon appeared at the end of the tunnel, and Wylla realized she’d been holding her breath.

She’d taken a couple of these letters before, and all were told to go to a specific location. The Prancing Lion. If anyone at the Keep asked where she’d gone, she would make up something about cleaning a faraway corner. Though, it wasn’t like anyone tended to ask where she’d gone. Either they didn’t care, or they forgot.

Once upon a time she cared. Not anymore.

Wylla kept her head low and moved with quick feet. The whole thing with the Silk Street Prince was almost a hobby to the young girl. She wondered if any advancements would happen, especially with this change in power happening. This would be an opportune time for another royal to rise, and with him the peasants. But maybe that was just her hope that things would change for the little people too. Not just another painted pig on the throne.

codedbycrucialstar​

 

[Yahhah]

Jon Baratheon
​

Jon slowed his horse as the group entered the courtyard. Jon found the close kept city even more disgusting then he'd imagined. He didn't know why he was even a bit surprised if he was being honest with himself. The courtyard seemed to be entirely full of nobles of all kinds. Jon could pick out banners belonging to Tyrells, Tullys, Lannisters, and Starks to name a few. Jon could pick out the Targaryan quickly, even through his visor. He almost felt a stab of pity for the dragon reduced to a cripple... Almost. Jon stayed silent while Ormund introduced them, he only spoke when Ormund pointed back to him.

"Your city has been... Something for sure".

Jon attempted a bit of tact though tact was something Jon had never been skilled at using. Jon got off of his horse, though he kept his helm on. It may have been that he simply forgot to remove it or he was reluctant to remove the antlers in a place he deemed himself surrounded by enemies. Jon silently observed Tully's approach and antics with very little movement. He did not take the trout's offer at a handshake. He felt no need to be any friendlier then necessary to any of these lords. Diplomacy could be left to Ormund.

Mentioned: RayPurchase TheFool JPTheWarrior (I think that's everyone there).

 

[Hypnos]

The Hand​

Breathing out a sigh of relief, Dick Tyrell gave himself a moment to collect his thoughts, tensing slightly as he felt his knees begin to buckle, keeping a careful grip on the wall to prevent his brittle bones from giving out underneath him. Exhaustion was proving to be a greater foe than he had initially anticipated, though thus far he had been able to keep himself upright through sheer force of will. Not that he suspected he was going to last much longer. Especially given current conditions.

With the trial now so close at hand, it seemed that everyone was eager to get a look at the accused, be they high Lords who had been deemed important enough to make-up the jury, or simply lesser aristocrats who wanted to make themselves feel important. Only moments before, the Hand had found himself the mediator of a lengthy argument between Lord Hayford and the Lady Stewardess regarding how many retainers it was acceptable to bring within the keep, and after bearing witness to almost a quarter hour of the two squabbling, Dick had already started yearning for his office once more. Something that only seemed to make the hours grow longer.

That particular argument had only ended with the promise that Hayford would be allowed further access to the Hand in future, which was simply another laborious meeting that Dick was going to have to commit himself to, as if he was not already busy enough with other duties.

Steeling himself against the wall, Dick allowed his eyes to close for just a moment, though doing so only made it harder to open them once more, giving a taste of the rest of which he had been depriving himself.

It wasn’t to last.

‘My Lord, the Lords of the Reach have arrived!’

The steward’s words cut through Dick like a hot knife, the Lord Hand knowing that this would only mean countless more hours of faux-smiles and merry making with men who wouldn’t give him a second thought if it wasn’t for that prestigious name.

‘Is Hightower leading them? Was it Redwyne? Tarly? I do not think I could stand listening to any more of his hunting stories.’

‘It’s your brother, my Lord.’

For a moment, Dick’s mind cast to Beldon, red of face and stout of belly. His brother.

But Beldon was dead.

‘Luthor?’

‘My Lord, you invited him to take the place of House Tyrell upon the jury.’

‘I did.’ Dick asserted. ‘I just… I did not expect to see him so soon.’

‘Will you see him?’

‘I will. Just let me catch my breath.’ Dick Tyrell leaned forward, feeling a little nauseous all of a sudden, though he had been more than healthy a moment before. ‘Are they at the gates?’

‘The guest hall, my Lord.’

‘Right.’ Luthor had invited himself in. ‘Then I should not keep him waiting.’

Even in his restless state, Dick Tyrell had always been a man with a fast stride, and he knew the paths and halls of the Red Keep very well, making fast work of the journey, the steward trailing slowly behind him, struggling to keep up.

‘Brother. Lord Redwyne. It is a pleasure.’

Optimus Princeps Yarrow

 

[Hypnos]

Guy​

A child.

Their child.

‘Of course.’ The words stammered from Guy’s mouth, quicker even that his brain could fully comprehend what he was even replying to, let alone what he himself was actually saying.

Rhaenyra was beautiful. She had always been beautiful, far more so than a man such as himself deserved, but in this moment, as she sat upon his lap, taunting him lovingly with his favourite treat, Guy would have agreed with any proposition that came out of her mouth.

‘A baby. Wow. Our baby. A son. Our son. I’ll be a father, and you’ll be a mother.’ Guy tried to string together a coherent thought, but his mouth was too busy smiling to stop the stream of unrelenting comments escape from the Stokeworth’s mouth. ‘I can show him how to swing a sword, and you can read to him at night.’

‘And if it’s a girl, she’ll be as beautiful as her mother.’

In that moment, giddy with excitement, Guy pulled his wife into an embrace, pulling her close as her gently kissed her face, offering all the affection that he could muster. His wife sweeter than any apple tart.

‘We can, uh, name him after you father.’ Guy breathed gently into Rhaenyra’s neck as his fingers gently moved along her back. He had always dreamed of naming a son after his father, the ailing Lord Glendon Stokeworth, who had given so much to him, but he knew that the death of Rhae-Rhae’s father was still so fresh on her mind, and he thought that it might be nice to attempt to treasure his memory in some way.

‘Lucerys.’ He repeated to himself. ‘Little Lucerys Stokeworth.’

ailurophile

 

[Hypnos]

Myrielle​

The road to King’s Landing was bumpy and uneven, a massive sprawl of potholes and tiny scuffs that made the carriage ride a wholly unpleasant experience, Myrielle’s irritation matched only by her worry.

Ashara.

Her daughter.

Trapped and locked away in some dark and dingy cell, where her only company was the rats, and her only source of entertainment was slowly counting the hours away until the Lords of the realm would sit in judgement of her.

It was enough to make any mother sick to her stomach, and right now Myri’s stomach was filled to the brim with butterflies.

‘It’s his fault, you know.’ She didn’t give a name. She never gave a name. But everyone always knew who she was talking about. ‘If his family hadn’t started consorting with those wildlings…’

She choked up.

‘They think she’s a savage. They think she’s brute like her father. But she’s a gentle girl. She a delicate girl. Far more a lion than a clansman. What kind of fool would think a flower like her would kill her own partner.

After-all, he hadn’t killed her yet.

Myri raised a handkerchief to her face, the line between real and crocodile tears blurred so long ago that she could hardly tell if she was really crying anymore.

It felt real.

But it always felt real.

‘Now, now, Lady Arryn. You know your husband always means well.’

Lady Arryn. As if she was one of them.

They may have clipped her claws, but she would always be a lion.

She could feel one of her ladies attempt to wrap a cloak around her quivering shoulders, attempting to cover her up, but she resisted the gesture, keeping herself exposed.

It was a Vale woman.

One of his.

‘Lady Lucinda, you don’t know him as I do.’ As she pushed away the first woman, she felt herself lean in the other direction, hands reaching out to fall into the grip of another.

A Wester woman.

One of hers.

‘The journey has been long, Myrielle, and you must be so tired. I cannot imagine the stress you are under with your daughter so wrongfully imprisoned.’

At this, Myrielle gave a brief smile. ‘You are right, Lady Elle. I know that I would benefit for some sleep, though I am not sure that I could dare to dream, knowing the conditions of my daughter.’

At that, Lucinda Lipps and Ella Broome both exclaimed in sympathy.

It was not long before their progress was halted, a brief respite from their travels provided by an Inn mere several miles from the capital, though Myri was not eager to stay here any longer than a few hours. She would not sleep in a hard straw bed for one more night. Not when she knew the alternative was so close at hand.

‘I need to get some air.’ She said quickly to her retainers, though in truth she needed a break from both of them just as much as she needed a rest from the stuffy air of the carriage.

She peered her head out just in time to see her Lord husband completely blanked by his brother, Ser Ethan Arryn always the more bullheaded of the pair.

At least Eustace, with all his vices, could maintain a conversation without attempting to make everything about himself.

‘Lord Husband!’ Myri hitched up her dress as she dismounted from the carriage, careful to keep it free from all of the freshly trodden muck that served at the tavern’s moat.

‘Have we stopped to admire the view?’ She looked at him accusingly, the wind blowing what few tufts of hair Eustace Arryn still had left. ‘Would that Ashara had such a luxury, instead of having only the trappings of the Black Cells to look upon.’

TheFool

 

[Awesome_Nemo]

A Hedgeknight​

Godric smiled at the lord. He had heard of House Reyne of Castamere, of course; they seemed almost as wealthy as the Lannisters, perhaps even their equal; it explained where the lord’s finery came from. Even if, as a hedge knight, he couldn’t recognize every distinguishing feature, he was sure to memorize as many details of the noble houses as was needed. There was more to being a knight than killing, afterall. A lord of Erich’s- the raging lion, if Godric remembered his nicknames right- being in the honeypot was an interesting matter, but not one that needed to be addressed; they were all equal, regardless of blood when on their backs unclothed, and what if Godric were to judge him, that would make him a hypocrite. And the seven frowned upon hypocrisy.

Pulling the glove off, the hedge knight extended a calloused hand to the lord. “Excuse me for my manners; my name is ser Godric Stone. Knight of the seven. At your service,” he stated, though perhaps not too quickly when a whore came in between them. She was beautiful, no doubt about it, and exotic; she made Godric wish he still had a full purse, though he doubted the woman’s attention would be split from the lord. The perks of wealth. When the duo bid their hasty goodbyes to do what it is one does in the Honeypot, Godric gave a small wave and put his glove back on, as his smile turned into a bit of a dejected frown. The possibility of befriending a lord of the Westerlands would have done wonders to propel him to a landed knighthood and a true name, and Godric doubted that Erich had fully heard him even. “A pleasure,” he muttered quietly to himself, before turning away, putting his unshaked hand back upon the black painted helm at his hip.

Godric watched the Gold cloaks, a dark skinned foreigner among them, and Kettleback talk, hoping to maneuver around them when they finished. The one poured his wine on the floor. How wasteful, Godric thought, that thought coming from a place of hunger, where on worse days he would have crawled to the floor to lick the wine, splinters and stains be damned. When they left, they left the redheaded woman there. Godric imagined it was to clean. He couldn’t help but feel for the poor woman, and as unknightly as it was to mop the floor, the offer was the least he could do. Cracking his neck, and preparing himself for the inevitable suspicion his actions would bring- how many knights would spare the time of day to greet a whore, outside of for their services, let alone offer to help them clean?- he walked over to the woman, bright red hair and quite beautiful, she did look to a rarity in king’s landing. “Excuse me, miss,” he smiled on the face of the rather large man as he leaned down so as to keep her from straining her neck to look at him. “Would you, or your sisters, allow me to help clean that spill?” He pointed down at the red stain on the floor, letting his bright smile falter to a more empathetic one.

Interactions:
idalie

Mentions:
ailurophile
Rusty of Shackleford

 

[ailurophile]

Rhaenyra Targaryen
Princess
​

Of course, he accepted her proposal.

Why wouldn't he? They needed a child of their own, and soon. Besides, men were feeble creatures when it came to these sorts of things, slaves to their desires: if Guy had been a different kind of man, she'd simply have seduced him with no mention of a baby at all. But he was different, so very different to the others, and therefore that approach was unnecessary.

Because above all else, becoming pregnant would make Rhaenyra happy.
That was the most important factor of all.

"He'll be just as valiant and caring as you, and as loyal." It was all she could say before he interrupted her with a kiss, but it was more than she needed to. Her husband had already agreed, and part of her felt that if she were to hike her dress up to her hips right then and there and demand to mount him, he'd oblige.

But despite her ulterior motive in the matter, she wanted the process to be special, to be intimate.
She loved Guy, more than she'd ever loved anyone. Much more so than her father.
So she only kissed him back, a chaste kiss at that.

Her fingers found his hair and stroked it as his head settled into the crook of her neck. Guy would make a wonderful father, she was sure of it, much better than her own. He was loving, and kind, and attentive, and all of the other qualities her father had lacked. She was content, and in his arms, she felt safe. Nobody but Guy could make her feel that way.

And then he ruined it.

Lucerys Stokeworth.

As if she'd carry a baby for nine months and go through the agony of labour only to name it after the man she hated most.
Like she'd raise a child, having cursed him with that name.
Give her baby that name as though she wanted to honour a man like that.

Though Guy couldn't see her face, she smiled instinctively, her lips drawn thin with the effort of it. She continued to stroke her husband's hair, lovingly, because it wasn't his fault. He'd never known the same man that she had. That his wives had.

That Ashara had.

"You're too good to me, you know." Rhaenyra cooed. "The name of our first child will be important, I know. We don't have to make that decision now, we can discuss it. I'd hate to be the one to interrupt tradition, after all: don't boys always name their sons after their fathers?"

She praised herself for her deflection. It was subtle enough, not a direct refusal, nothing that would arouse suspicion of hurt Guy's feelings. After all, he meant well.

Rhaenyra sighed and reluctantly untangled herself from his husband, slipping from the comfort of his lap to stand again.

"I'd love nothing more than to stay here all day with you, you know that, don't you?" As she spoke softly, she bent at the waist to gently cup his face with one hand. "But we have so much to attend to. Everyone's arriving and I fear they'll think poorly of me if I don't make an appearance."

She leaned in to plant a lingering kiss on his cheek.
A promise of things to come.

"Later."
The verbalisation of said promise.

With that, she turned and trotted back towards the door, pausing to look over her shoulder. Longing to remain.
But her Uncle was bound to be winning favour already, and she needed to catch up.
So many people to see, so many hands to shake, so many condolences to accept.

"Don't abandon your food on my account, finish it. But if you're not too busy this morning, it'd mean the world if you could come and say hello to everybody. With me. I have to go and finish getting ready first, but I could meet you outside?"

She opened the door to leave, but before she vanished, she left him with one pressing thought.



"I'm sure everyone would be thrilled to meet their future King."



Hypnos

 

[Tiny]

Lady -*- Giya​

A hunt sounded like a lovely way to break the horrid silence that hung over Winterfell like a mist. It perhaps foolish of her to assume that her gracious husband would neglect to bring along the…twins. As Giya became more familiar with the Stark family over the last two years, she realized that many rumors that she heard were false. Addam Stark, for example, was so much more than the brooding black sheep of the Starks. Her intimate knowledge of the subject made her feel confident enough to say so.

The twins, however, were another matter entirely. The less focus on the validity of those rumors, the better.

Still she would oblige their presence for so long as it seemed prudent. Her gaze locked on a stag that wandered into range and her fingers twitched on her longbow. The only thing that stopped her was her husband raising his own crossbow to fire…into the tree. Giya snorted unflatteringly at the misfire unable to attribute it to anything other than his choice in weapons. As Giya’s teachers on Bear Island had always told her, “Crossbows are bulky, lazy things.” She had never found the opposite to be true.

Seeing that Addam planned to turn the kill over to his brother, she placed her arrow away. At Addam’s warm gaze and attentions focused on her she felt herself smile indulgently. You would think by now she’d be over this silly lovesickness that infested her womanly body. How much longer would her insides writhe at the softest caress or word from this man? So far she had no answers to this.

“She is well, dear husband.” Lady Giya informed. “Pink cheeked and toddering about as she pleases.”

There was so much that she wanted to discuss with him. His thoughts about the current state of events seems too mild to be genuine. Surely he had some opinion about the state of political unrest. Who was going to sit upon that bloody throne? What would be done about that cruel murderess? Undoubtedly if she had done such an unspeakable thing she would not be without her reasons. Perhaps she feared the fate of the queens before her but no, she’d born a son.

Lady Giya remembered when she had been so fearful in failing to produce a son for Addam, and Addam was no king. Still, this family hunt was hardly the place to discuss such matters. Additionally, she doubted how much interest these events even held for her husband. Instead she merely said teasingly “Are you certain you’ll be able to fell any creature with a tool like that?”

Mentioned: Rusty of Shackleford

 

[TheFool]

The Pox Keep



Garon stood.

Examining the ledger book.
Eyes scrutinizing every single ink written word. If you could call them ‘words’, that is. Most of it was unreadable. Illegible. Like little blobs of spilt honey, dried and coloured black. Made sense. Ser Gwayne was many a thing - but born of noble birth was not one of them. He had to teach himself how to write - how to read. He had built himself up.
Something Garon would admire on any other given day. Not this day, however. The day of the dove was for asking questions and receiving answers.

He read.

What he could read, at least.


Jade.


He recognised that name.
She was the first victim, he suspected that much. Dark brown hair, like cocoa. Eyes green. According to one of the lads under him - she was the daughter of a sailor and named accordingly after the sea that sailor so loved.
He remembered them finding her.
Dead.
Her body cold. The flies on her. Feasting. That was back when she was just what she was then and there. A murdered woman. A dead whore. Gaza, and none of his boys, thought much of it. Until the second one showed up with the exact same look.
Red prints on her neck.

The second name, crossed out of the ledger like Jade’s was, was one he had not heard.


Mhaegen.


She must’ve been the red head, no?
Her corpse fresher found than the first’s. Though that did not make it unequally horrifying.

“Jade and Mhaegen. Tell me about them?” He asked Kettleblack.
Well,
It wasn’t really an ask. The knight could not refuse to answer. Garon’s men had told him that Jade was likely the first victim, but it had yet to be confirmed. Some of the lads had fucked her, that was true. But, like so many others, they could not recall her name.

Boots thought it was Jeyne.

And Qarl thought it Genna.

Reysen and, he believed, Damp Dick mentioned the name Jade.

Which was looking to be correct.

No one knew for sure, however.

No one cared.


He did though.


A third name. A line striking through it.


Ashara.


He stopped.
Taken aback, slightly. Though he did not let that show on his face. “And… Ashara? Tell me about her as well.” He demanded, wondering if it was the blonde lass they’d found that morning. If she was the third. “Funny.” A mumble escaped his lips,
“If she’s indeed the third victim, then looks like King Lucerys got his vengeance.”

Spoiler: MENTIONS

High Moon
ReverseTex

​

 

[High Moon]

Jeor Karstark
The Young Lord
King’s Landing Outskirts​

Organizing such a large host in cohesion had been a massive headache, the incestant and endless energy of his wife grating on his nerves ever since they left the gates of Karhold perhaps even before that. The incessant chatter of his poor sister didn’t help either, even though he didn’t blame her for it the stress of it all was starting to become unbearable.

So he decided to take a break from all of it, telling his dear wife and sister that he’d meet them at the gates. riding ahead of the rest with a few of his riders trailing not far behind. He thought about the journey in silence.

Riverlands had been the worst, a hot and humid land filled with flies of all kind that feasted on him, a swampy mess of a land filled with a bunch of petty Lords constantly measuring dicks with one another without any regard for the wellbeing of their serfs or the unity of their realm. Childish fuckwads that would put even the likes of the Manderly’s to shame.

The Crownlands hadn’t been much different but atleast the nature of the lands that surrounded King’s Landing was much better than the muddy shithole that was the Riverlands. He pitied the Starks who had been granted lands in Harenhall, a cursed place both literally and figuratively. While the woods in Crownlands were fine, same couldn’t be said for the Grand City of King’s Landing itself.

The smoke that rose from the horizon was the first sign of the long journey from all the way to the Bay of Seals to the Capital coming to an end. However he didn’t know if it was a relief or if it was a curse. While he had hated traveling, he hated being inside cities even more, He had traveled to White Harbour often to haggle for the prices of Karstark goods and he’d been to King’s Landing too once, when he was still the heir. His Lord father had brought him along to the celebrations of the King’s 10th year on the throne.

And what he had seen then was almost helligh. King’s Landing was even more suffocating than White Harbor, which was itself a cesspool, however that had been on another level, It was just like how The Maester described the Seven Hells, burning eternally like a living furnace, The peasants lived like a horde of rats eeking out an existence in these cities, themselves slowly suffocating in the forge of evil that they had imprisoned themselves in. Destined to perish without even a soul caring about them.

And as they neared a hill, he could see that nothing had changed. The Tomb of a city had only grown bigger with the settlement outside the walls being denser than he remembered as a child, and with every step his horse took the want to just turn around and march back to Karhold increased.

He felt like they were carrying a torch right into a cellar with kegs full of wildfire, ready to blow up with the slightest spark...

Spoiler: Mentions

Hypnos
ailurophile

 

[idalie]

Location: The Honeypot, Kings Landing
Interactions: Awesome_Nemo
Mentions: High Moon

Mags the Skirt​

Kettleblack’s kindness never did feel right. Perhaps she misjudged him, perhaps he’d rectify his true feelings after their guests had left.

Maggy gripped the rags she was passed, fingers white with pressure as she twisted the grey towel in her hands and glanced up at the office. You couldn’t trust men to look out for one of their own, if they were wives and daughters she’d say different but ruined women with ruined lives never did elicit much empathy. The ones that had it, rarely acted upon it in the place they called the Honeypot.

It was intimidating, even after all those years. Kettleblack reminded her of her home in some twisted way, dreams of leaving thwarted by the fact she could be used for nothing more. To reach higher stations you were taught to enjoy the work, to be the sultry and wanton other woman; passed on when they’d finished, wrapped in threadbare silk and a fistful of stags.

Still, she was there amidst the mystery of a strangler and mopping spilt wine when the unexpected interruption caused her head to turn. Mags stared at the knight, scrutinising his motives and trying to decide whether it was some sort of cruel joke - asking a whore if she needed help cleaning up a spill? Might as well pay her for a hug. The frown lessened, “You can, but this doesn’t mean anything. No freebies, alright?” She defensively outlined, handing Godric the towel before procuring another.

His height was perhaps the most shocking thing about the ordeal, wondering whether the knight was one of those children with a little giant in them - but he seemed too coherent for that.

She hitched her skirt up, knelt near the mess of wine and began to dab it before it soaked into the pores of the wood. Glancing up, her eyes rarely left the Knight. “You a regular? Haven’t seen you about.” An aftershock of witnessing goodwill if you believed it, although having a patron cleaning the floors wasn’t too professional. Luckily Kettleblack was occupied.

 

[TheFool]

The Falcon



“Lord Husband.”



The words felt like five long fingers attaching themselves to his heart. And squeezing. Rinsing it, tightly, of all its love and all its goodness. The words, of course, belonged to his lady wife, Myrielle Lannister. Less so his wife and more so a woman he had employed to give him the two of his children, and to berate him whenever she felt it so necessary.
This was likely one of those times.


He watched, still sitting on his horse Dot, as his brother rode away.


Ignoring his words.
Whatever was he upset about now? Eustace wondered. It was Eustace who should be the one upset. His daughter’s life was in slippery hands. The hands of snakes, if snakes could ever have… well… hands. His wife slithered towards him.

A serpent herself.

She boasted the lion, but instead of biting and clawing and tearing - she only spat venom. Though Eustace had gotten so used to the hate filled words that maybe the venom she spat was not as such. Maybe she was a different kind of snake? One that constricted.
Squeezing the life out of him, slowly but ever so surely.

Yes, that made the more sense.

The wind gently danced around them.
His hair dancing along with it.
A waltz of balding grey.

“Dear Myrielle.”

Was all he could manage before she spoke more. More spitting.

“No,” He said. Simply. “We have not stopped for the view. We have stopped to give the horses their rest. We will be back to it in no more than ten minutes, wife.” Any other man would have made quip. Any other man would have told her to go back to her carriage and keep quiet.

He was not like those men.

She squeezed his heart even more by mentioning her. Mentioning Ashara. The daughter they shared. And the only one at that.
Eustace loved his son of course. But it was Ashara that kept the two of them going, he thought. She was the reason they would still talk to one another every now and then.
If Eustace had it his way -
He would say but no words to his wife.
That thought made him feel shameful. No man should think that way about his wife. But that he did. Unfortunately, that he did.

“Silence, woman.”

He snapped. For one moment becoming one of those other men. But only for that moment.

“Do you only take me for a fool?” Of course she did. A stupid question to ask. A question a fool would ask. “Our daughter is in binds. Surrounded by damp and darkness. I know this. I have known this since my brother informed us. If I could have flown to King’s Landing, I would have. If I could have snapped two of my fingers and traveled there in a puff of smoke, I would have.”

He swallowed,

“But I could not do either of those things, as YOU may very well know. Horses must be fed. Horses must be watered. And as much as my heart… bleeds. And it bleeds much. Our daughter will be still very alive by the time we get to the city.”

His squire, Olyvar, gave the horse a pat and then announced,
“Fed and watered, ser.”

“Fed and watered.” Eustace repeated. Looking at his wife from high above. Out of reach from her grasp, though she did still have his heart trapped in a clenched fist. He shook his head and looked back into the woods. The dark woods. The lonely woods. A little pellet of rainwater landed on his head.
And another.

And another.

“I… I am sorry, Myrielle.” He said. “Our daughter is… she is in danger. You have the right to be angry with this tardiness. Forgive me.” A part of him wanted to slip down from his saddle and take her hand in his. Like any other man would do.
Like any other husband would do. To their wife.

To the woman that they loved.

He was this close to doing that.

But Eustace was not that man.
And Myrielle not that woman.

“I promise you this. We will get to the city before the sun begins its setting. We will get her. Ashara. We will get her out… even if - even if I have to take a hammer to the walls of The Red Keep to do so. I swear it by The Seven. I swear it.”

And he wanted to uphold that promise.

He wanted to uphold that promise more than anything.

Eustace Arryn knew, however, that he could not.

Spoiler: MENTIONS

Hypnos

​

 

[TheFool]

The Trout



The sunlight, though little, blinded her at first as she exited the carriage.

When her sight improved and she could now both hear and see her brother’s actions, she giggled. She had missed Tommen immensely. He was in Dorne for most of his time, of course. But when he came to visit Riverrun every so often - it would brighten up her days and calm her nights. Especially the ones when she was most sick. That hadn’t been for some time however.

Thank The Mother.

She walked alongside her mother, approaching Tommen. Approaching a small group he entertained. Two men, burly. And another man - wielding a white wooden cane. He was...


Dashing.


All three men were. In their own ways.

“Mother,”
She whispered as they walked. Her arm linked around Sylva’s. “Is that The Prince? Jaehaerys?” She asked. A part of her knew already but she wanted confirmation. “He is… v-very handsome isn’t he?”

“And the two others are… ?”

She spotted the banners. A black stag on a golden yellow field. House Baratheon. “I t-t-thought The Baratheons did not like the capital.”
She asked her mother. Eyeing up the taller of the two men. He looked so incredibly strong. A part of her wanted him to swoop her up from her feet in a sturdy embrace.

She tingled thinking about it.

When they got to Tommen’s side and he introduced them, she almost died. Her eyes widened and she felt herself go pale. Paler than she already always was. A walking, stuttering ghost. “Tommen, p-please.” She said, lowly. Closing her eyes and holding them shut.

Oh, she could not bare to look at the men.

She opened them again in a sudden rush of courage. Like how she felt when her father would allow her a cup of wine in the evening. Her head felt… freer. She felt freer. She was out of her tower. She had to make the most of the most.

“It is… a p-p-pleasure.”

She curtsied to the three men. “Forgive me. My tongue is t-trying to embarass me as much as my dear lord brother.”

Mariya squeezed her mother’s arm.
Tightly.

Spoiler: MENTIONS

ailurophile
Braddington
RayPurchase
Yahhah
Myself, The Handsome Prince

​

 

[TheFool]

The Prince ...



He watched Judyth Umber as she sashayed.

Her hips moving, gracefully.

Her cousin, Sera Sunglass, following her albeit a bit reluctantly. Surely she wanted to stay and chat more with the man she had been sharing sweet smiles with. Before they left his sight,

Jaehaerys was attacked.
Attacked by Tommen Tully. The lil’ tanned bastard. His hug almost completely knocking the Prince off of his balance. His cane almost slipping from his hand. “Gods, Tom.” Was all he could manage. A croak.
Before the embrace ended,
And Jaehaerys regained himself. “You know how it is, my good friend. I do have to exercise the cane now and then.” He joked, looking into the man’s eyes.

He swallowed.
Hard.

The Prince smiled as he saw the two figures behind his old friend. Sylva Martell, a cousin of his. And his closest friend’s mother of course. “Lady Sylva,”
He bowed slightly.
“You know that your presence to me is always a great pleasure. I will say, however, it is strange seeing you here under grey skies instead of bright blue ones.”
He smirked.
“Though you do look radiant under both.”

He did not recognise the other figure. Tommen’s sister. He may have met her once, maybe? He was not entirely sure. She was frail looking.
But,
Beautiful still.

A pale beauty. Unlike her sun kissed family.

“You needn’t apologise, my lady. I, myself, am embarrassed that I cannot recall us ever meeting. If we have, I apologise. If we have not, I apologise even more so.” He took her hand and gave it a small peck. His lips touching her knuckles gently.

“This is - if you hadn’t known - Lord Ormund Baratheon. And his brother, Jon.”
Jaehaerys said, turning back towards the stags.

Mariya curtsied at them,
“It is lovely to meet you, my lords. And this is our first meeting, your grace.” She said. Her voice shy and pretty.

“Hopefully not our last meeting as well.”
Jaehaerys continued to smile.

The girl’s pale white face reddened with blush.

“I have only just realised that we have… three of the jurors here in this courtyard. We must converse before the trial begins tomorrow - the three of us. There is much to talk about. Much to discuss.”

Spoiler: MENTIONS

ailurophile
Braddington
QuirkyAngel
RayPurchase
Yahhah
Me, The Trout Hoe

​

 

[Awesome_Nemo]

A HedgeKnight​

Godric was rather relieved that she didn’t curse him away or tell him to fuck off. Removing his leather riding gloves and tucking them into his belt, he crouched down, gingerly taking the rag in his hand, which while pale had looked almost as worn and beaten as the glove he wore to cover it. He chuckled to himself when she mentioned freebies; he knew she would expect some ulterior motive. Had they swapped places he knew he would have. He inclined his head to the side and, with a smile, shrugged slightly to show his agreement; no freebies expected, the shrug said.

Settling down in a kneel elicited a grinding noise from his armor pushing against itself, something Godric would have to buff out later; he began dabbing along with the red headed woman, scrubbing in and turning the greyish rag a deeper red. When one section became too red, he moved on to dabbing with a clean edge.

“If I was a regular, I imagine that I would have already asked your name, my lady,” he said, looking up to her, also scrubbing, with a slight smile. It must have looked rather comical to see the large and armoured man hunched and scrubbing on the floor alongside the woman. Probably more so since he looked to be knowing what he was doing. “Godric is mine. Godric Stone,” came his statement, his blue eyes looking almost too pale. Icy compared to the warm smile on his face.

Interactions:
idalie

 

[High Moon]

Gelmarr Harlaw
The Ancient Elder
Pyke​

‘’I understand your concerns my friends.’’ Lord Thormor Botley and Lord Ragnor Wynch, both respectable Lords, He could remember both of them being just as brash when they were no older than is great-grand children was now. ‘’However I do not believe such a haste declaration is necessary. We shall remain patient.’’ ‘’Greed has been the fall of many a great Ironborn. It’s not time yet, We...’’ That was when Lord Botley decided he had his voice to be heard.

‘’With all due respect Lord Harlaw,’’ The Old Man’s expression hardened, yet he didn’t voice his displeasure with being cut off yet. ‘’We have been suffering under isolation for two decades, how much longer can we go without making our mark!’’ It looked like the Young Lord’s patiance was running thin.

Never to be outdone, Wynch too chimed in with his half-witted brain. ‘’I must agree me Lord, We are Ironborn, we must act as such! You were there when when will we ever be ready if we don’t act ever?’’

‘’When I deem our resources and preperations sufficient Thoromor, and even then we’ll only act after Lord Greyjoy gives the order and not a moment sooner…

Botley was not satisfied however. ‘’What about all the loot we c…’’ and this time it was too much for the old Harlaw

With a stern voice of authority he stopped the young lord. ‘’Enough! Such excuses do not concern me Lord Botley.I assure you every greenlander expects us to rape and reave our way through their lands right now and I won’t have the good men of Iron Islands killed because of your personal greed. Nor will I indulge your lust for adventure Lord Wynch, if you want riches and glory go and raid the Summer Islands. However you could take your Grievances to Lord Greyjoy when he returns, however I must warn that he won’t be as forgiving as I am when it comes to being questioned.’’

It looked like even the mention of Lord Greyjoy was enough to scare the two young lords. ‘‘That won’t be necessary Lord Harlaw. Excuse us’’

Content, Harlaw decided it was time to end this debate. ‘’Apology accepted Lord Botley. Now if you would excuse yourselves. I have more important business to attend to.’’ he said pointing for the both of them to leave his chambers.

The sudden appearance of the two lords wasn’t unexpected. Grave news had arrived from the capital. A rarity since the murder of Cnut by those Dornish scum. Apparently the King had finally left the mortal realm. Not like he had cared about the foolish dragon, no not at all, the crumbling of the status-quo had always spelled the doom for his people. It wouldn’t be long before his fellow Lords heard about the news either.

The Lords of Iron Islands were often a hassle to deal with, every and each one of them wanted to be the Captain that steered the Iron Islands and they were ambitious ones as well, always on the lookout for an opportunity. And they wouldn’t be as easily dismissed as Botley and Thoromor, Lord Drumm and Goodbrother would surely want an audiance with Sigrin themselves and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Eventhough he thought that even the most brash of them wouldn’t dare act too rashly after the terrible fate that befall their beloved Lord over twenty years ago. He still worried that some idiot would crash the long reigning stability that he had worker hard for all through his life.

Twenty two years… Had it been that long since Cnut perished in that foreign city? Slaughtered by those honourless scum serving the tyrant? It didn’t feel like it. Arguing with the bullheaded self-righteous bastard had been almost a routine of his life whenever the young and brash Lord Reaver and him had been at the same room. A trait that both Toron and Sigrin had unfortunately inherited from their father, Wynafryd too a degree but it was never certain with that girl. An unpredictable enigma even for a man like him.

Ever since he had received the news of the death his residence here had almost become permanent and Pyke had become something like a second home, or rather the third, considering how many castles he had to divide his time in between over the years. Ten Towers would always be his first home, where he was born and raised. Harlaw Hall the second, where he spent his youthful days learning the craft of ruling under the watchful gaze of his father.

And this place had more than two decades of memories as well, his room too, a rather large one compared to others in Pyke served both as his resting place and his study, could tell a tale of it’s own. Books of all kind lined the walls, only a part of his personal collection that he, had brought over from Ten Towers over the years. Maps of all kind decorating the rest, some drawn by himself albeit he doubter their validity now that it’d been decades since he had drawn them. Countless memorabilia around the room, most of them gifts from Sigrin’s adventures.

Leaning over his cane for support he slowly got up from his seat and walked over to the window looking over the port of the keep, with an old telescope to see who would come to complain next.
As he adjusted the telescope something peculiar caught his interest. ‘’What a coincidence… Harrag my boy.’’ he called over his latest ward, a boy from House Blacktyde. scrawny and prone to fear, not shiphand material yet it mattered little to him, that was perhaps why he had accepted Lord Blacktyde’s offer, it was better than letting the kid’s potential be ruined by the standards of the Iron Born. ‘’Tell Wynafryd that I’’ll be expecting her in the docks… With haste!’’ he ordered, voice stern to make sure the kid acted quickly. And as soon as he was sure the kid had ran quickly as possible he continued on with a small smile. ‘’...Her fool of a brother has finally decided to grace us with his presence…’’ and with that he too took the first steps to greet the Great Lord Reaver.

Spoiler: Mentions

Optimus Princeps
Mion