Fandom A Game Of Thrones : THE EXALTED COUNCIL - RP

[Little-Fox]

Nissa Morrigen
Little Crow​

Fifteen men of Crow's Nest and Lady Morrigen exited the sloop's embrace and greeted the Tarth guard with a sense of familiarity. Nissa herself had been here when she was quite young, back when her mother was still living and still visited her family in the Summertime, not that the guards would recognize her now other than her vague resemblances to her aunt. Once pleasantries were exchanged, they led the group towards Evenfall Hall.

Nissa herself wore a green tunic emblazoned with the black crow of her house, a pair of blackened leather breeches beneath with a belt holding her sword at her hip, a few small pouches on her opposing side. Each man had simple leathers and clothing, blades and such kept in scabbards as most seemed relaxed here. A runner approached, a young boy of perhaps ten years with soft blond hair and bright blue eyes. "Are you Lady Nissa?" He asked, glancing at the crow on her tunic and her red hair. "I am." She replied with a smile, getting down on one knee so that she was closer to his eye level, even if a little lower. The boy gave a toothy grin and extended his hand, offering a small scroll of parchment to her. "This came for you a few days ago." There was a small look of surprise as she accepted it, once glimpse of the handwriting perking her lips back into a smile as she ruffled the boy's hair and stood. "Thank you very much, here..." She pulled a coin from her pouch and handed it to him, waiting for him to run off before she opened the parchment, casually following the 'guide' as she read the tiny script.

"Nissa,

I pray your journey proved safe. I have written Lord Baratheon. I write now to Swann, to Rogers, to Mertyns, to Whitehead, to Estermont, to your sister at Crow’s Nest, and you, Lady Morrigen. Muster your troops with ours at the mountain passes around Crow’s Nest. Cape Wrath will not fall on the watch of House Wylde.

Criston"

What had been a small smile betrayed a bit of teeth as she read. Good. We will have much to discuss when we see each other again... I'll know more when I leave here, but at least I know my home will be safe. She put the letter into the secondary pouch and focused on the rest of the trip. She had much to discuss with the host of Tarth and she had no idea that Jon Baratheon was on the Isle. Well... She'd soon find out. She'd need to write a reply to Criston before she left Tarth... perhaps before the sun set even. Before that she'd need to know how long she intended to stay in Tarth and she hoped to have at least a few answers on what the Island planned to do.

Mentions:
Nightblade : Jon Baratheon
Lingua Frankly Not : Criston Wylde

 

[Dread-neck]

Lucas the Ashen Blade and Natanael Baelish​

Down Gin Alley not many kilometers away from the recently embattled docks sat a tavern familiar to a certain clientele. The Titan’s Purse stood tall and unaltered, safe -- if one could call it that -- on account of bought protection. Paint had chipped on the exterior of the building on account of the humidity of the air, and the sign hanging above the door had lost a letter or two in recent years. Still, The Titan’s Purse drew in more traffic than it rightly should by the quality of its food and rooms. Rumors told of illicit substances being sold in the establishment’s backroom and basement, but no inspection by the city’s gold cloaks had ever found reason to believe this true -- or so they said.

This was not the first time that Natanael Baelish had made to meet a certain sellsword here, and he hoped it would not be the last. What a shame that would be. Sharp clacks of hardened leather soles heralded Baelish’s ascendance up the staircase to the second floor, and tracked his strides as he made his way to the fourth room. It was generally his way to arrive early to meetings, and he intended today to be no different; he withdrew a key from within his tailored cloak, opened the door, and slipped inside. The single guard that accompanied him settled outside the door, clad in a mixture of leather and chainmail and wearing no lord’s colors. When the man arrived to meet Baelish that guard, who knew his face, would simply gesture to the door with a nod. It was unlocked, after all, and these weren’t conversations for open rooms and unwanted ears.

____________________________________________________________________________

It wasn’t long after Baelish’s arrival that Lucas happened by The Titan’s Purse himself. He had an appointment to keep, after all. And what kind of businessman would he be if he were late to an appointment. That’s what he was after all. A businessman plain and simple...well one that was more versed in blade work rather than the average business aspect of things...okay who was he kidding? He was basically a whore with a sword. Still, keeping relationships alive was a good thing for him to do.... Even if those relationships were not with the best of people.That and getting away from the toddler with a crown was more than needed at this point.

His boots thumped as he made his way up to the second floor. He’d neglected to wear his tabard while he was in town. No sense in having a blade shoved in his back because he decided to side with the “fun” crowd. He made his way to the room with the guard in front of it, assuming that was his destination. The big bruiser in front glared at Lucas, causing the sellsword’s ash covered face to split into a grin. He save the lack of his tabard, he was dressed in his normal leathers and chain, bastard sword belted to his hip and the ashes covering his eyes in a rectangle with what seemed like claw marks dropping from the bottom of it. The guard stepped in front of the door, causing Luke to roll his eyes. “Come on, tiny. I’m expected.” The man simply huffed, but stepped aside. Lucas strode by and pat the man on the shoulder. “Good boy. I’ll see if the boss man can give you a biscuit later.” He opened the door and walked in to find the man he was meeting. “Honey, I’m home! Cute dog by the way. Think he may be a little on the rough side though.”

____________________________________________________________________________

‘Tiny’ was a fairly incorrect adjective to associate with Baelish’s guard, but neither the guard nor Baelish himself, who had certainly heard the interaction, cared to argue the point. Inside the room Natanael stood at the singular desk, fingers holding a raven’s message uncurled so that he may read it. This room -- the fourth one, that only he kept a key for -- was windowless and lit by a handful of candles, and it was in that light that Lord Natanael Baelish peered over to watch the rest of Lucas’ juvenile snark tumble from his lips.

An eyebrow raised, and he allowed the raven’s message to furrow once more, then stuffing it into a pocket. “Lucas,” Natanael drawled in greeting, looking over the man as he stepped away from the table, and closer to the sellsword with whom he intended to converse. “I don’t pay my guards to be pretty, just as I don’t pay you to be witty. To each of us our strengths.” A smile tugged along his features that looked less condescending than his words had been; maybe he'd meant them in good humor, then?

“It's a pleasure to see you here, as ever,” he purred, his hands raising at both of his sides in something of an inviting greeting, as one might with a guest. “You simply must tell me how your days have been treating you.”

____________________________________________________________________________

The words didn’t bother Lucas in the slightest. When working for the royal toddler, one should not have thin skin...or a flabby sword arm. Lucas’ grin stayed high as ever as he shrugged at the man. “Hey, when you chose to pay for my services, you get the full package. And likewise.” He said going over to join the man. At his question, Lucas let out a whistle. “How have my days been treating me? Well I mean among the riots, Ryden throwing a tantrum because of the loss of his brother and then throwing me out to go run some errand when I call him out on it, along with trying to keep my pint sized and feisty but well meaning friend friend out of his sights, they’ve kept me busy. Don’t want to cause another stir among nobles because he can’t keep his appetites under control.” Lucas shrugged nevertheless. What he had said was not untrue, but still. “Other than those things, I can’t complain. Pay is nice. Living quarters are good. Company could be better but I didn’t get in this job for that.”

____________________________________________________________________________

Baelish’s gaze was a sharp thing, apt to cut were one not careful. It trailed over Lucas’ features as though judging him for his worth, though his tone did not carry the same weight of discernment. Some of Lucas’ words were less interesting to him than others, but such is the way of these matters. The useful comes in slathered in the mud of a sellsword’s point of view. One must simply wade through it. Natanael’s hands come in together from their wide, inviting stance, clasping as he came to a stop perhaps two paces away. Unlike Lucas, Baelish did not seem particularly combat-ready; he’d passed his fighting prime, and although a truly observant eye might notice what was likely a dagger hidden beneath his cloak, he otherwise did not seem armed or armored.

“Tell me more about these tantrums and errands,” Baelish demanded, though his tone was light, reminiscent of how one might inquire about gossip with a friend. “What were you sent to do, and with whom? And what of these ‘appetites’?” The faintest hint of a sneer tugged at Natanael’s lips, and for a moment his smile looked less genuine, and more predatory, or possibly irritated. What was that boy thinking? Was Ryden intent on ruining everything he and Qoren had built for these last few decades?

____________________________________________________________________________

Lucas was in no way inclined to think that a man such as this would rely on hired guards alone. That just didn’t seem to be the way smart people worked. And this man on all accounts seemed to Lucas as a smart man...perhaps even intelligent. Sleezy as he did look, Lucas learned long ago that looks are only good for a few things, and telling how much of a threat someone was was not one of them.

Even as close as Baelish got to him, Lucas’ hands fell to his blade not once. Though likely a bad idea to remain as lax as he did in Baelish’s company, he felt no reason to act hostile. At his question, Lucas rolled his eyes as he remembered the affair. “Well if you’ve been paying any attention to the men in the infirmary who are wearing Dornish colors, I can tell you now that a good bit of those came from the royal toddler. It’s like I told him before he sent me out; I get his grief more than anyone, but taking it out on those who are ‘loyal’ to him, and I use the term very loosely, is not a good way to keep them that way. He’s injured many of his own retinue, likely killed a few.” He ran a hand through his neck length brown hair as he thought about what else had transpired since he came to King’s Landing. “The errand was simply because I had voiced my opinion on how he was handling his emotions. He didn’t want to see either myself or the girl that was with us who also voiced her thoughts. He told me to seek out Brune and help him. Who Brune was, where he was, or what he needed help with was not said. Just ‘find Brune and give him assistance.’ as if I should know, or care, who he was.” Lucas let out a light chuckle and shook his head as he remembered the guardsman’ face. “It was only luck that I happened upon the noseless fellow with his guardsman. As for that last little comment, we both made nice with this noble girl. Charming little thing, but she’s….well she isn’t your typical high borne. I’m not exactly fond of the ideas that come to mind when I picture those two alone, especially seeing how he treats those in his employment. Granted, he hasn’t exactly said anything about making advances on her, but in his state of mind right now- that and the fact that he’s an arrogant little shit, I wouldn’t put it passed him to consider trying something if she crossed him simply because he thinks he can. And I’ll be the first to say that if I catch wind of him hurting our little friend…” his grin faltered for a moment into something a little more appropriate for the topic. “Again, he and I will have to have a little more of a ‘discussion’ on how we treat those who are loyal to him. And I’m sorry to say that he of all people should know that I am not as breakable as those guards he likes to take his emotions out on. Even with a blade in his hand.”

____________________________________________________________________________

Natanael’s brow arched as he listened to the length of Lucas’ tale, mulling over bits of it as though they were a fine wine, indeed. The index finger of his right hand absently tapped against his left where it lay clasped in a small, visual depiction of Baelish’s racing thoughts. Otherwise, he seemed the picture of patience, and a few seconds passed following the end of Lucas’ words before Natanael brought forth more questions.

“And of Her Grace the young Queen?” Natanael’s gaze narrowed as he peered toward the sellsword’s, though the way his wrinkles sat lent him to looking pensive, and not irritated. “Has Ryden Martell put any thought to the betrothal falling upon his shoulders, or have his interests solely lied upon this… the high-borne,” he mused, one hand parting from the other so that he could raise it, gesturing in a loose, circular manner as he inquired. “What is her name, this lady he has set his sights upon?”

____________________________________________________________________________

Lucas shrugged at the first question. “I have no idea. The only parts of his personal life are ‘Is he bleeding or in mortal danger? No? Okay. Is he about to sully our little friend who has even less of an interest in him than he has in keeping his men out of the infirm? No? Good. Moving on with our day’.” It wasn’t that Lucas was trying to be as sarcastic as possible. He just had a very narrow view of his current employer as of the moment. “The Prince doesn’t exactly keep me in tabs with what he plans to do with his nobility and title or who he plans to marry. I just try to make sure he isn’t bleeding on the floor or that others in his company aren’t doing the same, be it by his blade or someone else’s. If he wanted someone to confide in, a sellsword wouldn’t have been what he was looking for.” Lucas studied the man for a moment. There was a bit of a debate in his mind about how much he should tell him about Anaya. He knew that it was only a matter of time before he found out, but it wasn’t going to be from Lucas. “As for her, I’d rather keep her name out of this. Like I said, the furthest she is away from the inevitable explosion that is Ryden, the better.”

____________________________________________________________________________

There it was; that pensiveness morphed in a flash to irritation as Lucas refused to elucidate that last point, which Natanael did note to be a rarity in itself. The man certainly seemed to have a love of his own voice, after all. And after he’d stood here patiently waiting through the unnecessarily repetitive explanation of Lucas’ job description, too. “If you wished for an increase from the thirty silver stags you’re owed, it could be just as simple to say as much,” Lord Baelish drawled, glancing past Lucas to the door, and then back. “Two golden dragons for the lady’s name. Perhaps it may be evading your notice, but I may, in fact, have access to resources that you do not. I can assure you, at the very least, that it is not in my interest to see Ryden’s -- explosion, as you say -- catch this girl in its midst.” His brow arched again.

____________________________________________________________________________

Even through Natanael’s little break in his pensiveness, Lucas’ slight grin remained. It wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with people like this. Wouldn’t be the last either. He listened to Baelish, his eye even arching with the offer for more payment. Once the man was finished, Lucas just sighed and shook his head. “Keep the dragons. We already have an agreement,” he said with a sigh and another shake of the head. His grin finally faltered as he said “You’ll forgive me for reluctance. Already I’ve watched a group of nobles tear each other apart over a damned chair and seen my first employer butcher his own men in ‘sparring’ sessions. A little caution when it comes to how people interact I feel is a little warranted, no disrespect.” He was silent for a moment before he said “Anaya Uller. That’s the name. Decent person far as nobles go, but she can be a bit feisty. Not a bad trait but when you put fire next to a powder keg, well..” he makes an explosion noise with his mouth and adds on to it with the hand gesture.

____________________________________________________________________________

Natanael’s irritation, though it hadn’t been so terribly outward as to effect his entire demeanor, did lessen as the sellsword acquiesced his demand. The dismissal of politics is of little interest to him, but the rest--the name when it comes, which is one to which he is familiar--this does cause an arch in his brow. The Lord’s hand dipped down, finding and unlacing a coin pouch from where it was tied to a belt beneath his cloak. He shifted it within his palm, then, feeling the weight of the coins.

“Your inclination to discretion is a valid one,” he mused as he took a step in something of a crescent to the side, as though he may be considering walking around Lucas, and toward the door. “I intend no harm to Lady Anaya. You have my word on that, Lucas,” he drawled, though his tone somehow seemed to lack the typical, weighted feeling that most men’s would when they gave such an oath; still, maybe he did mean it. His hand came up with the drawn coinpurse, and he tossed it those few feet between them for Lucas to catch, assuming him capable of that. “Do any other details come to mind that you would like to share,” he prompted, his brow arching once more, “or shall we, perhaps, part for now?”

____________________________________________________________________________


Lucas flashed a light grin at the man. Sure, he “gave his word” but Lucas knew all too well that things like that from a man like this...He’d take them with a grain of salt. At least for now. Who knows, maybe he would be good on his word. They would both find out what would happen should that oath prove false. While Lucas wasn’t exactly loyal to Anaya, he wasn’t exactly loyal to his two employers either. At least not for now. He caught the coin purse and held it in his hand nodding to Nat in thanks.. No need to check it. He figured a man like this knew what happened if he didn’t pay his price. At Nat’s question, Lucas simply shook his head. “Nothing that comes to mind. If that changes though I know how to get a hold of you.” He walked over to the door with Natanael and gave the man somewhat of a half bow. “Until next time then, my friend,” he said as he went to open the door and walk out. If nothing else was said, Lucas would nod to the guard outside, having lost his mood for snark for now and continue on his way out.

____________________________________________________________________________

A conciliatory smile lingered on Natanael’s features as he watched Lucas depart. “Until next we meet,” he agreed, eyeing the sellsword’s upper back and arms as he departed. Perhaps he was considering how deadly the man might be in battle; perhaps he was considering something else entirely. As no one saw his gaze, did it truly matter? Lord Baelish moved to close the door behind his companion, sweeping away then from the door to return to that table, and from within a pocket he withdrew the raven’s message of earlier. Too many words were owed to others, and he drew the quill from the inkpot he’d left it within.

Her Grace Jocelyn Baratheon,

His ink began. The quill paused for a moment as he collected his thoughts, casting aside the day’s troubles.

 

[Lingua Frankly Not]

Ser Joron Corbray
Kingsguard
​

The woods between the rural riverlands' mill and the camp they approached were dark, but there was little terror in it for Ser Joron Corbray, and perhaps the man aside him. A haze of weariness, content though it was, had settled upon the armored knight turned kingsguard. It wasn't until he saw the movement of a single human within these woods, shrouded in darkness, that King Daeron's singular Kingsguard drew his weapon.

Metal scraped against metal. The inside of Lady Forlorn's scabbard must be scarred from her withdrawals, but it was no matter; Corbray held her low and--he paused. Admittedly, he'd not expected moonlight to shine through the coverage of foliage and illuminate the dirty blond of Lord Hunter. "My Lord Hunter," he said aloud, perhaps in apology. One generally did not enjoy having weapons drawn on them, after all, and the stare he afforded Artys Hunter was something of a bemused, if discerning one. They were familiar by the way he paused. His sword raised, lingering for a moment before she began her return into her sheathe, the sound of metal-against-metal singing crisply in the night.

What is he doing here, of every man in the camp of 40,000? Need this occur... now?

Still. Despite the fairly familiar stare he afforded Lord Hunter, a Kingsguard's place was not to speak for his King. Joron's gaze trailed aside to Daeron, awaiting his word.

Braddington
Nightblade

 

[ACHA]

Lord Albert "the Swift Lion" Reyne
Lord of Castamere​

Albert felt cheated, and disgruntled as he was arriving at Lannisport, home to most of the Westerland's navy, and the figurative backdoor to Casterly Rock. While he was given command of one of the Westerland's army, he was forced to watch the seas.

There was less glory to be had in defending, and this greatly disappointed the Lord of Castamere. He knew of its importance to their war efforts, but held no fondness for it. And while he was like a child, pouting at the denial of what he yearned for, he tried to remain positive.

He was the Lord of Castamere, the head of House Reyne. His sigil was not that of a golden lion, pampered and protected by their riches and long history of prestige. His was of the lion covered in blood, whose prestige was built upon blood spilled by their enemies or their own. Albert's father has long stressed the importance of martial prowess and warfare, and how it was deeply rooted in their family's history.

If he was to defend, then he was going to bloody defend it.

The Westerland's coastal defense was ready. If the Iron Islanders, or even the Northmen, tried anything, they would find an iron curtain, instead of beaches and shores.

And while his scouts have reported no movement so far, Albert secretly hoped for it. That the Iron fleet and Northern ships do come and test him. And when they do, they will never forget how menacing lions can be, even on waters.

Lord Edric Dondarrion
Lord of Blackhaven​

Edric has been silent so far, contemplating on recent affairs, and seeing the state of his own men that came with him to King's Landing. Most of them were distraught at first when the news reached their ears, but now the feeling was replaced with anger and rage.

It could be a stroke of luck amidst great misfortune that he brought all of his elites with him. They were getting restless, itching for a chance at vengeance at those who took away their homes. For most men, something like that was enough to dishearten them, but not for the Marcher Lords and warriors of Blackhaven.

When Edric was finally finished assessing the state of his own army, he had decided to finally meet with his liege lord. Steadily, he made his way to his lord's quarters, where he was said to be isolated, thinking things through.

As soon as he arrived at his destination, he saw guards outside the doors. Recognizing Edric, they didn't hassle him, and allowed him in. Lord Edric slowly entered the room, the door creaking as he opened them. That would have been enough to get Lord Alexander's attention.

"Greetings, my lord. I have come as you asked, and I also wish to discuss certain matters with you, my lord." Edric said in a loud, but gentle tone. He immediately bowed his head as he waited for his master's reply.

JPTheWarrior

 

[Lingua Frankly Not]

Natanael Baelish
& Lynora
King's Landing
​

King’s Landing was a cesspool of humanity on a normal day, but by all accounts of the whirling rumour mill trouble started at the docks was spreading like wildfire. Natanael Baelish had little intention of becoming embroiled in as personally dangerous as a riot. Sequestered comfortably in these stretches of streets held and protected by thieves and thugs on his own payroll, Lord Baelish sat within an inn with that peculiar lizard adjusting itself upon his chest and shoulder. The man’s fingers dragged down along the scales of her back, and his gaze lidded as he settled comfortably into his seat.

This particular tavern, The Titan’s Purse, had seen better days. Floorboards have become mildewy in spots, and the paint along the tavern proper’s interior lay chipping. Still, for a select crowd -- generally those who entered and descended below into the basement for certain purchases -- there remained a certain customer loyalty. The same folks who came to The Titan’s Purse generally came again, and then again yet, and rarely looking better for wear.

Back and aside from Baelish stood two common sellswords who wore no man’s colors; the better to blend into the crowds, likely, but in this setting it was clear whose back they were here to guard.

The innkeeper’s wife, a portly, pocked-face woman by the name of Anabes, came upon Lynora to give her shoulder a shove. “Go on, girl,” she rasped. “Don’t you be keeping that one waiting.”


The shove broke Lynora from her daze and she faltered, embarrassed that she'd been caught out while day dreaming. It wasn't as if her job required laser focus, but she needed to at least be aware of who was in the tavern, what they might need. She wondered how long she'd been stood rooted to the spot. Instinctively she muttered a hasty apology, but she needn't have bothered; Anabes was already long gone, busying herself with her own tasks. Bright eyes scanned the room before settling on the man she was supposed to approach, and she paused to consider him from afar for a moment or two before beginning the walk.

Leaving the safety of her little area felt daunting. Gods, you'd think after so many shifts, one would get used to it-- Lynora supposed the nerves came from the unpredictable nature of the situation. One could never quite tell what a patron might do or say. Luckily for Lynora, certain actions were a little easier to predict. For example, she'd learnt quickly how to weave between the table she and dodge any wandering hands.

As she neared the table, Lynora reached up to self consciously pat her mane of blonde curls; just like her father, apparently his hair had been wild too, although much darker.

"My lord," she greeted, pausing to clear her throat and lower the pitch of her voice when she realised how squeaky she sounded, "How can I help you?" As the question left her, Lynora's eyes drifted over the man and were immediately drawn to a particular point of interest. They lit up, and without stopping to think about what she was doing, she forgot the purpose of the conversation and gasped. "Is that a dragon?"


If it was any consolation to Lynora the seated patron did not seem to have taken offense at her earlier absent mindedness, his own gaze resting down upon the lizard prior to her approach. As she did, however, cold, icy blue eyes snapped up, trailing the young woman’s features when she came to a stop. He’d always wondered what purpose these little shy acts might accomplish in consoling oneself, and why so many girls and women retained them. He certainly would be embarrassed to come across in such a manner.

Natanael’s brow arched, fingers slowing in their trail as something of a charming smile tugged at the sides of his lips. “Oh, no, my dear,” he admitted, a hint of wistful shame teasing into his tone. His hands adjusted, coming up underneath the iguana’s torso to carefully lift her off of his doublet, one thumb moving to lift some of her blunted claws from where they tried to hold on. He turned the beast, bringing her into something of a cradle that would allow her back and head to be more readily accessible.

“She hasn’t any wings -- no, this is a more common lizard by far, though not this side of the narrow sea.” The man’s skin was tanned, but his accent was an unplaceable brand of westerosi. “Would you like to touch her?” the Lord asked, adjusting to lean both the lizard, and himself a bit toward Lynora in offer. “An iguana, they call her. Don’t worry; she breathes no fire.”


Every movement Natanael made was watched intently by Lynora, though it was difficult to tell whether she was watching out of caution because she was afraid he would lash out, or if she was just mesmerised. Her expression made it clear which of the two options was far more likely.

“Iguana,” she echoed, feeling heat and colour flood her cheeks when she realised how completely stupid she must have sounded. A dragon? Really? Mentally, the girl scolded herself and made a note to not get swept up by her own excitement again. As Lynora looked at Nathaniel, a thousand whispered warnings from her mother echoed around her head, which made very little sense to her as he seemed perfectly lovely. She knew she shouldn't, she knew she should get on with her job and then scurry off, melt back into the scenery. But, brushing this off, she ran her tongue nervously across her plump lower lip and nodded.

“I do hope you'll accept my apologies, my lord. For my getting off track, as well as my… ignorance.” Her words were followed by a soft, uneasy laugh, as if she was still trying to judge how laid back she could be with this man. Currently, she was keeping her guard up. Lynora leant in too, like the two of them were sharing a secret, and tentatively reached out to run the back of her knuckle along the lizard’s back. From her expression, it was clear that this action thrilled her, and she stole another stroke before she could lose her nerve.

“She really is beautiful,” she breathed, finally wrenching her gaze away from the lizard to devote some attention to the admittedly more important patron, “Again, I’m sorry-- it's just rare to see anything exciting. Does she..? That is to say, if you don't mind me asking, does she have a name?” It was become big apparent that Lynora, in her excitement, had forgotten all about standard procedure. By now, the girl was bent at the waist, her focus already slipping back to the iguana.


“Papaya,” he spoke fondly. The iguana’s head tilted slightly as her name was spoken, but her eyes closed as Natanael’s fingers came to run in repetitive petting motions along the ridges atop her head. “After a fruit from Essos along the island chain these beauties come from. Careful not to let her hear you complimenting her like this; it’ll get to her head, you see. She already has an inflated sense of self-worth.” Natanael’s smile seemed an easy one, and his posture was leisurely as he socialized with this teenage girl.

Those icy blue eyes of Natanael’s flickered up toward Lynora once more though his fingers remained dutiful to Papaya, comforting the iguana that lay upon him. At this distance, it’s clear that silver hairs have peppered their way into what otherwise would be singularly a very dark brown. Some threads had been pulled along the upper part of Baelish’s shoulders from the reptile’s claws, but otherwise he was entirely too put-together for this offshoot of gin alley. It was a rather stark dichotomy, truth be told.

“You’ll have a fifteen year old aged reserve of Old Septon underneath the counter to the far left, hiding behind the black tar rums. Why don’t you go and find that, and perhaps two old-fashioned glasses while you’re at it?” It might have been Lynora’s imagination that there’s a faint purr present in the Lord’s voice as he spoke, but perhaps again it wasn’t. He seemed perfectly nice, after all, as he leaned back, gaze traveling from the girl down to the lizard who seemed mollified by the petting she was receiving. “And some greens and carrots for her.”


It was very easy for Lynora to begin to slip into a state of ease, despite her usual way of keeping her guard firmly up. She straightened up as Nathanael divulged the reptile’s name, and nodded as though in approval. Once she was standing straight again, she took a moment to allow herself to (albeit briefly) examine the man in front of her. Peculiar, to say the least-- even before the lizard was brought up, he wasn’t the type of person who usually graced the tavern. He didn’t exactly blend in. Lynora pursed her lips, curious, and stored these musings at the back of her mind. Though she came across as a little air headed, the girl knew that even seemingly insignificant details could turn out to be useful. It was good to be observant.

“Of course, right away. Apologies if my curiosity’s kept you waiting, my lord.” There was a hint of sheepishness in Lynora’s voice and smile, and she’d definitely noted the hint in his voice. If it was even there. Without another delay, she spun on her heel and disappeared back behind the bar, where she found the bottle precisely where he’d described. That in itself was strange-- it almost felt like the bottle was specifically for him. Special drink, nice clothing, the push from Anabes to serve the man quickly… Suspicions were beginning to formulate in Lynora’s mind already.

Fortunately she didn’t keep him waiting for long, and was soon setting down the glasses and the bottle on the table, followed by a little bowl of the vegetables she’d been able to salvage from the mess in the kitchen. It was only then that the request for two glasses instead of one registered, and she gave a bit of a tease as she set about opening the bottle for him.

“Does she drink then? Papaya?”


“Certainly not,” Baelish drawled, a hint of a dornish accent settling upon some of his vowels, though he did not look the part, “though I was hoping that you might.” There his brow went, arching again, and a conciliatory smile tugged at his lips as he drew the iguana off of his arm, moving to place her down upon the wood of the table. Papaya, for her part, seemed at first unhappy to have been moved, and a slight snorting sound came from her throat as she adjusted and turned, nails clicking on wood.

Reaching for the bowl of vegetables, Natanael took it up and began to tear some of the pieces into smaller bits yet before he replaced the bowl in front of Papaya, who for some moments studied the offering intently as though she was making a very, very difficult decision. Lord Baelish was content to leave her to her staring contest with the bowl of food, and his attention turned fully back to the young lady serving him.

“You’ll have to forgive my presumptuous nature -- a woman as pretty as you,” he purred, leaning back to rest one elbow over the back of his chair, his posture turned within his seat. The implication was that he found her to be out of place, but Natanael felt no need to finish the thought -- it could well hang in the air between them as implication. “What might your name be?”

As an odd sort of punctuation to the lord’s question Papaya chose that moment in which to scamper those few steps forward, darting for a bite of vegetable.


Even though she’d received much more crude invitations while working many times before, Lynora still seemed to be taken by surprise. It was almost comical, the way her face betrayed her thought process. On one hand, her mother always warned her to be careful of people who seemed nice for no reason, and she did have work to do. On the other, she wanted to stay, and Anabes had told her not to keep Nathanael waiting, so perhaps she should be polite. Yes, it’d be rude not to accept.

She seemed nervous as she gingerly perched on the very edge of a chair, skittish, like she was waiting for him to change his mind. His comment distracted her, and she remained frozen, lips parted in surprise, as colour flooded her face. Clearly, the girl wasn’t good at receiving compliments, or keeping a poker face.

“Oh, I… Thankyou, m-my lord,” She stopped and took a breath to calm the stutter, then smiled warmly and tucked a curl of honey coloured hair behind her ear. Lynora was difficult to place, appearance wise; her clothes were simple but undamaged, her hair was somehow neat and flyaway at the same time, she appeared well fed. “Mine? Oh! Lynora, I’m Lynora.” There was little point adding in a last name, she decided, as it was basically worthless anyway. A look of amusement crossed her face as she watched Papaya, but it changed to curiosity when she glanced up again. “And yours? If I’m not prying.”


“Natanael Baelish, at your service.” The man's head tilted forward and down in the slightest of respectful nods, sad though he truly meant the honeyed words that left his mouth. Maybe he was that charming, and was kind and respectful. There are men like that somewhere in the world… right? “And what a pleasure to meet you, Lynora.”

Leaning forward, Natanael made to take the bottle of rum -- either from her if she was still holding it, or from the table if it'd been placed down -- and then to drag those glasses in front of himself and pour three fingers of rum into each. “You seem out of place in an establishment like this.” His fingers came down to wood, sliding a glass forward to the girl. For her, it seemed. The rum was aromatic and layered in a spiced liquor almost entirely unrelated to the black tar commonly drunk by sailors.


“It’s a pleasure to meet you too,” Lynora added, dipping her head politely. The man’s name was naturally filed away with the rest of her thoughts about him, to help her piece together the curious puzzle that he was becoming.

His remark hung in the air between them as Lynora accepted the glass with a murmur of thanks and tentatively lifted it towards her face, taking in the scent before she even considered taking a sip. After all, she didn’t drink, not really, her mother had never really been keen on it. It made people do regrettable things, she claimed. But just this one glass couldn’t hurt, surely? Unfortunately for Lynora, her inexperience shone through the moment she brought the cup to her lips and drank-- she wrinkled her nose, and tried to suppress a cough. Quickly, she moved to respond, to draw attention away from her embarrassment.

“How so? I’d always assumed I blended nicely into the background,” She didn’t seem to have any ulterior motive, wasn’t even seeking a compliment, she just seemed genuinely confused. With a laugh and a shake of her head, she took another drink, this time without the same juvenile reaction.


“I can't imagine how you've managed that all these years,” the lord mused, taking up his own glass and gently swirling the interior contents. Despite the clear expense of the alcohol passed between them he remained more interested in her than it. “With golden locks as noble as any. Do you like it here, Lynora? Have you been treated well?”

Up came the glass to his lips, finally, and Natanael drank of it as he briefly glanced back to where his two guards murmured between themselves. At his glance one of them shifted, clearing his throat, and the pair fell silent again. Natanael’s gaze returned to Lynora. It seemed that neither the innkeeper nor his wife intended to interrupt Lord Baelish and Lynora by dragging the girl away and back to her duties, and indeed Anabel had begun bussing a few tables herself in the interim.


Every word Nathanael said seemed to draw Lynora in more and more. Colour blossomed in her cheeks and she subconsciously reached up to touch her hair when it was mentioned. She allowed herself a moment to consider how to answer his question, wondering where it was leading, if anywhere. The job was far from fun, but there were many options that were much worse. All in all, though her day to day involved being snapped and grabbed at, Lynora supposed she couldn’t really complain. Although truth be told in her ideal world, she would quit.

“It’s a job, isn’t it? You know, I used to descale fish. So I suppose compared to that, I like it here. It’s… well, it’s what you’d expect it to be.” The answer seemed tactful enough to her. Not too much of a complaint, but with an implication that she wasn’t one hundred percent thrilled with her work. Lynora tilted her head to the side like a curious bird and leant in. “Why do you ask, my lord?” Then, with the ghost of a smile, she jokingly added, “Are you considering work in a tavern?”


Natanael’s eyebrows arched as his gaze feigned and intimated at surprise; how in the world had she caught him in this manner? Had he grown predictable with age? Was he now so easy to read? “Truly,” the man's honeyed tongue said, his shoulders leaning forward as though this was to be a secret shared between the pair, “it's been my dream for as long as I can recall. The scent of spilled ale, the rational, entrancing conversations of valued patrons...” A wistful glimmer entered Natanael’s voice.

With a convincing straight face like that, the lord likely would make a talented gambler. A brief swirl of his rum proved prelude to another drink of it. “May I tell you a secret, dear Lynora?” He leaned forward, a hand moving to trail a few fingers along the side of the iguana that occupied table between them.


Despite her nerves, Lynora couldn’t help but laugh at the longing look that came over Nathanael, even daring to play along with the joke a little. “Oh, but my lord, you’ve forgotten: those patrons are wonderful conversationalists, and if you’re really lucky, they might try to grope you when you aren’t looking.” Quickly, she seemed to lose her nerve and lowered her eyes sheepishly. “I’m sorry. Really, I don’t want to sound ungrateful.”

It was hard to tell whether it was the rum or Nathanael calling Lynora ‘my dear’ that caused such a flush in the girl’s face, but no matter the answer, the blushing was obvious. She’d always loved secrets, and this whole affair with this strange man complimenting her and inviting her for a drink was making her feel very… special. Eagerly, she nodded, looking up from where she’d been watching his fingers and fixing him with a wide eyed, earnest gaze. “Oh of course, my lord. What is it you’d like to tell me?”


Papaya’s tail swished faintly as she shifted, head raising to look around the room seemingly in thought; still, she is but a lazy reptile, and look is all she does. Natanael’s fingers shift to rub at the top of her head to mollify the iguana, as he doesn’t particularly think his guards would enjoy darting after her again. He certainly wouldn’t be the one running to collect her if she darted off, after all. A sly smile tugged its way back onto Natanael’s features as he studied Lynora, admiring the way she flushed, and the eagerness inherent in her tone and visage.

“I’ve just received word,” he murmured conspiratorially across the lizard, “that with the shifting of the small council I’m to be named a Keeper of the Keys.” With that said, he leaned back, raising his glass in a mock ‘cheers’ motion before he kicked it back, draining what remained within. “And you’re the first soul I’ve told,” he mused then, looking over Lynora as though he was attempting to ascertain her trustworthiness. “I can trust you to keep this a secret, Lynora, can’t I? It’s yet to be announced, and… well, I don’t wish to jeopardize these matters. They’re delicate, you know.”


The way Lynora was holding onto his every word, barely daring to breathe until he'd told her what he'd intended to, was very sweet, albeit a little pitiful. She sank her teeth into her lower lip, chewed as she mulled this information over. So he was somebody of important. Perhaps her mother would know.

“I won't tell anybody, you can trust me.” Her nodding was just to emphasise her words, but it was so frantic that for a moment it looked as though her head might snap straight off of her elegant neck. Re-tucking a curl of hair behind her ear, she leant in and further narrowed the gap between them, eyes glittering with interest in the dim light of the tavern. “Really, I'm awfully flattered you decided to tell me. You must be excited. Tell me more, my lord? You're very interesting, you know. It's not often someone like you walks in here. Oh, but only if I'm not bothering you. I don't want to overstay my welcome.” As if to punctuate her sentence, she mirrored his actions and drained the rest of her drink.


Natanael's lidded gaze trailed over Lynora as she voiced these pretty words in a picture of innocence; perhaps it's something of a shame that Natanael was predisposed to mistrust what seemed to him an overselling of trustworthiness, particularly from a commoner who has had to survive life amongst the dregs of King’s Reach’s finest. Tanned fingers reached forward, taking hold of the rim of Lynora’s glass with a hooked finger where out came to rest down upon the table and dragged it back toward himself.

“I've told you my secret and you're already hoping for another, dear Lynora?” A collected coyness fluttered through the man's voice. “That hardly seems fair.” Lifting up the bottle, Natanael neatly poured a new glass for both of them, just as many fingers as the last. He pushed her glass back to her. “Doesn’t it seem some reciprocation is in order? Why don't you tell me a secret, Lynora?”


Lynora accepted the glass and dipped her forefinger into the rum, bringing it up to her lips to suck it off thoughtfully as she considered what he'd pointed out, face drawn into a frown. He did have a point, she thought. But what could she say? Compared to his, her life would seem awfully boring. Still, she had to try at least-- this man’s arrival was possibly the most interesting thing that had ever happened to Lynora, period. So she didn't want him to lose interest. What could she say? Gods, it was like her mind was clouded. Then, it hit her. Her frown melted away as she came up with a plan, and she smiled coyly as she repeated the process of dipping her finger into her drink.

“How abouuuut,” she began, in an almost sing-song tone of voice, “You ask me absolutely anything, and I’ll tell you the absolute truth. You have my word. Because I just can't think of anything I could say that you'd find interesting. I’m terribly boring, you know. All work. No politics or intrigue or drama or men. Not for me.” When she realised she was rambling, she trailed off and punctuated it by slipping her finger back into her mouth as she studied his face carefully.


Were he to have had any misconceptions as to Lynora’s understanding of norms whilst drinking such fine liquor Natanael might have judged her quite harshly; this was a rare reserve, and it grated down the length of his spine to see a tavern maid’s filthy fingers ruining his rum. Instead, Natanael reminds himself to calm, consciously maintaining that sly, if charming smile that seemed to blossom in response to Lynora’s offer as though he, too, was drawn in. Indeed, he even leaned a bit closer to display that interest as he carefully considered her offer. Terribly boring, she said and then underlined -- how banal. Natanael held hope that there was more to this creature than that, and so he crafted his thoughts into an opportunity for her to display that. Hopefully she would be capable of proving as much. Hopefully he hasn’t merely wasted his coins on another mindless wench.

“I will take you up on that offer,” he mused, his glass lifting and swirling as he looked over her with an icy, piercing gaze. “Though I suppose we should wade past these aspects of your life you claim to be lackluster.” He paused for a beat to drink. “If given the opportunity to have access to anything that could reasonably be gained by you,” he began, tasting over some of his words as though they were a fine wine, and he carefully considering the palate of them, “what would you wish to acquire in order to gain access to something worthwhile, something that would give your life the meaning it lacks? What would you like to become -- to be remembered as?”


It hadn't been mentioned, but Lynora still stopped dipping her finger into the rum as if it had. Normally she wouldn't dream of doing such a thing-- it was a habit she'd had as a little girl, a habit her mother had chastised her for until she'd stopped. Cerissa wanted her daughter to be a perfect lady, much like her dear sister, even though Lynora would never be a lady by name. It was a shame. She'd have been better suited to that life than the one she'd been given, the one where she was either being yelled at or aggressively flirted with. Neither option was brilliant.

His question gave Lynora a lot to think about, and she daintily sipped her drink as she considered her answer. Truth me told, she'd expected something much more… insipid. As she set her glass down she smiled and leant in even further, to the point where she was likely no longer touching her seat at all.

“I’ll tell you the truth, like I promised.” The girl’s voice was a soft purr, though it was unclear whether that was intentional, or just because she was trying to be quiet, or whether it was an effect of the alcohol. Certainly the third was the most likely. “I want to be useful. There has to be more to life than being a reminder of your mother's mistakes and working in a horrible tavern for the rest of your days, you know? I love people, I love talking to them, I love learning the things about them that nobody knows, people tell me things. So my answer is, I’d want to be able to put that to use. To have some impact. Not just be one of those people who could never have been here at all and things still would have been the same.”

Another big sip.


Natanael’s gaze narrowed faintly as he listened to Lynora’s words, truly seeming to be staring not merely into her eyes, but perhaps past them as though searching for meaning. That she took this question seriously in the first place settled as a pleasant surprise to the man who’d expected she might not; others wouldn’t have. Certainly, he’d met lowborn throughout his life with the aspiration of a honeybee content to drone the rest of its short existence away in servitude. Natanael had never held any fondness for insects. Repulsive things, despite the necessity of them.

The insinuation of aspersion onto his ability to utilize discretion whilst divulging brings Natanael momentary amusement. His lips tug into something reminiscent of a smile, though it looks reptilian. “And here I’d thought,” he mused, “my tavern to be the pride of King’s Landing.” He leaned back within his chair, hooking his elbow over the back of it once more as he swirled his rum, thinking. “I suppose you’ll be pleased to know that you’re fired,” he drawled, gesturing then around the room with the pointed index finger of his glass-holding hand. “I’ll be informing Mandon and Anabes.”

He didn’t seem to be done speaking, but he did give pause there, eyeing Lynora and allowing her the chance to react should she wish.


Lynora seemed to realise she'd made a mistake the moment Nathanael mentioned the tavern was his, but weakly masked her shock with a forced, uneasy laugh. Of course, as soon as he informed her of her impending unemployment, her demeanour changed entirely-- as could be expected, she seemed stricken with panic. She couldn't lose her job, she just couldn't. What else was there to do? Fish again? Or was she doomed to follow the path down to the whorehouse? Perhaps there was still time to change his mind, though even as the thought occurred to her, she knew it was unlikely. Then again, she didn't have a lot of pride. She could beg. But something told her that Nathanael would not be impressed or swayed by that sort of pathetic display.

“Oh, my lord, please,” This time when she leant forwards, it was to make the move to grab his forearm, though she hesitated at the last second and left her hand lingering in mid air. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “Please, I’m sorry. I didn't meant what I said. It's wonderful here. I shouldn't have complained so much.”

With her free hand she wound a curl of hair around her forefinger, released it, and then started the process again. A nervous habit of hers. Her eyes seemed filled with horror at the prospect of losing her job, though whether she was attached to this job in particular, or just feared unemployment, was a grey area.

“Reconsider, my lord?” The last question was very soft, she almost seemed to be promoting him, hating the suspense that the pause was causing.


Natanael needn’t reconsider, but for those moments he peered at Lynora with what could only be interpreted as the stare of an uncaring man. Perhaps it didn’t matter to him what state her predicament would leave her in; perhaps her display of pleading failed to move him. Perhaps she needn’t have done any of this in the first place. His free hand came forward, aiming to take the hand of hers that had hovered above his forearm and bring it to his lips; should she not resist, he would lightly brush them atop knuckles in the way one might with a highborn lady, though she was not.

“I will not,” he drawled, looking over Lynora. “The thought of relegating you to the existence you’ve found in these walls repulses me. No; I think we can find a better use for you than this, don’t you?” He then drew his hand away, lifting his glass up in a toast-like motion before drinking of it once more, drowning the remainder of his second glass. He set it down, and made no effort to refill it. Perhaps two was enough.

“Tell me, Lynora,” he mused, “what other talents do you have? Can you read and write your letters? Do you understand the intricacies of etiquette? How to act in front of the the lords and ladies of Court?” He arched a brow, drawling some emphasis over his last question. “Have you laid with a man?”


Perhaps it was still the frantic worry that kept Lynora in a trance-like state, but she watched Natanael’s movements, captivated as he brushed her hand against his lips. It immediately became apparent that she’d never been treated in such a way, and was painfully unaware of how to react. The poor girl appeared to be holding her breath as Natanael spoke, like she had gotten it into her head that even the slightest movement on her part would worsen the situation.

His words brought a sigh of relief. Her chest visibly fell after the sharp rise as she relaxed.

“A better use?” Lynora echoed, though did not pursue the question when she realised she might’ve interrupted. Instead she settled, keeping quiet as she listened, eyes bright with curiosity and interest. What could he possibly want with her?

The girl’s pretty face seemed to light up as she saw an opportunity to paint herself in a better light. Eagerly she nodded, adjusting her bodice and then her hair when it finally clicked that now might be a good time to try and make a decent impression.

“Yes! Yes, I can, I can read and I can write, and I know how to behave; mother always said those things are important.” She explained. Cerissa, being a lady herself, had wanted Lynora to behave like one too, even pass for one, though she was not. Cheeks flushed with pride, Lynora sat up straighter, though her blush darkened considerably at the final question. After a moment of confidence she was once again thrown off balance.

“Oh. Oh, I…” The stuttering did little to betray the answer. She could’ve been embarrassed either way. As it happened, Lynora was concerned he’d think of her as… immature. Though her mother had told her it was good-- what possible positive outcome would there be of doing that, she’d asked. And Lynora, even in her naivety, had felt the unspoken dig. She was living proof, after all. “I… If you m-must know… No. No, my lord, I haven’t.” Then, regaining some of her confidence, she chanced: “Is that… Is that a problem?”


Whilst Baelish need not have known he also cared little to dissuade gentle Lynora’s answer; if she wished to divulge to him her life story and to rest her wellbeing within his hands, Lord Natanael Baelish was only too willing to oblige her.

“Oh, of course not,” Baelish purred to the young woman. “Particularly not if you’re looking to establish some coin for yourself.” His gaze trailed down to the iguana whom he reached for, his hands coming to carefully lift her and bring her toward his chest, resting her down there along his upper chest and shoulder so that she could become comfortable. “A young woman such as yourself,” he mused aloud, “could fetch a gold dragon for a single night’s time. An hour’s work,” he drawled, glancing past Papaya’s back to where Lynora say, “for two hundred and ten silver stags. If you were willing to trade your maidenhood for economic stability. I could arrange that for you, if you’d like. For a small cut.”

A calculating glint lingered within Baelish’s gaze, and two of his fingers came up to linger on the side of the iguana’s head, rubbing there in calming motions. “That matter aside--you may think on it for a time, of course, it’s rather delicate, now isn’t it?--that aside, I’ll be interested to see your writing, and your understanding of numbers.” His brow arched. “If you are capable of scribing, I may have use of you yet.” Use past the opportunity her unripped hymen provided, of course.

ailurophile

 

[Braddington]

King Daeron III Targaryen
King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm​

Daeron was taken by surprise as he walked through the fields back to the camp with Ser Joron by a man he couldn’t truly distinguish. It was unusual for someone to be out this late and Joron pre-emptively drew his sword as he knew this perfectly well but the situation was quickly defused when he announced the man to be Lord Hunter. Daeron regarded the man with his wet hair and looked him up and down, he had never really spoken with the Lord in private before but they had seen each other plenty of times in the past. His brother having been the husband of his aunt. He can’t say he ever had any bad feelings towards the man and so Daeron simply bowed his head slightly in an awkward fashion considering pain in other areas and let forth a smile.

“Lord Hunter, it is good to see you though I must say it is odd to find someone out here at this hour. I was just taking a relaxing stroll myself, found the windmill and decided to do a bit of star gazing before the march tomorrow.” He looked to his Kingsguard and remembered his duties “Oh, have you met Ser Joron Corbray?” It was a bit of a stupid question, obviously they knew each other but it was too late to take it back now.

Lingua Frankly Not
Nightblade

 

[Shadowborn Omen]

Ser Garrett Cerwyn

Castle Cerwyn
Days after the events at Harrenhall​

An unsympathetic breeze wafted in from the open window of the room. It was the type of cold that chilled the bone, but the north folk had grown used to it over the years. Garrett’s eyes scanned the corners of the room as he shifted slightly in his seat. He had been sitting there for hours, his arse was beginning to get sore. His eyes drifted back to the table before him and the small group of people sitting at it, all conversing amongst each other. His Lord father and Lady mother, amongst others, were discussing local matters that interested Garrett none. The seven Kingdoms were on the verge of a civil war. Lord Symon Rosby had been murdered in front of the entire Council, stabbed by Gawen Tyrell while revealing the legitimization of Daeron Waters.

No, Daeron Targaryen.

Harrenhall turned to chaos in an instant, Daeron was ambushed. Garrett and his brother fought alongside Daeron’s forced to protect him against those who wished him harm… All this, and his family wanted to speak about how much grain to leave the farmers.

All this excitement left Garrett with a difficult time focusing on such small things. He knew what his father would say on the matter: “Your farmers are worth every bit as much as your soldiers.” Still, Garrett couldn’t find the motivation sit still. When his eyes met with his father’s, his attention was suddenly pulled to the subject at hand.

“Ser Garrett. What would you have done to Orwen?” his father asked him. Orwen, the man who tried to steal a horse to ride to a woman in the Stormlands. Garrett ran his thumb across the tips of his fingers as his eyes fixed on them, a habit he had developed for when he would think.

“Can we really blame poor Orwen? I mean, a civil war is in our midst, and his poor lady is stuck down south,” Garrett paused as he looked around the room, the disdain was palpable. The ever-so-slight grin on his face fading away as his wide eyes half-closed, his energy flat lining as he grew more serious. “He is a thief and a traitor. We cannot have the people of Castle Cerwyn thinking this is acceptable. Which hand does Orwen prefer?” Garrett asked, and when he heard a mumbled ‘right’ from the room, he quickly snapped his answer: “We take three fingers from his left.” His eyes rested on his father’s, and for a moment there was a silence in the room as father and son silently communicated with each other. After that moment, Lord Cerwyn nodded and spoke.

“Then it shall be done,” he said, finalizing Garrett’s suggestion, “before sundown.”

Before the words had even settled in the room, the wooden door began to sluggishly swing open, the cold locks discharging a low grinding sound. The maester quietly stepped into the room, the quiet chinking of the chain around his neck being the only sound audible as he shuffled his way into view.
“I am sorry my Lord, we have received a letter from Daeron Wa-“ The maester quickly stopped himself, bringing a softly clenched fist over his mouth as he cleared his throat, “Daeron Targaryen.” The elder finished, prompting Lord Cerwyn to quickly stand out of his seat and take long strides towards the maester, his arm beginning to stretch towards the letters in the old man’s hand, his face contorting with a sudden burst of excitement. Before the Lord reached the letter, the maester spoke quickly, “The letter is addressed to Ser Garrett.”

Lord Cerwyn took a brief moments pause with a look of confusion and shock on his face, his surprise that it was to his son obvious. Regaining his composure, the Lord brought his head high into the air. The other people in the room slightly shifted in an uncomfortable fashion before Lord Cerwyn spoke. “Ah, I am glad my son has the interest of the King,” he said before turning back to return to his seat. The maester, apprehensive to say anything else in the moment, turned to Garrett, who was still sitting in his seat. The letter flew gracefully from the maester’s hand to Garrett’s. The young knight’s brow furrowed in confusion as he looked from the maester to the letter in his hand. It had the seal of Targaryen. Of Daeron. Garret took a deep breath and clenched his jaw, gently running his finger over the top of the seal before pulling the letter open, dried wax pulling apart with a satisfying noise.

Spoiler: To Ser Garrett Cerwyn

To Ser Garrett Cerwyn,

I, as your King, humbly beg your presence in the Eyrie along with your brother. After the catastrophic events at Harrenhal and the most craven ambush by Dornish forces I wish to properly reward you and your brother for loyal service and the steadfast presence you provided upon the battlefield in the face overwhelming odds. Your father and your house should look with great pride upon your already significant service.

I hope to see you soon in an orderly time and I look forward to it.

Signed,

King Daeron of the House Targaryen the Third of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm

The knight looked over the letter many times, disbelief in his eyes as the meaning of the words slowly became clear to him. The shock must have been obvious on his face, as his father’s next words came with an impatient tone.

“Well? What is it boy?” The Lord spouted, his heavy hand clenching in front of him from the overwhelming anticipation. The look on Garrett’s face was a mixture of curiosity and excitement, with a hint of confusion.

“King Daeron, he has summoned me and Brandon to the Eyrie,” he said, a slight bit of hesitation as he reread the letter once more to assure he did not misinterpret it.

“What for?” Lord Cerwyn asked, his impatience still weighing heavily on his voice. Garrett again hesitated for a moment before responding to his father. His lips curled, displaying his simultaneous pleasure and confusion at getting such a letter.

“It says he wishes to properly reward us for our loyal service and steadfast presence at the ambush at Harrenhall,” Garrett said strongly before standing up with confidence, handing for the letter back to the maester “Thank you, maester. Me and my brother will be leaving immediately,” he said, his surprise and confusion seemingly gone as his normal confidence manifested in the man once again. His father’s voice came swiftly after.

“Must you leave on such short notice? We still have matters to discuss,” the man spoke sternly. Garrett hesitated not, turning to his father with the brows of his eyes raised.

“The King has summoned me, father. He wishes to see me and Brandon, and in his words he’d like to see us in a ‘timely manner.’ Would you really have your King wait so we can discuss Orwen and his fingers?” his tone was playful, but his words were sharp. Lord Cerwyn’s jaw visibly clenched for a moment as his eyes stared into his son’s. His hand waved as he silently dismissed Garrett. It took only two strides and half as many seconds for Garrett to get from his seat to the door, and not a single glance was had at the room as he exited.

Entering the yard, Garrett came to the sudden realization on just how windy this day was. Had he not experienced cold such as this on a near-daily basis since birth, he feared he may have frozen to death upon exiting the castle door. It took but a moment for the knight to catch sight of his brother, the massive man. Garrett’s hair blew freely as he casually strolled across the unfriendly earth of the bailey towards his brother, who was training soldiers in the courtyard. The large man was powerful and brutal with a sword, as he was demonstrating to the smaller man unfortunate enough to be in a duel with him. However, his brutality with a sword was nothing compared to his ability with his battleaxe.

As Garrett approached, the soldier fighting Brandon swung wildly, his blade being met with Brandon’s at a poor angle. The sheer strength behind the larger man’s parry pulled the sword free from the soldier’s grasp, causing the sword to fly many yards away, nearly hitting another man watching the fight. The soldier didn’t even have a moment to realize what had happened before he felt the raw strength of Brandon plunging into him, knocking him backwards with so much force that Garrett wasn’t even sure he was conscious anymore until the man began to speak.

“I yield! I yield!” The man spoke quickly, loudly, and with fear. Garrett pitied the genuine terror in the man’s voice. Brandon had a reputation for taking duels too far, he would fight until the other man either yielded or was unconscious. As the point of the large knight’s sword dropped to the ground, Garrett spoke up.

“Brandon!” he spoke loudly, trying to be audible over the howling of the wind. The hulk of a man before him turned slowly to face him, still a few yards away. “Prepare to leave, King Daeron has summoned us to the Eyrie!” Brandon was already moving to gather his belongings before Garrett had even finished his sentence. Garrett knew it wouldn’t be hard to convince his brother to go, he would likely walk to his own execution without question if he had been ordered to.

It hadn’t been more than a meal’s time before the two brothers were mounted and ready to depart Castle Cerwyn, accompanied by a small band of men. The gates of the Castle opened, making way for the small group to depart. Garrett looked back at the Castle, seeing his father on a wooden walkway, watching as his two sons departed by order of the King. The Knight grinned as he turned back to face the path ahead. It was no secret to anyone, he was excited to see King Daeron once again.


The Cerwyn Brothers

The Eyrie
A few days after their departure​

Brandon was left in a state of awe upon seeing the Eyrie. It always left him speechless. He looked over at his brother, who was clearly just as enamored by the sky castle as Brandon. Garrett looked over at his brother before letting out his thoughts.

“You know, I couldn’t think of a more scenic place to meet the King,” he said, receiving a small nod of agreement from his brother. The smaller man was surprised to see a smile on his brother’s face, although it was slight. A smile was not something the younger Knight often carried.

“You know, brother. When you told me the King had requested our presence, I had wondered why he would do such a thing,” the larger man admitted, “but the more I thought about it, the more I realized it didn’t matter. I am glad to have been summoned, no matter the purpose.”

Garrett nodded silently in response to his brother’s words. He admired the loyalty his brother had, even to men he did not truly know. Garrett, on the other hand, had spoken to Daeron once before, though the young boy was a Waters then. It was the night he was Knighted, and he only spoke to the to-be King for a few minutes, but Garrett was excited to see him once again.

“Yes, Brandon, It is exciting, indeed. However, the true nature of this adventure has yet to reveal itself. Do not allow your wondering to cease just yet,” the older one advised the younger. With that, the two brothers grew silent once again as they rode towards the castle in the distance.

The final moments of their journey were by far the most treacherous. The Eyrie wasn’t known for how easily it was accessed. However, they managed to take the final stretches of their journey in stride and made it to the castle. Garrett couldn’t help but notice how few of the men looked comfortable upon their arrival. It seemed as though all the men the brothers could see were prepared to leave on a moments notice. Upon arriving, they were guided by one of the men there to a set of doors, Brandon opting to leave his massive battleaxe with his horse, deciding he would likely not need it here.

The doors swung open and the brothers were guided into the room. Garrett’s face flashed a pleasurable look for an instant before masking itself once again as his eyes found the King, every ounce as young and handsome as he was the last time Garrett saw him. Brandon stopped a few steps into the room, but Garrett continued walking towards the King.

“My King,” he said with a volume and tone that broadcasted the words to the audience around him. He took a few more strides towards Daeron, getting so close some of the men around the room got physically uncomfortable, planning for the worst. However, at this juncture, Garrett stopped. He bowed slightly, keeping his head tilted upwards towards Daeron. His next words came quieter, as though Daeron’s ears were the only ones that he wished to hear.

“Who do I owe, for such an honor?”


The doors opening took Daeron out of his trance, no doubt he was meant to be attending to the surrounding crowd but he would rather get lost in the book he was reading than deal with all of that. He placed the book down as he noticed the Cerwyn brothers enter the room, all eyes on them instead of him for a change was a welcome relief. As Ser Garrett stepped forward the men around him became rather tense and nervous, most had never seen these men before and did not know the King had sent for them in the first place. Lord Commander Royce placed one hand on his sword before pulling it just enough so the cold steel was visible to all, a minor act that spoke a thousand words.

Garrett stopped at a reasonable distance however and bowed to Daeron. The tension in the room was noticeably eased and Royce let go of his sword, only the slightest sound of metal screeching forth from his scabbard. Daeron smiled at the man and started walking towards him, the Lords and knights around them pretended they weren't listening or looking but they clearly were. The Lord Commander walked at his side, ever vigilant for threats in every corner.

“You and your brother owe yourselves,” he said with a jovial tone “if it hadn't been for your aid I could very well of laid dead upon the ground at Harrenhal. A terrible end I think you would agree. With the northern valour you provided, we made it out alive, except of course for the loyal and courageous Lord Cassel who fought with the strength of a true first man.” Daeron looked over to Garrett's brother Brandon and motioned for him to step forward as well. “I invited you here to reward you for your service and reward you I shall. I saw you all those years ago in Winterfell, when you won the melee and I knew then as I do now that you and your brother are unique fighters, both different completely in your styles, but together you could work wonders. I have 7 cloaks to fill and only 3 are currently occupied.”

Daeron motioned to Harlan Royce who produced a royal writ and handed it to him. “I offer you here today the chance to make history as the first 2 northern members of the Kingsguard with all the honours it entails. To wear the white cloak and have your names in the White Book alongside such men as Aemon the Dragonknight.” Daeron stepped back for a second to allow the brothers to react.

Garrett’s head raised slightly as Daeron proposed the brothers join the Kingsguard. His mind jumped from place to place, knowing his father would be furious to hear the two brothers were sworn from taking Castle Cerwyn, but also being aware of the honor associated with such a role, as well as other reasons he'd rather keep to himself. Subconsciously, Garrett’s thumb began sliding across the tips of his fingers yet again. His smile was still upon his face, though it shifted slightly into a smile that signified a mixture of worry and excitement. His jaw clenched as he prepared to make a decision he knew he would not be able to take back, but before his mouth could open he heard the shuffling of his brother behind him.

Brandon took only a few small steps toward the King. The tenseness of the room may have been slightly relieved, but Brandon knew the two brothers were still strangers to many of the people in this room, and a man Brandon’s size walking towards the King would rightfully make any soldier uncomfortable. He stopped next to his brother, his entire body falling slightly as he dropped to one knee, his head bowed down to the ground.

“I would be honored to serve you as one of your loyal Kingsguard alongside Lord Commander Royce, Ser Corbray, and Ser Rosby, Your Grace,” the large man said. Garrett looked down at his brother for a moment before looking back up at the King.

“I share my brother’s enthusiasm,” Garrett said quickly. Brandon may have never been very good with words, but he did know honor. Brandon put the words in a way Garrett wasn’t sure he would be able to.

“We gladly accept, Your Grace.”


Brandon Cerwyn

The Riverlands​

The slight night breeze caused the flaps of Brandon’s tent to slap against each other as the large man sat outside. Any reasonable man would conclude the man should be exhausted after the long ride with little rest. The lack of Kingsguard put a limit on the amount of sleep each one could get. However, many men got used to the long stretches of time without rest a long time ago, and Brandon was no exception. He had barely slept in the past week, but wasn’t yet feeling the effects. He had been listening to the goings of the camp in the night, as he had every night they had camped before. The man’s eyes brushed over the tent before him, his brother’s. Garrett had just gotten off guard before Joron had taken up the post, and the older Cerwyn had quickly fallen to sleep once he was relieved. With a slight grunt, Brandon pushed off of his knees and stood up, one of the men nearby was audibly surprised by how the man seemed to grow as he stood full. He felt the blood rush to his legs as they got the first bit of use in many hours.

Daeron had left with Joron not too long ago. Brandon had seen them walk away, but didn’t know where it was they were heading to. He had been waiting to see them return, but they hadn’t yet. He let out a loud exhale as he began to explore the camp. Surely there’d be something to keep his mind occupied.

 

[Nightblade]

Brielle
The Fallen Fire Priestess
​

Brielle watched from the shore as the boat that was approaching them came close. She noted it was mostly men on deck but word had come from one of the Tarth men that a noble lady was with them. Possibly the remaining member of her family, Brielle thought to herself. Turning to one of the men that accompanied her, she gave him strict instructions to have warm food prepared for all of those who had arrived. Tarth was 3 hours by ship so they would need food, especially if they came a long way.

Brielle also made a mental check of the number of fighting men that were in the party. Every capable sword arm would be needed in the fight, including her own so any aid would be a bonus. She knew by the look on Jon's face he had the beginnings of a plan but she would have to probe him to find out exactly what his idea was. Knowing Jon it would be something rash and impulsive.

Waiting as the noble lady of the party finished speaking with the Tarth men, Brielle thought to herself about what her life was like before coming across Jon Baratheon. It was not often she had these moments of nostalgia but she indulged none the less. Seeing that the conversation was finished, Brielle stepped forward and introduced herself to the lady.

"My lady, I am Brielle a companion of Lord Jon Baratheon. If you will follow me I will bring you to the hall where discussion is going on regarding recent events. Food has been called for yourself and your men"

Mentions:
Little-Fox

 

[Nightblade]

Selene Mallister
The watcher of the Sea
​

Selene looked at the fully armed men that were ready to march. Her own horse at the front with her captains. Leaving a small but considerable force to defend seagard, Selene began to lead her men from Seagard with The Twins being her destination. The Riverlords who were answering the call from House Tully were marching northward so the men of House Mallister would march too. She sent A Raven to The Twins, specifically Lord Frey announcing she was marching and would be there by the evening on the morrow.

She had left the Castellan in charge of Seagard while she would be away. With any luck she would make it to The Twins in time to meet the force called by the Tullys. This was a dangerous position the Riverlands were in caught on two sides by Daeron, but such was war she thought to herself . Seeing the men march in Mallister livery made her feel a moment of pride for keeping her house strong despite being the only direct member of her family left alive not including distant cousins.

 

[Nightblade]

Artys Hunter
The Huntsman
​

Artys looked between the men and if he were being honest, neither of them could lie for shite. It was glaringly obvious something had happened or been said that was more important than a walk. But Artys was not the type to thrive on idle gossip, he never was. Shaking his head slightly and giving an easy grin he held his hands up in a sort of surrender to show he was unarmed and spoke.

"Yes your grace, I do know Ser Joron we grew up together as boys in the Vale. As for why I was out here, I was just down by the river having a wash. I prefer cold water after sparring as I find it relaxes the muscles a bit faster than hot water"

Looking between the two men, Artys decided he was too tired to pick apart what had gone on. But one thing he did note for future referencing was that when it came to lying, King Daeron was not too great at it. He would need to change this and quickly if he was to take the throne.

Mentions:
Braddington - Daeron
Lingua Frankly Not - Joron

 

[Lingua Frankly Not]

Ser Joron Corbray
Kingsguard
​

Ser Joron Corbray knew himself to be a shite liar, and so he did not engage in the practice, preferring to avoid certain topics by omission. Why try at something you're born to be horrid at? His sideward glance at Daeron became vaguely exasperated as the King did precisely that. The man was horribly awkward. Painfully awkward really.

Hmmm. Pain.

He very nearly found his gaze wandering, but caught it before it did. Joron looked to Lord Hunter again, amused. "He does this, even in the winter," Joron spoke up in corroboration, gesturing over to Artys with his chin as he spoke, leaning his head a bit toward Daeron. "Freezes his hair into icicles, and then wonders why the shivers set in and he's coughing." Or he used to. The last winter had been many years ago. Joron wondered that he was getting old. "You remember that, off the Green Fork? Have you gotten smarter since then, Artys?"

Had that been the last time he'd been in the Riverlands with Lord Hunter? During the last winter? Before the man had been married, when he'd still had brothers before him? It's a sobering thought. Joron's grin lessened.

Braddington
Nightblade

 

[Akio]

Qoren Martell
​

Qoren ignored the screeching of the chair, just fixing Darklyn with a piercing blue gaze as he invited him to sit. The man seemed overdrawn and tired giving a weak attempt of a smile as he stuttered out a greeting and offered him a seat. He called his servant and told him to get two cups, something he only regarded with a glance. Qoren, however, did not take a chair, instead going alongside the hand to take a look at his map, seeing what he was planning and was surprised by the amount of notes and marks as well as notes as he looked over the overview and she could see his eyes running through his notes and contemplating them as Darklyn sat. After he sat he turned towards him and after a moment went and took his seat, giving him his attention as his cold eyes gaze fixated on them.


Qoren did what he often did when someone came to him with a problem and he listened quietly, just watching Darklyn as he spoke. He found that years ago that every word of a lord had weight and after spending years watching his father's make decisions and how his words made impact, both good and bad he came to measure his words carefully. A lord’s best option was often silence. In silence, people revealed themselves with their words so he offered none, and many times kept himself and his opinions a mystery till he had already made a decision. The ability to listen was something he had tried to pass down to his sons and daughter from a young age. Darron had learned the virtues of silence but when it came time to speak didn’t know how to make himself heard, and Ryden hardly made use of it at all, his emotions to hot and wild to be able to keep himself silent for long. Laena had learned it best, able to be silent without being quiet and to bring out with a smile what most men kept hidden in their hearts. It was why he sent her to Dorne, rather than keep her here for what could be a vital marriage contract. Someone needed to rule Dorne when he was gone, and with Darron gone Laena was now the ruler of Dorne after him. She would have to learn how to rule on her own. What he saw from Darklyn was both uncertainties… Yet determination. He wasn’t eager to rely on him or at least what he meant to do, and referring Baelor as his friend showed he still had some feelings for the man. He imagined it was much the same for the deceased Rosby and he got his answer to the previous question he had. As he began going on about his plans he could see that Balthazar was determined to protect the city, despite Rosbys death and despite Baelor moving against him. Determination that even lead to the hand coming to him for help, a stranger. It seemed he wasn’t a coward after all. When Darklyn looked up at him she could see his piercing blue gaze on him and he inclined himself slightly in a nod showing he was listening and gesturing him to continue.


Soon enough Darklyns servants returned with the cups of Arbor gold though Qoren didn’t touch the cup as Darklyn finally brought up his requests for him. He wanted him to help him, to use his troops to train the men defending the city and even bring his men up to guard the city and help with the preparations. He was considering the idea and how to push the preparations further when Darklyn paused, causing his thoughts to refocus as he watched him struggle with himself and as Qoren waited he said something that surprised him. Removing homes? Removing people? For the first time, Qoren shifted and looked a new gaze of surprise and interest. “You mean to remove people from the city. Expel the useless mouths.” He said calmly as he stood and turned towards the window, thinking of the city and the renovations that could be done. Yes… Kingslanding couldn’t be considered a weak city, much less the Red Keep but with some renovations, they could do more and prepare. But there were things he needed to know first. “I take it the queens know nothing of this?” he asked as he turned towards Darklyn, Elaena was a young girl of sixteen and likely wouldn’t have understood the necessity of it and Jocelyn certainly was capable of coming up or approving such a plan but he almost certainly would have heard about it before now if Jocelyn has already known as he waited for an answer, still standing but regarding him with interest.

 

[Nightblade]

Artys Hunter
The Huntsman
​

Artys let out a booming laugh at Jorons story, he remembered it well but for a different reason. Shaking his head as his laughter came to an end he spoke up

"Well swimming in a river in the depths of winter is not my smartest idea, but I survived didn't I?"

Artys remembered the time with a sort of sad fondness, it was one of the last times he had spent with Joron before life decided to hit them hard and Artys ended up having to return to Longbow hall with the deaths of his father and brother. In a way he was glad that life gave them a chance to find each other again and maybe build things up again

Mention:
Lingua Frankly Not - Joron
Braddington - Daeron

 

[Akio]

Urrigon Greyjoy
​

Urrigon simply rolled his eyes at his sister's antics. While he had not had the privilege of watching her closely during the small but chaotic fight but he knew her well enough that he could tell she likely didn't even kill half that many but considering she took an arrow he didn't bother calling that out in public, letting his man bind her up as he stood. "Alright, men! Go loot the ship properly and prepare to go home! And sink the shift after. I doubt want to give Veron a fit with a new ship in the harbor!" He said with amusement as he leaned down like he was checking Gwyns wound as he brought himself close to her ear and whispered. "If you want to lie I suggest you learn to lie better, ill see you at Pyke." He said his voice low and serious, with only a hint of the previous amusement as he stood and went off to yell at two of his men struggling with a heavy box of goods. "Having trouble over there! Don't drop the goods, the might very well be worth more than your life!" Even as the raiders and Urrigon were trading banter he couldn't help but glance back at Gwyn, his eyes pregnant with promise.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Something of an odd hour later he was sailing back into the port at Pyke, pulling into port as a board was pulled up between the ship and the dock as several people came to meet the lord captain of the Iron Fleet. "Urrigon! Have a good time at sea!" A woman at the back of the pier said a heavy set woman with large breast he knew as Bertha, who was the wife of the shipwright Orland who often repaired some of his ships. "Indeed I have! There was a brisk breeze today, and how are your children?" He asked setting down on the pier as his heavy boots slammed loudly against the wood of the pier as he leapt the last few steps. "Growing strong, they have aspirations to join the iron fleet, even the girls." She said causing Urrigon to laugh. "Well make sure to send them to me when they're grown, and to keep up practice with a sword. For now." He said reaching into a small back and tossing some golden necklaces to her which she caught. "For now give them those, a prize of raiding and something to look forward to." He would then hear someone call out his name as one of the guards from the town approached him. "Lord Greyjoy, your brother requests your presence at the castle immediately, he says he has matters to discuss." Urrigon grinned and looked at the guard. "That sounds surprisingly chortle coming from my brother, now tell me. What did he actually say?" He bantered, as the guard couldn't help but look sheepish but soon matched his grin with his own.

"What he actually said was "To my brother, When you receive this message. I want you to get your bollocks back to my castle immediately. We have important matters to talk about. And make sure your sweet sister is with you." He said with only a slight bit of paraphrasing. While the fullness of the relationship between Vamon and Urrigon wasn't entirely known Urrigon was one to speak of his brother at times often and loudly, especially when drunk. Yet he was perhaps the only one he allowed to speak to him as Veron did outside of a few members of his crew and never directly disobeyed his brother's orders, seeming to have a decent amount of respect for his brother's wishes. And seeing how he kept his position no matter what they said about the other few thought anything of it. Urrigon this time just reacted as he usually did, with a boisterous laugh. "Yes, that sounds more like my brother." Turning to the ship he would shout for Gwyn. "Sweet sister! Gwyn! Verons calling us back to the castle with sweet honeyed words. We should go." He would then look at his quartermaster, a fierce man with vibrant red hair and beard and as such was usually known as Red Beard. "Red Beard! Split the loot among the men and treat them with my share. It seems like my brother might finally be getting off his ass and I want them full and happy. A last taste of home." He would then turn to the castle. "And someone let me borrow a horse! Its a long way to Pyke!"

 

[Elucid]

.

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[div class=fyuri11wrapper][div class=fyuri11imagebox][div class=fyuri11overlayparent][div class=fyuri11overlay][div class=fyuri11header] Lord Vaemond Celtigar
&
Lady Nymeria

At Maegor's Holdfast

[/div]

[/div][/div][/div][div class=fyuri11parent][div class=fyuri11content]
Lord Vaemond “The Almsgiver” of House Celtigar
Vaemond stood crouched at the edge of the balcony overlooking the city, he’d have much preferred to look out into the blackwater rather than be faced with the stinking hovel they called a capital. Still, Vaemond wouldn’t deny that the city had a certain grandiose charm to it. The towering dome of the Great Sept with that giant statue of Baelor himself guarding its gates and the thousand little shacks scattered about with no sense of direction. Within these walls, there were at least half a million men butchers, armorers, beggars and vagabonds and all of them looked so small, so insignificant from up there.

All this time being alone with his thoughts and he’d completely forgotten to fill his drink back up again. It was an unwelcome reminder when he next tried taking a swig off of an empty cup.

Vaemond entered back into the room, significantly darker than the outside with red satin drapes furled across the walls and soft myrish carpets placed at the feet. It wasn’t as cozy as home but he supposed it would have to do. As he poured himself another cup of that famous Tyroshi brew he stared at the woman that was in his bed, her olive skin a glaring contrast to the linen drapes. He’d seen that face in his bed more times than he could count and yet it would never cease to amaze him just how beautiful she was.

He’d walk up to her bedside, cup in hand, placing it on the table before kissing her on the back of her neck and then her cheek, prodding her to wake from her slumber.

“I tire of king’s landing, of cracklaw, the isle, this whole godsdamn place reeks” he whispered.

“Why can’t we just leave? We could go back to Lys, or Tyros, maybe even travel all the way to Mereen this time.”

Nymeria
One brown eye fluttered open to regard Vaemond with an unreadable expression. Then, it closed again. The young woman seemed in no hurry to reply, instead taking her time as she leisurely stretched her body out and finally sat up amongst the cushions. It wasn’t that Nymeria was particularly lazy, she was just… cat-like. Preferred her own company. Flexible. Liked to nap whenever possible. Once properly awake, she smiled, and reached for his hand.

“My love,” she began, chiding, “you know why we can’t just leave. Well, why you can’t just leave. I could leave right this moment.” There was a playful edge to her voice as she spoke, an indication she was joking. Perhaps even looking for some sign that he’d care if she did go.

“Why the sudden restlessness?” As she brought her free hand up to smooth down her curled hair, she frowned. Gave his hand a tug, as if inviting him to sit. “Do tell me.”

Lord Vaemond “The Almsgiver” of House Celtigar
Vaemond watched as the woman adjusted herself to the light, stretched and came to, her voice was like the sound of the coming of autumn and the playful way in which she said the words “My love” made Vaemond lose every barrier he’d erected for himself over the years..

“Don’t be like that Nymeria, you know I couldn’t be in this dreadful place, any place, without you,” he said as he got into bed, promptly laying his head on her lap.

“I don’t know what it is I’m supposed to be doing my love, I feel like I’ve been away from Westeros for too long. I took the point because it was all father ever talked about, he’d go on about how we were the rightful rulers of Crackclaw. I never thought I’d face any real opposition, I’ve destroyed their villages, I’ve had the heads of their rulers put on pikes and I’ve taken the honor of their women. Yet they still fight. I don’t understand it.”

Vaemond sighed, looking up at the ceiling for a moment, bathed in white marble with an exquisite mosaic design of dandelions and violet roses.

“And now, there’s the council they’ve asked me to attend. Where I’ve got to stoop down and beg. Beg, for what is rightfully mine? I am Vaemond of House Celtigar! I can call myself whatever I like to be it warden, paramount or any other title I damn well please!”

He took a moment to gather himself, realizing that he probably seemed more than a bit foolish at the moment.

“I’m sorry My love, am I boring you? say you look pale. Should I get the servants to fetch you something to drink? They say the dornish stuff’s really good”

Nymeria
His reply seemed to satiate her, to validate her, to make her feel as though she was wanted. Needed.

Like always, her fingers found his hair the moment he laid his head in her lap, and she began to run them through it comfortingly as she listened to his musings. She sympathised with him, she really did, but everytime he started to sound as though he felt helpless, she worried. It was vital he remained strong, powerful. That was what she needed. With Vaemond, Nymeria had found protection, affection, assistance. Perhaps she needed him too.

“If you can't teach people to love you, then you must teach them to fear you instead.” Nymeria’s voice was silky, and she leaned down to press her lips against Vaemond’s forehead as her dark hair tangled with his momentarily. “They will come around, my love. You just have to be resilient.”

The smile returned, more of a smirk, really. “I understand. You’ve no idea the number of men I have had to pretend to respect and admire over the years. And that's what you must do-- pretend.” The way she spoke was confident, as if she was so sure of herself, wise. “It does not matter how you really feel. You simply act like you're begging. You can think anything you want to, secretly.” Her expression softened at his concern. “Oh, love. You are much too good to me. I could listen to you talk forever, you know that. The wine can wait.”

Lord Vaemond “The Almsgiver” of House Celtigar
Vaemond ate all of it up, as far as he was concerned she offered sage advice that no one else could possibly give. There was no courtier, no vassal or bannerman he’d trust as much as her and that was more than evident. He’d asked for her council before he sailed for westeros, he asked for her council before he brought fire and blood to the point. It seemed as though to him she was a talisman of sorts, one that brought luck and good fortune.

But there it was again, that nagging thought at the back of his head, what if this was all just pretense? He’d never thought of her as a whore, indeed to even think of her that way was repulsive to him, but that did not change the fact that she had been a whore. Her reasons be damned.

It didn’t matter what he thought though for when he was in her arms he’d readily forget all but the now.

“Enough politics then, there’s time enough for that and besides I’d rather not have to think about that anymore. Tell me, how do you like it here? It’s nothing like the free cities, is it? And nothing like back home in...Abulu was it?”

“I much prefer calling it the Isle of woman though” he jested.

Nymeria
“It’s… busy.” Nymeria began carefully, frowning as she considered how to tactfully answer the question. The attempt was ditched quickly, and she sighed as she took a small section of her lover’s hair to begin braiding it absent mindedly as she spoke. “Oh, my love, I can’t lie to you. I am not enjoying King’s Landing. It is crowded and dirty, and the people look at me like I’m nothing. A man called me a whore and offered me money in the street,it’s vulgar. If I was the queen, I’d want to live far away from this wretched place.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste.

The chance to tell Vaemond about her homeland was pounced upon quickly. Truth be told, it had been years since she had seen the place, so perhaps some of her memories were fictional-- in her mind, the Summer Isles were a paradise, though she might be looking at them through slightly rose-coloured glasses. Nymeria took a breath and smiled, lowering her voice to a purr as she recalled the things she’d told the man many times before.

“I do miss it so. It truly is beautiful, you’d love the islands. The water, it’s divine, it glitters. The weather is lovely too, and the place isn’t as crowded as King’s Landing, far from it. We should go someday. Would you like that? I would.” She dropped the completed braid and traces her fingertips across Vaemond’s jaw, as she emphasised her point: “It’d make me happy.”

Lord Vaemond “The Almsgiver” of House Celtigar
Vamond had no love for this city and what Nymera said definitely didn’t do anything to change his perception, the fact that she couldn’t walk down the streets without being branded a whore troubled him a great deal. Vaemond had never liked the term whore, all the women in his harem were free, independent people who could always make the choice to leave him and return to whatever dump they came from. Money never changed hands in his relationships, the women were bathed, fed and allowed lived in opulence. Vaemond expected nothing in return, he simply liked having these women around. He truly enjoyed their company.

As Nymeria told the tale of her homeland Vaemond would close his eyes and imagine the unnaturally tall trees, the meadows of green and the beautiful still shore shimmering in the sunlight. He’d think of the people, dark and strong humming to themselves as they went about their business. This land was far from anything you’d find back at home.

“It’d make me happy” Those words stuck a bit longer than the rest. Vamond got himself up out off his woman’s lap, turning to face her his eyes charted every corner of her visage almost as if he was looking for something, judging something. A moment of deathly silence and then that same honeyed voice.

“I’ve told you of Aegon and his sister wives before, haven’t I? Of how they burnt and ravaged the land in a glorious conquest, that to this day every child in Westeros knows his name?” As he spoke he’d run his hand through Nymeria’s dark curls before pulling it taut and kissing the skin right above her shoulder bone.

“I’ve told you about the dragon’s they rode, of Balerion the Black dread, of Meraxes?” He made his way up her neck and ever so slightly loosened his grip on her hair.

“They, they weren’t the only ones, there were others. Before the fall of Old Valyria, before it all came crashing down. Dragon lords ruled the land, their might unparalleled. They took what they wanted when they wanted it. Those that defied them were swept away in a fury of Fire and Blood.” by now he’d gotten to the back of the right ear and as he loosened his grip some more he bit the end of her earlobe.

“I have the blood of old Valyria in me and I tell you this, one day you shall have your revenge, one day i’ll bring Fire and Blood upon the people of those pitiful islands and place the crown of every little lord that dare call himself ‘prince’ at your feet. This, I swear.” And then, well then he stopped. He let her hair go, got himself up, took the drink that was placed on the table beside them and made his way to the balcony again.

The last thing Nymeria heard him say was something about getting an escort and how the city wasn’t safe to travel alone.

Nymeria
Gods, she loved when he spoke like that.

Every tug on her hair, every time his lips connected with her skin, Nymeria felt her breath hitch in her throat. Pitiful, really-- she prided herself on being the one to have that effect on somebody, not fall apart in Vaemond’s hands. He just knew which buttons to push, what to say to ignite the fire in her.

Burnt and ravaged.

Fire and blood.

Revenge.

Perfection. Nymeria’s cheeks were flushed as she hung onto every word, relishing in them as she replayed them over and over again in her head. She hadn’t realised the way she was arching her body towards Vaemond until he was gone, until her hair was released and she dropped back again. Naturally, she didn’t do so without a little sound of discontent, but she made no move to pursue him. As much as she wanted to, she knew that he liked his privacy. Nymeria didn’t really mind. Though she made a mental note to return the favour later on: rile him up and then dart off without another word.

An escort. It was sweet of him, but she didn’t need an escort. What could possibly happen to her? Somebody might attack her? She’d like to see them try. With that thought amusing her, she made a move to slip a dress on and drag a brush through her mane of curls. Now that she was awake and not occupied with Vaemond, perhaps one more lap of the surrounding area couldn’t hurt.

“I won’t be long, my love.”

And she was gone.
[/div][/div][/div][div class=fyuri11credit]code/design by Fable [/div]

 

[TheAncientCelt]

Balthazar Darklyn
Hand of the Queen

The Red Keep


By the time Balthazar finished speaking, having said his peace, the Hand expected to hear words from Qoren Martell. A detailed explanation on whether or not this strategy was worth pursuing, if the Dornish lord had similar opinions as the older lord. Yet, by the time Balthazar was done, Qoren was silent. In fact, the Prince of Dorne was silent for most of their meeting, brief as it may be, he made little attempt to communicate even going so far as to avoid sitting across from the shorter man. Staring up at the Master of Coins, now standing adjacent to the window with eyes of an unreal blue pensively picking apart the state that Darklyn lived in, Balthazar felt himself grow bothered. When he finally did speak, the Hand of the Queen's irritation was further stirred. 'Is that all he has to say?' Maybe Qoren was in deep thought, mulling over their situation. Balthazar would've preferred if these thoughts were made audible, as far as Darklyn knew it, he could not yet read thoughts. Balthazar took hold of his chalice, the rim of the metal cup brought to his lips with the remnants of the arbor gold emptied into the stuttering hand's throat. "T-t-that's correct, Prince Qoren." Eyes went to the map that Darklyn penned earlier. "I-i-it won't be a easy. . . Easy task to accomplish. I-if we want to avoid a riot, it needs to be done in phases. The first will be recruiting men into the city watch, carefully picking recruits based on location in the city." The last thing he needed was for the Goldcloaks to be made up of the very people he planned on expelling. "T-then ridding the city of known criminals. . Be they find home in our dungeon or on the road, that i-is not my command." Darklyn would prefer starving them in the dungeon, save those outside the city walls from the tyranny of these desperate men without morals. "And f-f-ffff-inally." Darklyn struggled, looking away from the Dornish Prince. "It will require external aid to f-f-fully pacify the city. I have plans to meet with his Holiness. . The High Septon speaking on our be-eee-behalf will ease tensions in the city."

Between the added recruits to the Goldcloaks and Prince Qoren's own men, Balthazar hoped to have the city exceed twelve thousand men. A third of them would be Dornish, the only real soldiers of the cities defense force, but with time and patience the others would improve. It was only to the gods mercy that they received this time. Balthazar acknowledged that the city would despise those who kicked out their loved ones after the immediate danger was over. More so, there would be some executions and displays of violence to keep the peace during the process. It was essential that Balthazar's plan was adhered to perfectly, preventing any severe damage from occurring. "A-Also." With silence permeating the meeting, Balthazar took this opportunity to speak. "I was hoping you would sp-speak to Commander Brune on my behalf. I-I have my hands full and I recall you establishing a conference with him." Darklyn was going to be at the docks for the majority of the day, setting up office at an Inn to speak with the traders and merchants directly. His main concern, after the cities defense was handled, was to stockpile enough food to last the Red Keep a winter. Before the Hand of the Queen could say anything more, a knock on his door signaled an intruder's presence. His eyes were on it in a second as Rorge and a Goldcloak stepped in, the helm of the guard obscuring any noticeable features.

"Sorry to disturb you, Lord Darklyn." Rorge spoke swiftly, pointing to the Goldcloak. "He carries a message from the Dowager Queen."

'Jocelyn?' Balthazar hadn't seen her as much as he'd of liked to. Despite the exhaustion, Balthazar smiled. Anything the queen said would lift his spirits. "N-no-no-nno-Not a problem, Rorge. What's the message?"

This time the guard spoke up, his voice deeper than the kennel masters boy. "The dowager queen demands the presence of Lord Balthazar Darklyn and Lord Martell." A well rehearsed line, the guard's chest bulged outward as he aimed to fit the part.

"A-A-At once." Balthazar looked at his other guest. "T-t-this is the council, if I'm not mistaken." Why else would Jocelyn call both of them at the same time? 'Maybe she wanted to discuss financial matters.' A very likely alternative, but the hand was sticking with his first guess. "P-P-p-preence Martell. If you c-could go on ahead and inform her grace I'll be tardy. . . I need to finish a lett-etttter." He'd apologize profusely to Jocelyn for the inconvenience later. Looking at the Goldcloak, waiting to escort someone to the council chamber, Darklyn gave a pitiful smile. Dipping his quill in ink, Duskendale's lord aimed quickly to get this message out. As the room emptied, even Rorge leaving Darklyn alone. He sighed, eyes to the untouched goblet of arbor gold. With a weak will, Balthazar reached across the double table and grabbed it at the base, needing something to comfort him as he scribbled his letter as quickly as possible.

In ten minutes, Balthazar finished it. Sweat dripped from his forehead, winter couldn't come fast enough for the fatter lord. The parchment was folded over twice with the hot wax bearing the sigil of House Duskendale on it. "R-r-Rorge." Balthazar took the rolled up parchment and slid it in a cylinder shaped container, made of a cow's bone. Accompanying the note was a small stamp, the same sigil as his house adorning it. "T-t-take this to the Rookery and f-f-find Harren's stand in. This goes to S-s-s-s-Storm's End."

"Storm's End?" Rorge questioned. "Isn't that in the hands of-"

"No questions." Darklyn muttered, pushing his seat away from the table with a blood chilling screech as it dragged on the stone floor. "Do it. Quickly and quietly."

Rorge nodded, holding the container as if his life depended on it. "Yes, Lord Darklyn."

Balthazar watched his cup bearer run off, fleeing down the stairs. Those wide, spiraling and intimidating stairs. So big, merciless on his feet, Balthazar didn't know how Symond managed them every day. Maybe the lord was secretly staying else where. Balthazar considered it. If he had to make this journey several times each day, the damnable stairs would be the death of him. The short lord looked at them for a moment, then Darklyn moved. Time was a precious resource he couldn't spend on idle thoughts.

To Baelor Tyrell,


While there has been a considerable gap of time since we've last spoken in any meaningful duration, I have not known you to be relieved of your senses. For that reason alone, I suspect that you've been misled by a poorly informed vassal who cannot read a map. Storm's End is not Highgarden, yet that is where rumor tells us you reside. It is an honest mistake, we would all make it if under such enormous stress. Alexander Baratheon has not been half as humored as the rest of us at this earnest folly. I write to you, my old friend, to express that it is not too late to surrender the castle and receive forgiveness for this unintentional blunder forced on you, no doubt by that drunken vassal who cannot read maps. It is a capital crime under the gods for family to fight and Queen Elaena is not yet willing to commit to the proposal of violence against her mother by marriage and her last surviving grandfather.

To forgo such language, I implore you to stop this war. Neither of us want to see the realm split by murder and carnage. You are a better man than that. For the king we loved, I pray that we can come to an agreement in which no party is left to rot in the field. I nor you could stomach such an outcome. We are better man than that. I've written to you in privacy, where all friends can be honest with one another instead of adding in words to intimidate or be coy. In this letter I've arranged for my symbol to be delivered to you, so that we may continue this discussion in privacy. We may have to converse as husband and wife, to alleviate reasonable suspicion. I trust you to not betray me, Baelor, and to remain a man and friend worthy of great respect. It is my earnest hope that I hear back from you soon.

Sincerely,
Lord Balthazar Darklyn, Hand of Queen Elaena Targaryen

Akio
Hypnos​

 

[Braddington]

Victarion Greyjoy
The Shipbreaker, The Scourge of Maelys, The Red Kraken Reborn, The King That Never Was​

Victarion listened to his nephews words intently, a sad reminder of how low the Ironborn had fallen ever since his brother assumed control over them. Not that they were anything good before that either, mind you, but even a blind old man in his seventies could see just how shit the future was for the already backwards islands. Victarion had one solitary thought in this time, the same he had everyday for decades. He should of ruled. If he had challenged his brother sooner, turned the Iron Fleet on him right after Maelys lay dead, then maybe the land of what was once hard men wouldn't be run by a mainlander in Ironborn colours, his useless sons and his fucking idiotic brother who has still yet to reveal whether he is a joke or whether that is his actual personality. He had many regrets in his life but not dashing his brothers head against the rocky shores of Pyke would always be the biggest. Perhaps he still did have ambitions to the Iron Islands but that time had long since passed. He could maybe manage the support of a third of the Islands, his name still meant something so perhaps even half but he didn't have that fight in him. If he were 30 years younger? Then they wouldn't be standing here conversing, they would be at sea deciding the fate of their people as befits a true Ironborn. Oh, and he would of won. Was it arrogance? Sure, but unlike some nephews he had actual claim. They don't still sing songs about him in the halls for no reason. He was the Shipbreaker. The Essosi priests still whisper that the ocean beckoned at his call and he could command it like any ship. It wasn't true of course, but even the most skeptical men believed it in the end as his axe came upon their heads, just ask Maelys Blackfyre, or rather his corpse. It was not meant to be, however, he was old and blind with regrets that could fulfill ten lifetimes. He would never rule, but Theon had his whole life ahead of him and he was a promising Captain....

“What do you want, Victarion?”

​

The question snapped him out of his train of thought, a common occurrence with how caught up in them he got. He walked over to Veron, using his hand to guide him closer in an effort to force the man to pay attention to him for once. "I want to know what you intend to do with islands you so dutifully rule. It has been weeks since Harrenhal and you know as well as I that this will be a civil war. Where are you going? Where am I going?" No doubt his nephew would object but he cared not. He knew his life was coming to a close and he would not die on some rock surrounded in linen sheets. He would die axe in hand showing the mainland exactly why his name sent little children into a frightened sleep. The final act of his violent existence would end the way it was always meant to. "We have also had no word as to the fate of Harren. I know you have no connection to him even if he is your uncle but he is my little brother. I will not allow you to forget him or brush him under a carpet. If you dared then so help the Drowned God you would know what true fury looks like."

TheFool

 

[clarinetti]

Garrett Grafton
Master of Ships​

The harbour had been especially lively this day; by his mens' count nearly a dozen ships had landed along Maidenpool’s docks since the morning, a mix of cogs and fishing vessels. He couldn’t pick out any individuals from this distance, but the pulsing swarm of people was visible still as they went about their way along the waterfront and up past the delicate pink granite walls which bordered the town. If one didn’t know better, another man might find comfort in such a mundane sight in times of war. And yet amongst the smallfolk and merchants one could catch sight of the red salmon of Mooton along with the white birds of Hawick, an unspoken warning delivered through the banners ornamenting the walls and the flags of their ships.

It had not been so long ago since he’d been convening with the King and their council in the Eyrie, yet for Garrett it felt as though a great deal of time had passed with all that had happened. As requested, following the war council the Gulltown lord had returned to his keep and swiftly made preparations to rally their naval forces and set off to fulfill the assigned task. There had barely been time to properly bid his family farewell, but he trusted they would remain safe with the men he had left to garrison their home, and he had all intentions of returning as soon as possible. And so here they were, patrolling the southern shores of the Bay of Crabs, in position for when the opportune moment came about. Lord Grafton was careful to avoid detection, keeping the bulk of his ships out of sight in the nooks and crannies along the coast whilst a handful of smaller vessels and their crew kept track of the comings and goings in the harbour. That this part of the plan had gone off without a hitch was pleasing, yet Garrett was hardly at ease. The real work had yet to begin after all.

Returning the Myrish eye to his belt, the Gulltown man peered once more out into the dark ocean as twilight settled. Without the glass to further his gaze, little could be seen besides a dull glow from distant torches and the pale foam of the water churning around them. If any small comfort could still be found in the simple pleasure of being out at sea, Lord Grafton grasped hungrily for it as he stood on the deck of their small ship. Once King Daeron takes Harrenhal, the news would spread quickly, and then their time to spring into action would come, hopefully joined by the rest of the Vale’s fleet. But at this moment, lying in wait felt even more strenuous than if they simply struck the town. Some of his men were equally anxious, but they would hold their position…. For the time being. They had the benefit of surprise, and it was his desire to maintain that as long as possible. Yet if the risk of discovery became too great, or else if something else spurred the Maidenpool fleet to raise their sails, a direct confrontation without support might be their only option. Let us hope that it doesn't come to that, and that the ground troops are as swift and fortunate as we have been in their ventures, he mused before nodding to the captain and descending into the hull.

Braddington

 

[Little-Fox]

Nissa Morrigen
Little Crow
​

"My lady, I am Brielle a companion of Lord Jon Baratheon. If you will follow me I will bring you to the hall where discussion is going on regarding recent events. Food has been called for yourself and your men"

What had lingered of Nissa's smile fell briefly before the corners of her lips turned up once more with a nod. "Pleased to meet you, Brielle. I am Nissa Morrigen, a daughter of Crow's Nest and Tarth." She glanced to Will and offered a light shrug before looking back to the dark-skinned woman. "While I do not need directions, I am more than happy to follow."

The flaxen-haired man turned to get a head count and to ensure each man they'd brought was in good form before turning back and patiently waiting to follow the Lady Crow and their guide.

Nightblade

 

[Little-Fox]

An Unexpected Visitor
Anaya Uller and Natanael Baelish
​

Dressed in a long simple gown of peach-dyed linen, Anaya stepped out of what was being used as a bath chamber, the small tub left behind with soap-polluted water that still held some of its heat. A servant would come by soon to throw the water out and to handle the clothing left behind, though they’d likely also have to come hunt down the towel she’d used as she’d kept it with her, still drying her hair as she started to make her way in the direction of her room. Candles lit the short hall to the main commons, her bare feet making almost no sound against the stone floors of the keep and thus giving little warning as she crossed the threshold.

Out in the commons proper lingered a certain man with a not altogether unfamiliar voice; while Lord Baelish’s accent wasn’t precisely dornish, neither was it not. For a time now he had been conversing with Lord Albin Uller, though that conversation had taken a pause as the man excused himself to speak with his wife. Lord Baelish didn’t particularly care that he could not hear the content of their words, muffled as they were behind a bedroom door; whether they were argument or not failed to concern him. His attention drifted from the door of the Lord’s bedchamber and down the hall toward the room containing the occupied bath. Or -- previously containing, his gaze informed him. A brow arched as the man peered over his shoulder to the young lady, and he raised his half-empty glass of dornish red in wordless greeting.

The hands still working the towel down over long tresses of brown gave pause as she lifted her gaze to the unexpected, though not unfamiliar presence in the room. Her brows furrowed slightly with her confusion as she glanced towards the wall as if to assure herself she was in fact in the right area, the hanging tapestry reassuring her that she was in fact in the same guest ‘home’ the Ullers had been allotted. “Lord Baelish… I wasn’t expecting to see you here, in King’s Landing... Let alone here specifically.” Soft-toned green eyes flicked back towards him, the shifting flames of candles letting the light play across her features. She brought the towel down, giving up on wringing anymore moisture from her hair as she focused on his response, remaining just inside the door she’d come through.

“I’ve been told,” the man mused, “that I’ve a knack for doing the unexpected.”

The subtle little details of Anaya’s confusion were noted by her family’s guest, though Lord Baelish made no mention of them. Instead, Natanael lifted his glass, eyeing the swirl of red within. “I hope you’ll forgive my presence; I was conversing with Lord Uller, but it seems your mother and he have more pressing matters to discuss. I’ve not yet decided as to whether or not I’ve overstayed my welcome.” It’s hardly true; if he cared of his overstayal he would have departed some five minutes ago. Yet here he sat, ‘not’ waiting for the emergence of the young Lady Anaya.

The girl glanced at the door her father had presumably disappeared behind, the faint sounds of her parents talking assuring her that that was in fact quite likely the case. “I see…” She murmured softly, contemplating a few things before moving a little closer and offering a polite smile. “If that’s the case, then I guess I could keep you company until my father is finished. Unless you’d rather I left you to your thoughts, that is.” Frankly, she’d be fine with that as it would have allowed her to slip off to her room without a second thought or the sense an obligation discarded, as it would have been him to have decided it wasn’t necessary. While she’d seen Baelish around Sunspear, she wasn’t privy to what sort of man he truly was nor did she particularly care. He already had a drink, so she felt no need to offer him one and until he made the decision that would either free her or keep her here for the moment, she could only wait.

Baelish’s gaze traveled aside to that same door as though he was weighing the possibilities of departing or staying; after a moment or two of silence his gaze turned back to Lady Anaya to whom he arched a brow. “Please,” he said, “allow me to take you up on that offer of company.” He seemed a reasonable man, at first glance; it’s likely he didn’t intend to linger long should her father continue to take his time.

The man’s legs shifted, adjusting their cross as he brought one ankle to rest atop a knee. “You’re fair to assume my absence from these parts. I’ve recently returned to King’s Landing by ship, not more than five days ago.” A faintly amused smile tugged at his features, and he brought the glass to his lips to drink of. “I’m sure my travels are of little interest to you. I’ve heard you’ve caught the eye of a Martell. Now that is far more interesting, isn’t it?” Even if Anaya Uller knew little about Lord Baelish there was something about the calculating glint in his gaze and the way he so dauntlessly slid the magnifying glass around to her that spoke to his nature.

You’d think that after two years with Laena and watching the snake of Dorne himself work with people on occasion that Anaya would have recognized those slithery traits in Natanael Baelish as well. Unfortunately youth has it’s way of blinding some through their distinct lack of experience and here was a perfect example. As he gave pause, she truly… truly thought that she’d be free in only a moment to go back to her room and work on plotting her route for the next day. Instead, he turned back to her and accepted the offer she’d only given out of sheer courtesy.

Dipping her head slightly with a nod, Anaya took a seat across from him, the towel still awkwardly kept in her hands as if that might work as a barrier. She listened quietly, nodding along politely though she truthfully could not have cared less about where he’d been or why. She just didn’t know why he was here and not in Dorne or where ever he lingered otherwise and was trying to build casual conversation. She hated casual conversation and had a high preference for more ‘real’ topics that mattered more than the social etiquette the Lords so often trained into their children. ‘You’re right. I don’t care for your travels unless you’re going to spill more about the actual places and people. I’m sure there are things of mo-’ Her thoughts were interrupted rather abruptly as he brought up the name of Martell. Dusky olive skin paled as she could only conjecture the possible meanings behind his words. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Lord Baelish.” 'I sure the fuck hope he’s wrong or lying.' “My father surely would have said something if that were the case… he’s been hoping for some such thing for a few years at least and I’m sure he couldn’t hide his joy.” Nevermind that such a thing would be to her abject horror and that she’d likely either resign herself to the role of married twit or she’d find a way out of King’s Landing… Not that she’d been successful with that particular feat just yet.

Baelish’s gaze widened in mock-shock at the information that Lord Uller was unaware of Ryden Martell’s interest, and he looked aside to the door hiding the man from view as though he found it scandalizing that the man didn’t know. Except--he didn’t, did he? Baelish leaned forward in his seat, his head tilting as he looked back up to her conspiratorially. “It’s a shame that your father does not know, then, isn’t it? That he has been deprived of this joy?” As though for the young highborne lady’s benefit, his voice lowered to something of a stage whisper. “I hadn’t thought to tell him; I suppose I incorrectly assumed Lord Uller has heard the same rumors that I have.” His gaze danced over Anaya as though entranced by the expressions his words were eliciting.

Dark brown brows furrowed with the dramatic expression as she lay the towel across her lap, her arms folding just under her bust as she watched him look towards her father’s door and then back to her. While not entirely experienced, there was at least a sense of intelligence about her that said she wasn’t fully sure how to feel about her present company. That studious expression lifted rather quickly though with what could have been perceived as a threat, her gaze cutting away quickly to focus on a decorative vase that sat not far from where they’d taken up residence. “I don’t know where you’ve heard your rumors from, Lord Baelish… but I sincerely hope you’re wrong.”

“And yet I rarely am,” he drawled, leaning back from his forward posture as the young lady so very clearly looked anywhere but in his direction. A pregnant silence followed his turn of phrase as he drank of the wine in his glass, finishing it. The glass came to rest upon his knee. “May I speak to you clearly, Lady Anaya?” He hoped that those words may draw her gaze back to his, and he would respect her less if they did not.

‘What do you expect to gain, Baelish? Why are you here, in our ‘home’? Please be wrong… Even if it is a rare thing, please be wrong.’ The decoration quickly lost her interest as he spoke again, her teeth grazing over her lower lip as she finally turned to look at him with an expression of inquisitive frustration. “I would hear what you have to say, Lord Baelish. I may not like it, but I would at least hear it.”

“While your father may be an entrancing conversationalist, I did not come here tonight to see him. Not truly,” he claimed, arching his brow, “though I pray you won't tell him as much.” No he doesn't. Natanael Baelish prays to no gods.

He leaned forward to deposit his glass onto the table.

“My Lady, I have come to speak to you about a matter of mutual interest, it seems. I have heard word indeed that Ryden Martell finds you of interest; this troubles me, and I believe neither you nor I are benefited by his interest and the damage that could cause to Dorne’s relations with the Crown.”

Just briefly, and perhaps for dramatic effect, he paused.

“On account of Prince Martell’s betrothal to Queen Elaena. You can see how anything that may damage that betrothal would concern me, and anyone else loyal to Dorne.”

The daughter of Hellholt listened intently, surprise touching her features similarly to how the candles painted shadows across them. So he hadn't been here for her father after all. He'd been here for her. He'd find that while she didn't always speak with grace, she listened rather well and here was no exception.

With the announcement that Ryden Martell truly might hold an interest in her, she nearly flinched away again, remembering that awful conversation in the abandoned hall. “I mean no disrespect,” she began softly, “but if he does hold an interest in me, I have no idea why. I don't tend to be around often and that's intentional on my part…”

Baelish continued, and with his final words he could see the bliss of release one often felt when a burden had been removed from them. “Wait… If he is betrothed, and especially to her, then why the fu-... why would he have any interest in me?” There was still confusion on her part, but there was also understanding. Baelish obviously believed the rumor and was concerned that it would affect the marriage pact… however, he'd also told her essentially that she was safe from having to marry at least Ryden Martell.

“What are you suggesting I do?”

Some moments passed as Natanael looked over Anaya, inspecting her for whatever intelligence may lie behind her eyes. There was some there. A glimmer. He could see it--but he also saw that confusion, and the uncertain beg for guidance gave Natanael enough warning that he found himself uncertain as to how invested he wished to become in someone so easily manipulated and ignorant. Someone so… young. So prone to make mistakes. Natanael Baelish’s silence did not last long, but those judgements made in those moments colored his next words.

“It was not my intention to come here and dictate to you what you should or should not do, Lady Anaya,” he mused, and his hand came to rest upon the seat of the sofa at his side, pushing weight upon it so that he may more easily stand. “Merely to offer insight, and a word of warning.”

He did mean that he was warning her of Ryden’s interest, right…? Not… as a threat?

Lord Baelish did not clarify as he continued. His hands brushed each other as he glanced aside to the door behind which her parents resided, and then back to her. “What I will say is this: should you find yourself in a compromised position, and in need of an avenue of escape -- bereft of options -- remember that you may find me, and remember that I offer to help your problems disappear.” He left the unspoken ‘for a price’ off the end of his words, assuming her intelligent enough to infer it.

“You will give your father my regards, won’t you my Lady? And your mother, too?” A charming smile tugged on his features. Almost as though he’d never spoken the other words he had. The veneer of common small talk settled upon Baelish as a well-tailored cloak might.

While confusion had lingered in her features it faded rather quickly with his response. He was watching her, studying her, reading her. He felt that she was begging for guidance, and perhaps in part she was. But she had asked for his suggestion, his opinion… not his orders. As he moved to stand, she became all too aware of the direction of the conversation. He’d presented a problem to her and now he was leaving her to deal with it. As he continued to speak, that promise of ‘help’ was clear as day.. But so was that underlying assurance that payment would be expected… Baelish did nothing for free.

He was leaving. Something she was thankful for. He was offering her assistance, but on the pretext of owing him for it. Her lips tightened into a thin line as she nodded. “Thank you, Lord Baelish… I will keep that in mind. And yes, I will relay the message to my father and mother.” Just as he wore the veneer of small talk, she wore the facade of a Lady, her politeness extending to only the same degree of warmth he might have received were he someone she met in the streets of Dorne as a familiar face, perhaps one of her father’s Lordly friends. Just enough to grant her clearance to slip away. “I assume you know your way out and do not need me to escort you.” She moved to stand, the towel folded over her arm as she brushed down her skirt.

He did, of course. The door was quite literally in sight, and perhaps only ten paces away. Lord Baelish was capable of the feat of traveling to a door. He smiled kindly all the same, even as Lady Anaya’s small degree of warmth poorly cushioned her rude denial of an escort. “I do,” he drawled, amusement fluttering through his tone. “I bid you safety in King’s Landing during this troublesome time.” So terribly troublesome. He had the gall to affect a momentary look of wistful concern for the city, an expression he likely did not actually feel, and he nodded his head in a bit of a proper bow. “My Lady.” The words accompanied his turn toward departure, and the enigmatic minor Lord left without further ado.

Lingua Frankly Not

 

[TheFool]

Big Manly Post



Quhuru
Lieutenant


​

Quhuru stood still. I need a nap, he thought to himself. The drowsiness was drowning him. However, with each word that escaped Rhaenyra’s lips-
He was rejuvenated.
She finished speaking. “I’ve not once been to The Sunset Kingdoms.” He told her, his hand on his hilt. It was the first thing to fester in his thoughts. He had heard stories of the continent to the west. Tales of great castles and great men. He was reminded of Rags, who was born on Westerosi shores. He was reminded of Dickon The Prick, who was son of some stiff shit. Would I venture there though? Quhuru did not know.
Would those snow skinned bastards welcome me?

“You ask a lot.”
He said, scratching his cheek. A jagged scar jotted on it. When he touched it, he thought of his time in Sothoryos. He thought of the night of his… cutting. Shivers invaded his spine. His arm dropped down and his hand found the hilt of his axe again. “And I do not know The Common Tongue. Words here an’ there, yes. But I am not versed.”
Quhuru could speak The Summer Tongue obviously. Like he breathed air. He could also speak Valyrian well. He knew a bit of Ghiscari. And Jaego had taught him common Dothraki phrases. “However,” Quhuru added.
“I am willing to learn.”
He gazed at Rhaenyra and grazed on her handsomeness. She was a true beauty. And a true leader. He had spent years and years yearning for one. Someone to tell him to do this and do that and lead him to the light.
To his purpose.
His uncle had tried. As did his bosses in Sothoryos. They all failed. With the Captain-General though…
He cleared his throat,
“You have me, Captain. I am yours to command. Through The Red Waste and The Shivering Sea. I will follow you. We will follow you, for you are our leader.”
He knelt.
Unsheathing his axe, he placed it on the tent floor before her. As a sign of his devotion. “My axe is your axe. If you wish for me to murder the Westerosi that wrong us and this king, then it will be done.”
He went silent for a second.
“I’m with you. As is Mala. Jaq and Rags. Alia, Jaego, and Nest. Groleo and Kaspor. Ser Otto. Mae. That shit stain Dickon. The Golden Company will go wherever it is that you go.” She gestured for him to stand, so he did. He holstered his axe. His eyes locked with hers. If only I still had a cock, he thought. She wouldn’t be able to resist it.

Veron Greyjoy
Lord Reaper


​

His eyes hit the back of his head.
The old cretin…
His Uncle Victarion prattled on and on for what seemed like a series of years. The bastard’s voice was wet with vinegar. His words were told in a scrutinizing tone. Victarion never sat the salt throne but he is full of the stuff.
Veron watched out his window. A ship sailed by, its sails painted with two black scythes. The sigil of a house of Harlaw. Seeing it made him think of his mother. Wasting away in her tower. Thinking of her led to thinking of Vickon Greyjoy. His lord father.
May he rot.
Veron hated his father. Victarion hated Veron’s father. Veron hated Victarion for hating his father. And Victarion hated Veron for being his father’s son. At least that was what Veron believed. They both agreed on one thing though.
Vickon Greyjoy was a vile man.
Victarion finished speaking, leaving the room trapped in a silence. Veron inhaled softly. His eyes still swabbing the sea. The white waves galloping and tumbling over one another as if it were some sort of race. The rocks of Pyke being their finish line.
“If you must know,”
Veron began. He exhaled. “I have written to Daeron Waters and pledged ourselves to him. He is a bastard. Our peoples are Westeros’ bastards.”
He didn’t mention that he was having second thoughts though. Veron wanted to seem like he knew what he was doing.
“We now await word from him. Whether or not he accepts our help is… one thing. But I do not think he is in the position to refuse it.”
Veron swallowed, his throat dry.
“As for your brother-”
Rogin, the castle steward, walked through the door. “Lord Veron-” He stopped and saw who Veron was talking to. He knelt his head in The Red Kraken’s direction. “Apologies, m’lords, but your brother has arrived back from his sail.”
Veron and Victarion exchanged cautious glances. There was one other thing they both came to an agreeance on and that was that Urrigon Greyjoy was an absolute fool.

Veron and his uncle followed Rogin through the halls of Pyke Castle as he led them to where Urrigon was.
“Harren will be dealt with in due time.” Veron said, seemingly out of the blue. Veron wasn’t much of a talker but he was not one to leave a conversation unfinished. Especially when its subject matter was of a mild importance.
“You mustn’t forget that he is no longer a Greyjoy. You may still see him as your brother but his only true kin are those at The Citadel.” Veron continued. His words had a subtle harshness to them. He was sure what came out of his mouth would coddle and anger in his uncle.
They walked down the set of stairs leading to the great hall.
Standing by the fire pit in the middle of the room where the two of ‘em. Seeing them together pains my stomach.
“Brother.” Gwyn was the first to spot them and the first to say something. As Veron got to the end of the stairwell, his sister strut over to him and kissed his cheek. He wanted to take her in his arms right then and there. Fuck her ‘till the war on the mainland was over. But he could not do such a thing. Not in-front of Rogin and Victarion.
“Gwyn.” He simply said.
She smiled at him. Her smile. Sweat stuck to her skin. Her smell. This was the woman he loved. She loved him too. Though she also loved another...
Veron set his stare on his brother.
“Uncle Vic.” Gwyn said, his voice peppier than usual. “It’s so great to see you’re still well.”
“Urrigon.” Veron spoke, accompanied with a small nod.

Orson Redfort
Master At Arms


​

King Daeron’s tent was fitting. Its inside was coziness incarnate, lit by flickering white candles which created an orange glow. At the center of the tent was a table made of mahogany. On the table was a massive map of The Riverlands. Along with clay figurines. Representations of each key player. Orson picked up the one that was to resemble a fish.
The trout.
He put it down and then studied the map. A painted black circle over their destination. The tent flap flew open, and in walked the squire to Daeron Targaryen. My son. Osric Stone carried a sword belonging to his liege in one hand and a dirted pink cloth in the other. “So this is what he has ya’ doing, hm?” Orson chuckled.
“I’m to clean his sword.” Osric iterated.
With a huff, Osric sat down at the table and began to put the cloth to the steel. Making sure it was mistless. Orson sat beside him and watched him work.
“I didn’t expect being his squire to be so…” Osric started.
“Fun?” Orson said, in humour.
His son looked at him and rolled his eyes, “I want to do something exciting. I want to shoot some arrows into a Tully soldier.”
“You’ll be doing that soon enough,” Orson said. “But remember, his grace is your utmost priority.”
Osric frowned. “I know, father. I just… want to fight.”
“You will fight.”
Orson said. A grin grew on his lips. “And when the fight comes,”
He leaned in and pinched Osric’s nose-
“Our King will need a clean sword.”
Osric rolled his eyes once more, “I’m not a child, father. When will you stop doing that?”
“When you stop being so childish.” Orson said with a laugh. Osric joined. For an hour or so, they sat. Talking about trivialities. My son.
Orson would catch himself not hearing the words Osric spoke. He was busy admiring his son. What a man he has become. He makes my heart fill with pride. I’m sure if mother was still alive, she would feel the same fulfillment.
“Why am I even his squire?”
“Hmm?”
“I mean, I’m the same age as he is. I thought squires were… younger? I’m too old.”
“Yes, you are.” Orson smiled.
“Shut up.”
Orson scolded, “Language.” As he did, he put his hand near Osric’s scalp and pretended to pluck a hair from it. “Look. Grey hairs and all.”
“You are the most annoying father to ever father.”
“How’s your back lately? Any trouble walking?” Orson said before bursting into laughter. Osric shook his head, however, his eyes were alight with joy. “You should-”
“Redfort.” A voice came calling. Orson looked at the tent’s flap to see him standing there in shining armour.
“Ser Steffon,” He boomed. “How may I be able to offer assistance?”
“My brother requires your presence, Redfort.” The knight said. His voice sounded deeper than it usually did. Orson wondered if the boy was trying to put it on so that he would appear more masculine. “Alright, so. Take me to him.”
“I’m not your guide, Redfort. He’s over by Princess Visenya’s tent. Go to him.” Before Orson could get another word in, Ser Steffon disappeared under the same flap in which he entered. There was a short silence before Osric shook his head.
“What a I'm uncultured.” He said. Orson looked at him and let out a laugh. Osric laughed as well. The two of them laughed for a time. Orson tried to tell his son to ‘watch his language’ but the laughter clogged his throat like maggots in an open wound.
When it all died down, he stood up and sighed. “I best not keep Lord Robert waiting.”
“Yes. You best not.” Osric agreed.
Orson glanced down at his bastard son. My son. “We will talk more in the morning?”
“Of course. I will be here. Still shining swords…”
“Good lad.”
He ruffled his son’s hair before leaving the tent and its aura of tranquility behind.

The outside of the tent was loud and reckless. The moon hung high up in the sky. Wooden stakes stabbed the ground, their tops burning with an orange flame. We certainly look like we’re about to go to war, he thought to himself as he eyed the makeshift huts and poorly put together tents.
They had little time to set up earlier, but they did what they could do. It isn’t some paradise but I am sure we’ll manage.
“Lord Redfort.” A voice called out, accent thick with ale.
Orson looked to his left to see his squire, Albar Upcliff, with a few friends of his. They drank around a dimly lighted campfire that mayhaps took only minutes to make.
“Come join us, ser.”
Orson smiled and shook his hand at him, “Not tonight, Albar. I have important duties to attend to.”
“Ah, bollocks. What’s more important than drinking?” Albar replied. That achieved a laugh out of his campfire friends.
Maybe if I was a younger man.
His grin grew before continuing on.

Robert Rosby stood at a table, similar to the one in Daeron’s quarters, outside of Visenya’s tent. On the table were maps and scrolls and a wooden plate that held half eaten pork scraps. With Rosby was two other men- both of which had faces that Orson could not put names to.
“Ah, you decided to finally join us.” Robert greeted him. His expression stern and with slight callous.
“Aye, I did.”
“If you’re finished messing with your bastard, we have much to discuss.”
Orson’s face soured, “What was that?”
“My brother told me that you’ve been spending all night laughing your arse off.”
“I-”
“With your bastard.”
“He’s my son,” Orson said. “And I have not been giving him all my time. I have spent the day setting up the camp and training as many troops as I could possibly train.”
“You seem to be doin’ a piss poor job at both.” One of the men at Robert’s side said.
Orson looked at him, “And whom may you be, my lord?”
“Hoster Blount. Lord Hoster Blount. My brother-in-law has been disappointed in you, Redfort.”
“That disappointment has lessened since your arrival, Redfort.” Robert said, still cold.
The two men began talking and Orson felt himself shrink. It was as if he was ‘the fool’ again and all the lords and ladies were laughing at him. He could hear them. He could hear them laugh.
“What do you think, Redfort?” Robert asked as he held a clay figure that resembled a soldier armed with a bow.
“Um… come again?” Orson mumbled.
Hoster let out a chuckle, but Robert’s face dropped. “Were you listening?”
“I was-”
“You should start listening, Redfort.” Robert began, “If you don’t listen, then you don’t get to have input. If you, an aged and experienced knight, doesn’t get to have input then we may make a blunder when we march on Darry. If we make a blunder, then we send men to their immediate deaths. Do you want that?”
Orson was quiet.
“Do you want that, Lord Orson?”
Orson’s expression became one of anger. He bit his tongue and furrowed his brow. “No.” He said, after several seconds.
“What was that?” Hoster asked.
“No.”
A small smile slipped across Robert’s lips, “Good. Now- I want you to listen and give me your opinion. Because even though I don’t like you, ser, I value it.”
Orson nodded.
Retreating to silence as Robert began pointing at the map of Westeros.

Tyland Lannister
Lost Lion


​

“And… a whole ‘nother round on me for the tavern.”
Tyland announced to cheers. Kevan The Barkeep, who was cleaning a cup with a white rag, winked at him. Least I am good for something. Ty took out the coins from his pocket and counted them. He had enough, surely? And even if he did not-
A Lannister always pays his debts.
A pitcher of cider was placed in-front of him. He poured it into his own cup and drank. It tasted like apple and smoke. He did not like it in the beginning, but this was Ty’s third pitcher thus his tongue was numb to the drink’s ashy bitterness. When he finished downing it, he let out a long sigh.
I should stay here forever,
He thought.
I will-
“Tyland Lannister?” A man’s voice called. For a sliver of a second, Tyland thought it was Sebaston. It wasn’t though. It was Preston Sarwyck, son of Sumner Sarwyck.
“Lord Preston, it is a pleasure.” Tyland said, with a smile.
The man did not return his smile. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
“For me?”
“For you. We were supposed to leave for Golden Tooth two hours ago.”
“And why didn’t you, Lord Preston?”
“Because you were to give us the go ahead. Has your brother not bothered to tell you that you’re to lead an-”
“He mentioned it, briefly.” Tyland said.
“Must a been very fuckin’ briefly.” A skinny man behind Preston spoke.
“Shut it, Dake.” Preston ordered.
“Dake?” Tyland spoke, his words slurred with confusion.
“Aye. I’m Dake Of Oxcross, m’lord. I’s told to accompany Lord Pres-”
“Dake. Enough.” Preston ordered once more. He then targeted his words at Tyland again, “Now, will you be coming with us or do you mean to menace around and defy your brother’s orders?”
Tyland blinked.
Fuck you Preston-Fucking-Sarwyck. Fuck you Dake Of Oxcross. Fuck you Willam. Fuck you Loren Lannister- you… disgusting fucking man. And… and…
Fuck you Seb.
“I wouldn’t dare defy my lord brother, Preston. Take me to my men.” Tyland said as he stood up from the bar stool he was sitting on. He almost stumbled over. A side effect of chugging too much cider. Preston nodded and began to take leave. Ty looked back at Kevan The Barkeep and slid him the coins.
“You’re ever generous m’lord.”
The man said as he scooped the coins into the palm of his hand.
And fuck you too.

Tyland was adept at riding horses whilst intoxicated. It wasn’t at all his first time doing so. He was well known as a rider and he rid best after imbibing, just ask any male whore at any Lannisport brothels.
For reasons unknown to him and his drunken mind, this particular horse was a pest. It wouldn’t react to any of his ques. It wouldn’t even walk straight ahead. Is the horse drunk as well?
“Ya’ right m’lord? Ya’ look… ill.” Dake Of Oxcross said, his eyes wide with terror. As if he had never seen a man who enjoyed his drink a bit too much.
“Dake. Shut it.” Preston said as he rode in-front.
“I am… fah. I am fine. Do not worry. Dake. Of. Ox. Of. Cross.” Tyland replied. The cider had really hit him hard.
What a nice night.
“M’lord, I tink he is gonna get sick.”
“Dake, what have I told you? Do not talk. When you talk, I ache. Your voice annoys me. So shut your mouth.”
“But m’lord-”
“Dake!”
Such a nice night. Tyland took his eyes off of the road and looked up. His stare penetrated the night’s sky. It was a blanket of deep purple, with shining white stars as its pattern. Its prettiness managed to make him sad. Seb was pretty.
He felt his lip quiver but he stopped himself. He wasn’t a crier. He wouldn’t let Drunk Tyland start to be one. A breath of sobriety invaded him and he shook his head.
Get a hold of yourself.
“How much… fuh. Further?” He spoke out.
“We’re camped just outside of Oxcross, my lord.” Preston said.
“Gooohd.” Tyland said, his pronunciation slurred.
Get a hold of yourself, Tyland.
“He’s fucked, m’lord.” Dake said, his eyes had not left Tyland.
“Then he’ll lead us to The Tooth- fucked.” Preston said before spitting on the side of the road. Tyland did the same, thinking he could try and spit the alcohol from his body. He soon realised that such a task was moot.
“I am not… fuhcked.”
“M’lord, wih’ all due ‘spect.”
“Shut up, Dake.”
“I only had… this many.” Tyland let go of his horse’s reins so to hold up his hands and showcase the amount of alcohol he had consumed. But as soon as his fingers sprung up, he slid off the steed and crashed into the ground.
“Ow. Fuck. Ow.” He groaned as he now laid in a puddle of Seven knows what. The horse neighed at him and then began to trot off. Fucking horse. His vision blurred a bit before it all went black.

“Good morning.” A sweet voice sang to him.
Tyland Lannister opened his eyes to find himself face down on a cot. His head was clouded. His throat drier than the Dornish desert. Balls. He turned his head to the left to see that he was in a tent. The morning sun peered through the tent’s flap. A figure soon stood in the light’s way.
Seb?
No.
A woman.
“I have a feeling that you’re feeling awful, hm?” She said as she knelt down as to have her face facing his. Audrey Spicer. He would recognise those brown curls anywhere.
“Audrey, it’s been…”
“A while.” She finished his sentence.
“I’m guessing I’m among the men I am supposed to lead?” He asked her as he tried sitting up. He could do so easily enough. The only pain he had was the one inside his head. I am never drinking again. He ran his hand through his hair, bits of muck stuck to the golden strands. He blinked a bit until he could see Spicer more clearly.
“You guess correctly.” She said, standing back up. Her clothes were commonlike and she wore an apron that was dusted with dirt and dried blood.
“So what are you doing here then? Is your father under my command?”
“Oh Gods no.” She let out a hoarse giggle. “My father is safe and sound, finalising some trade deals.”
“Then why are you-”
“I’m coming with you and your army.”
“What?” Tyland rubbed his eyes of sleep.
“You heard me, Tyland.”
“I did. But-”
“I’m acting as a physician under Septa Ella. Roland told you that I was tutoring under Maester Owen at Foote Keep, didn’t he?”
She needs to stop interrupting me.
Tyland smiled at her, “He neglected to say so.”
“That bastard.” She rolled her eyes. “Can you stand?”
Tyland stood. He wobbled for a split second until he found his footing. “I didn’t break both my legs.”
“I was just trying to be nice.” She slapped his wrist, playfully.
Tyland winked at her in response and her cheeks filled with pink blush. She wants me bad. He took a step forward, and then another. To make sure that he really was alright to walk.
“Ready?” Audrey asked.
“Ready?” Tyland repeated, his brow raised.
“To meet your men.”
Tyland looked at the tent flap. At the world outside it. Dread filled him, but he tried to not let it eat away at his thoughts. He didn’t need more to worry over.
I should have stayed in that damn tavern.
“I’m ready.” He said, strengthening up his posture.
I should have stayed in that bed…
With Seb.

Maester Nate
NPC


​

Nate was fearful of two things in this world. His eyes opened to darkness. “Shit,” He mumbled to himself as he swung his legs out of the bed he had slept upon. His hands reached out in a desperate hope to find something he could hold on to. Fingers slithered around a handle on his bedside cabinet. Using it as a grip, he pulled himself up. His eyes opened and closed and opened and closed ‘till they adjusted to the dimness.
Bors The Bruiser was his first phobia.
Thinking about him made a chill tickle the back of Nate’s neck. He thought back to his time at the stable in the middle of The Dornish Marches. He thought of how that childless couple took him and put a roof over his noggin. Finally, he was with happiness. That was until they took in another boy, one of which was bigger and meaner.
“Bors.” Nate whispered to himself as he walked over to where the one small window of his room was. He clung to the ragged curtain that shielded said window and drew it back- letting rays of light sunshine in. Bors harassed him for months on end. The brute would hit and kick and spit and one time he crept into Nate’s bedchamber and he-
The Maester shook his head. He did not want to waste such a beautiful day on the darkest nights of his past. He looked out the window at Old Town in all its historic glory. It was, at most, an hour since the dawn and already the city was alive and bustling. As he watched, trying hard to tie up his thoughts, the door to his room opened abruptly.
Nate twisted around to see his serving boy, carrying a tray of breakfast treats. His brow did furrow. “Gilwood, what have I told you boy?”
The boy stopped in his tracks and his face lit with his own fear. “Oh, b-balls. Maester Nate, I’m so sorry. I knew I should have knocked.”
Nate sighed, “Then why didn’t you?”
“Well I is late with ya’ breakfast and well I thought mayhaps you had already gone with Maester Ben to ‘da meeting.”
“Meeting?” Nate now fully turned away from the window. He walked towards Gilwood and picked a small loaf of bread off of the tray he held. He stuffed it in his mouth and began to chew.
“Yeah, the meetin’. The Archmaesters called one earlier. I was gunna come get ya’ but Maester Ben said he would ‘stead.”
Nate swallowed the bread, its texture chalky and rocklike. He shook his head and sat down on his bed, “Leave my tray there and go, boy.”
Gilwood nodded like a frantic before putting the pieces of breakfast down and leaving. A sigh slipped from Nate’s lips as he put his head in his hands. The Archmaesters would have his ass in a grinder if he was late to a meeting they themselves called. He picked at the tray a bit more before dressing himself proper. As he did, he thought more of Bors.
He thought about the time he sat on the carriage set for The Citadel. He twiddled his thumbs as that childless couple and Bors watched him off. The couple waved with sad smiles on their faces but Bors was as still as stone- wearing a different smile.
One that said,
“I’ll see you someday again, bitch boy. And when I do, I’ll make sure I fuck you bloody…” Nate adjusted his chain. The brass and black iron ones were especially misfitting this morning. When he finally got them in the right way-
He left.
Still in fear that one night Bors would beckon him back.

The Hall was filled with men chattering of tedious things that Nate could care less about. He navigated through the sea of cliques until he found his. Two dubious Maesters, one had one eye and the other had a face sprinkled with more than a few pockmarks.
“There he is.” Maester Ben said, with sad eyes.
“Ah, we’ve been waiting for you to make your appearance Nate.” Maester Hyle said as he scratched the area around his good eye.
Ben cleared his throat, “I was meant to um… come wake you but I-”
“It’s alright, Ben. No need to explain when you’ve got a lot on your mind.” Nate said. Maester Ben had been troubled since they learnt of the happenings at Harrenhal. It was there that his brother was stabbed through the back.
“Why have they called us?” Nate asked. His gaze wondering the room. The Archmaesters sat at a table on a stilted platform, squabbling about what not.
“Ben and I have been wondering that as well.” Said Hyle.
“Something big obviously?”
“Indeed.”
The trio stood still for a few moments before Archmaester Mervyn approached the front of the platform that faced all the other Maesters.
“Maesters,”
Archmaester Mervyn announced. His voice stung like the strings on a tuneless lute. In his hands was a piece of wrinkled parchment that his fingers fiddled to open. Nate exchanged a nervous glance with One Eyed Hyle. When Melvyn did manage to open the paper, he coughed so to cleanse his pallet.
“Summer has ended.”
Nate’s eyes widened.
The second thing he feared wasn’t as terrifying as Bors The Bruiser, no. “Starting this morning, Autumn has shown itself.” Or maybe it was just as monstrous as that brute.
“We are expecting the leaves to change with a quickness. The previous Spring was short, and thus Archmaester Lorimer and I reckon this Autumn will be shorter.”
Nate tensed.
He was born and raised in the sands of Dorne. That was all he knew even come the chillest of times. It never snowed there. So the thought of such thing always gave him pause. He pursed his lips and crossed his arms.
Nate feared the snow.
“The white ravens will be sent in the coming noon.”
Nate feared the cold.
“We expect everyone in-charge of the ravens to work with obedience. It is important that every castle and town in Westeros receives one…”
Nate feared the Winter.

Spoiler: MENTIONS

Akio
Braddington
TheAncientCelt

 

[Hypnos]

Ambrose
Septon of the Most Devout​

Ambrose dreamed of Lannisport. He dreamed of the clean streets free of beggars and vagabonds, of the the orderly architecture arranged in picturesque rows, of the loud harbours alive with the music of the sea. Most of all, he dreamed of the women. Ambrose knew Lannisport like he knew the back of his hand, even now, in his sleeping state, he could picture himself walking down every alley, praying at every Sept, visiting every brothel. Lannisport was home. Lannisport was familiar. He’d ruled the city’s streets like almost a personal fief for many years now, using his position in the faith to achieve an authority almost unprecedented by his own family. In Lannisport he was more than a Septon. In Lannisport he was a king. But Septon Ambrose was not in Lannisport anymore.

Awakening with no great hurry, Ambrose rolled over to see a familiar sight: a woman sharing his bed. She was not a particularly attractive, at least not to the standard he was used to, but she did have a particular charm about her, her blonde curls helping to frame her face in a favourable light, hiding many of the marks and blemishes upon her skin. She was a whore, that much was certain, though Ambrose did not remember the specifics of hiring her service. The last clear memory that he had of the previous night was carousing with Septon Karlon of White Harbour. Time must have gotten the better of him. Time and wine.

That was another issue with King’s Landing. In the Westerlands he took his wine strong and fruity, and he knew exactly the amount which would see him suitably intoxicated, yet not drunk enough that the effects would haunt him upon the morrow. In the capital, the wine was so watered down it was little more than pisswater in a goblet, so weak that it could take a man several rounds before he felt the effects at all.

Ambrose hated King’s Landing. He hated its pisswater wine. He hated its ugly whores. Most of all, he hated its people. It had been weeks now, since he’d arrived in the city, anticipating the coronation of a new monarch. He’d arrived from Lannisport with great anticipation for a new future. That was before Harrenhal however. Harrenhal had certainly put a stone in the shoe of the proverbial horse. Now there were three monarchs in need of crowning: a bastards, a fetus and a girl. The gods had been generous with their kings as of late. Now he was stuck in this shithole of a city, unable to leave for fear of whispers of treason, since his own kin had taken up arms with Loren Lannister in his attempt to crown a child who had not yet said it’s first words. Things were messy, and it did not seem that they would be cleaned up in the near future.

Attempting to stand without awakening the woman to his side, Ambrose scanned the room for his robes, finding the cloth-of-silver garments lying discarded upon the back of a wooden chair. It was a strange sight to see the ceremonial robes of a Septon of the Most Devout strewn haphazardly upon the furniture of a whorehouse, though it was not an unfamiliar one to Septon Ambrose. Many would condemn Ambrose's endorsement of carnal pleasure, stating it to be unholy and unnatural, those were the same prudes who would faint at the mere sight of a woman’s cunny. No. Ambrose put little stock in the words of those lesser men, he had wrote extensively on the topic as part of his tomb ‘The Maiden and I’ which outlined his stance upon those forbidden pleasures. He was a man of the faith. But to be a man of the faith, one must first be a man, and what was a man if he did not have a woman by his side?

“M’Lord, ya goin’ so soon?” It seemed as if his attempts to not awaken his bedmate had been futile, and as Ambrose covered himself with his silvery garments, the whore beside him began to stir. “Only, ya paid fer a full night, but ye dozed off af’er only a single fuckin’. I thought it be rude ta leave ye by yerself, so I musta dozed off too.” She chuckled, revealing her missing front teeth. Ambrose was getting old, perhaps not as old as the crones that took up the majority of seats in the Council of the Most Devout, yet he was still losing a bit of his stamina.

“There’s no need for such formality. I am no more a Lord than you are a Lady.”

“But ye got them fancy robes, and ta mistress says you paid a hefty sum fer a girl.”

“I’m a Septon. The Gods have given me many gifts” He replied as her eyes widened.

“Me apologies father, I didn’t know. Only, I thought you lot weren’t supposed ta consort wit people like me.”

“We’re not.” Ambrose said gruffly as he finished dressing himself, attempting to make himself look as respectable as he could given the current circumstance. “Only, some of us follow the ‘Seven Pointed Star’ a little more literally than others.” He began to make his way out of the room, turning back only when he heard the whore make another comment.

“Father, may I ask ye something?”

“Of course child. Ask away.”

“I’m a whore. I’m not… We’re not... Are we going to hell father?”

Ambrose paused for a moment, his hand resting on the handle of the door. This was not the first time he’d been asked this question. He’d consorted with whores for most of his life, from the lowest street urchin who would offer her services for a few copper pieces, to the most expensive courtesans in Braavos. His mother had been a whore, and he had nothing but respect for the woman. Prostitution was a craft like any other, and the gods would not punish a woodsman for felling a tree.

“What is your name girl?” He asked after a period of silence.

“It’s Lya, father.” She stuttered out.

“No, Lya, you’re not going to hell.” With that he turned to leave, exiting the whore house, to return to his duties in the Sept.

 

[Little-Fox]

Nest
Lost Arrow
​

The smell and creak of leather filled the air within the tent Nest occupied as he tugged on a sturdy pair of boots and stood, glancing back down at his bedroll with a frown. There was a new tension in the air but he couldn't read it, couldn't figure out what it was exactly that plagued him. Perhaps it was the letter he'd sent a few weeks ago that he'd yet to receive a message in response to... perhaps it was more... what the letter had said, what it meant. Others were already starting to wake, he could hear it from the sounds that pervaded the grouping of tents that they'd occupied.

What do I do if there is no movement? I could write to find out how things are, but would that make any difference?

With a frown and a heavy sigh he leaned down and picked up a length of leather cording, his hair sweeping down around his face with the motion before he stood up and pulled it all back, using the cord to tie it into a low-lying tail.

Fuck it. I will wait a little longer and then I will act.

He grabbed his cloak and pulled it over his shoulders, fastening the catch and pulling his hood up, the mask tucked to one side for now. His eyes trailed to his bow, long and unstrung in the corner to let the newer cording rest between uses, the runes down the front acting as both a reminder and a burden. 'Even in the darkness, we remember.' Yeah, we remember alright.

The sound of canvas unrolling followed his exit as he made his way to the more centralized area, a water trough serving as a water basin to wash his face before securing the mask into place. Awake... the water had helped, but he couldn't help but still feel half out of it with how much his thoughts swam this morning. Several grumbling men had passed him by, a few he recognized and a few that might have been new faces. Maybe. And then he saw the crow.

"The sea of Stars weep crimson tears that shatter the sky. Red is the Keeper of the Ashen Moon and dwells in the heart of Kings. A bright yet volatile Spear holds the contract. Safe for now."

Safe for now. That's good at least. The scroll had been written in blood, the rust-colored 'ink' drawn out in the same kind of runes that adorned his bow.

I'm glad you're safe... make sure you stay that way, brother.

 

[Hypnos]

Wooden tables filled the hall as people continued to mill about, reorganizing so that the only ones left in the room were those who intended to contribute to the discussion of the war efforts and the protection of the Northlands.

Gregor Bolton​

Gregor Bolton still stood. He’d stood throughout the little bitch’s speech as she tried to defend the honour of her father. He’d stood whilst his good sister showered the young girl in unearned praise. He’d stood whilst the cowardly giant declared his intention to run home before the war had even begun. He’d stood whilst Lord Reed begged for help against the oncoming southern forces. He was still standing when the lesser lords and retainers began to slowly make their exit from the great hall until the only ones who remained were those of a high enough standing to actually contribute to the war effort. Gregor Bolton was tired of standing.

He had remained at the front of the hall throughout all of the events that had transpired within the castle, and whilst Lady Willow had taken away a great deal of attention from him and his unspoken tirade against Bryce Stark, he was certain that he’d successfully gotten his point across. Before everyone had a chance to make their way out of the room, Greg gestured for one of his retainers, grabbing the man by the shoulder and pulling him close before whispering into his ear: “Tell my sister that if any man of the Last Hearth tries to leave this castle in between now and our march south, she has my permission to stop them with any force she deems appropriate. The men of the Dreadfort stand behind her.” He pushed the man away, a smile invisible upon his lips. It felt good to have a plan.

Turning back to the assembled lords, Greg only grew more excited. The gods had been good granting him another opportunity to assume a role of authority, though this time he did not think that a few biting words would be enough to get him what he wanted. “I hope Umber is the only coward in the room, it’d be a shame to lose our entire army before the first battle.” With the majority of the room now empty, the soft echo that accompanied all of Greg’s words was now magnified tenfold, giving the illusion of his voice coming from every angle. “I suppose that it is simple enough to say some words and get things done, so why don’t I begin? With the absence of Lord Bryce.” His last words hung in the air like a foul stench.

“If the Crossing is to be fortified, then I don’t fancy our chances of taking it by force. I’m also not a very strong swimmer I’m afraid, so I don’t advocate trying to ford our way across the trident. Of course, we won't have to do either. If the man we’re following holds the support of the Vale, then there’s not very much stopping us from going around the green fork in the south. There’s plenty of land between us and Harroways, and the pastures are green enough to feed our armies, at least for a while. This is assuming that we intend to take the fight to them, rather than sitting on our asses up here as Lord Umber has suggested” All very basic stuff, but there was an issue Greg was far more interested in.

“I suppose an important question would be: who should lead our forces south? Since Lord Bryce intends to take a back seat.” He would not answer his own question, he would never dream of being so arrogant, but his tone suggested that he had better idea of who he thought should be in charge than he was letting on.

Torreg Umber ​

The gods hadn't decided to bless Lord Umber with the gift of eloquence, he didn't have the quick wit of a smart man nor was he adept at matters of the mind. In the end, it didn't matter, for what the gods had decided to omit in the man they'd repay tenfold. Toregg was built like none you've ever seen, some say he was not human at all but sired by a giantess. What good was eloquence to a man who's palms were larger than most men's heads? What good was wit to a man who could break every bone in your body with just one swing of his hammer?.

Despite not having an affinity for the spoken word, Toregg knew when to sit and listen and when to speak up. When Lord Reed stood to voice his concerns, he listened. He heard the man speak of an impending invasion, apparently, the frey's were raising their men for war a prospect that didn't excite Lord Umber. Would they really be this stupid? March their men up north through the neck?. However unlikely, this information couldn't be ignored and besides, Lord Reed had spoken well, spoken truly. To think that the little child he knew pronouncing about Greytower Watch had turned into such a man.

Lord Umber was just about to acknowledge what the Lord had said, If what he'd heard was true Lord Umber was obligated to send his men south to secure the North. Before he could get a word in however the Lord Bolton took his turn, openly, in front of the entire realm he called Lord Umber a coward. These children, barely done sucking their mother's teats called Lord Umber a coward, him of all people a coward. He, who at the stepstones stood alone surrounded and outnumbered fending off enemies all about him as his paramount lay on the ground dying. This was an insult he would not take sitting.

Lord Umber knew that bearing his hammer out in the open at council would make matters worse than it already was, he didn't care, this was a matter of honor.

"Lord Bolton, You’ll take those words back or I swear you'll never see the walls of the dreadfort again and we wouldn't want that now would we? for who'll take care of that little morsel of a wife of yours? Say, I hear you can't get it up owing to that greyscale you hide under your mask, that true?"

“I assure you Lord Umber, I am more than capable of getting it up.” Bolton replied bombastically, clearly not phased by the much larger man. “Perhaps if Lord Stark had not advised against it, I’d be willing to give you a demonstration.” His laugh was hearty but cold.

Jaremy Reed​

Jaremy sighed as the tension in the room tightened once more. Following his speech, he had done little more than bow politely to the young she-wolf as she thanked him for his warning and fallen behind her as the room was cleared for a franker discussion about the upcoming war. He had opted to remain silent during Bolton’s opener about choosing a Lord among them to lead. With the tension among the Lords already high, openly choosing one seemed to be like striking a match while coated in oil; it appeared better just to keep his mouth shut.

Until now.

“We have no time for this squabbling, My Lords,” he interjected quietly after Bolton’s reply. “Each moment we spend here fighting each other, the forces of the Riverlands draw closer to invading the North.”

He glanced across the table towards Lysara Manderly. Like him, she had also opted to remain silent.

“Lady Manderly, I understand White Harbor commands a great host. Some five thousand, correct? More? And that your city sits north of the Riverlands and connects us to our allies in the Vale. Like my people, you stand to lose a great deal in this war should the tides of fortune turn against us.”

Jaremy held his tongue for a moment, as if he knew the recommendation was about to be met with an outcry even before he said it, but kept his cool green eyes focused on her nevertheless through the duration of the pause.

“I believe you are the best choice to lead a force to defend the North as of this moment.”

But perhaps not the best force to attack, he thought.

Despite himself, he let his eyes drift over on Bolton, on his cold steel mask that disguised his face. The man was terrifying, the man was unique. If he merely gave the crannogman the creeps, what could he do if unleashed upon the southern Lords?

Gregor Bolton​

As Umber finished his threats and Reed displayed his poor judgement, it became apparent to Greg that perhaps he would have to be a little more forceful if he were to gain the authority that he desired. Lysara Manderly was his good sister, and he had no personal issues with the woman, but she lacked certain qualities that Greg looked for in a leader, namely: a pair of balls and a cock swinging between her legs. What good was a commander if he did not have the respect of his men? These were northmen, burly and large, they would not follow behind a women, especially not one as young as Lysara, and Greg did not want the North to become the laughing stock of their enemies when they rode into battle behind such a frail and effeminate leader. No. Even the pup: Bryce Stark would be more intimidating.

“With all due respect Lord Jaremy.” His tone remained lighthearted despite the subject matter, though the slight hint of animosity betrayed his true feelings on Reed’s suggestions. “We will not be marching until at least the first light of tomorrow. It takes time to gather men and reign in horses. If Lord Umber wants to have a pissing contest, then I assure you there is plenty of time to accommodate him. Perhaps age has dulled his wits, that or made him a little insecure.” Greg was still standing at the front of the hall, None were in a position of higher authority right now, save for Willow Stark, and she was but a girl. Perhaps the lords of the North had been eager to offer praise and encouragement during this meeting, but Gregor Bolton would sooner ride south under the command of a horse than be lectured on warfare by a girl several years his junior.

“The day we base our commanders upon who has the most men, and who has the most to lose is the day that I ride south and put a crown upon the head of the fat fuck of Highgarden. No!” Perhaps the time for subtlety was over. If he were to keep on dropping hints, then there was not an insignificant chance that his peers would keep missing them, and at that point they might hand the reins of the North to an Umber, a Karstark or someone equally insufferable. “Give command to a woman and we’ll be the laughing stock of the south. Which would make it very hard to strike fear into the hearts of our enemies. Lady Lysara is my good sister, and I love her dearly, but unless she’s been hiding a manhood under those skirts I would not follow her into battle.” He offered Lysara a wink with his one good eye. It was doubtless that she’d have something to say about this, some long tirade about the virtues of women and how their strength was equal to that of a man. It was doubtless that she’d also find a way to mention the number of banners under her command as well. That was an issue for another minute.

“Only one man here seems to have a plan, and that man appears to be myself. Give me the command and I shall make the Riverlands bleed. Not a single southerner will step foot upon Northern soil.” It was an easy enough promise to make, Moat Cailin stood between the North and any real threat from the south, and Greg was confident that even with a garrison of a handful of men, no man would be stupid enough to attempt an assault. Others feared the idea of going south, but Greg revelled in it, this was his time to carve out the glory he had lusted after for his entire life. Maybe Umber and his cronies intended to stand in the way of that, but there were always ways around these problems.

Lysara Manderly ​

Lysara sat and listened to the childish theatrics going on before her. It just so happened her thoughts coincided with her good brother on the issue of Lord Umber, though perhaps the dumb bastard hadn't considered that if he wanted to lead the North in this war then perhaps it wasn't a good idea to accuse a respected northern Lord of being a coward in such an open place. When the contest turned to cocks she felt herself losing her wits by the second, if this was what the North was made up of then perhaps they would all better serve it by abdicating immediately and giving the Wall a few new recruits, barring that then maybe they could test the Ironborn religion and go meet the Drowned God in person. It was boring, stupid and completely unnecessary given the current mood of the assembled Lords. For but a brief few moments she remembered why she didn't follow her sister into marriage so quickly, you end up with that as the person you're sworn to for life.

Lord Reed seemed to be the most competent Lord in the room at this time, not that it was saying much. As he stopped the Great Battle of Winterfell she couldn't help but let out a small cheer and sigh of relief before taking another swig from her tankard, reaching the bottom of it faster than she would have liked. When his small speech turned to her she was rather surprised, she thought for a second that they forgot that she existed in the first place. He was right on her relative strength, give or take three thousand men and she did stand to lose a lot. If this went well then the trade she would get would boost her already substantial fortune to new heights and she did so desperately want to expand White Harbour. After all, they needed a few buildings named after her or else what else would there be to remember her name? Her legacy in the form of cousin Wyman? At the same time her rule would be threatened with good reason if they lost, no doubt she would be made to abdicate by some coalition of vassals and snivelling courtiers whist House Manderly fell into a financial hole that not even the magnificent intellects of her cousins could handle.

At the suggestion of her leading something she let out a slight smile and chuckle, she appreciated the thought of course and her banners combined were worth more than what Umber, Bolton and Karstark could muster even if they merged together. That wasn't the point, she could have 8,000 or 30,000 and it still wouldn't matter and right on cue Lord Bolton got up and provided the reason why. Women had no place leading a Northern army. It was complete and utter bollocks of course, but enough dim witted fools believed it and of course her good brother would be the one to make that abundantly clear. Oh, that didn't mean she was going to give up that easily, she had her own suggestion in mind. When Bolton winked at her she stood and bowed slightly to him in a polite manner before letting his speech finish and starting herself.

“As a matter of fact I agree with my good brother, I could never lead a Northern force for the reasons he layed out,” Collective gasps went out from some of the Lords, this was not the usual Lysara they had encountered before. This Lysara wasn't sitting back in White Harbour managing finances and holding competitions however. This was a war that would make or break her house and so if she needed to swallow her pride for that then she would do so with a smile. “I also agree with him that he should have an important role to play in the war to come, I hope he doesn't take it the wrong way but the southern pussy’s would quiver in fear at the sight of him and their admiration for my sister's courage would be amplified ten fold.” She let the laughs come, easing the mood slightly before her thoughts came to the forefront. “But,” There was always a but. “I do not think that he should lead it. I can't lead but I can advise, as any of you could advise here today. I have a role to play in this war but I needn't be the face of our campaign. I believe that should fall to the most reasonable Lord amongst us today, a man who has sat here and tried his damn hardest to end the pissing contests and unite the North so it may protect itself. The man who has already fought against a Riverlord and who has the most to lose or gain in the coming months. I stand here today to say that we should all throw our support behind Lord Jaremy Reed.” Lysara looked to her good brother for a brief second and then to Lord Reed. “House Manderly and myself would stand ready to advise you on the campaign, as should any Lord with sense.”

Then her courting of the Lords began. First came Karstark “Lord Karstark! Was it not Lord Reed who when this council threatened to fall apart because of our liege, tried to pursue the man so the North could remain united and authority achieved?” Then came Umber, “Lord Umber, no man here should doubt your conviction to the North. Can the same not be said for the Lord who has defended the neck, our only point of entry for his entire life and who stands here as a voice of reason in this time of war?” Finally, as if she had planned to for some time she looked to the Stark that remained and bowed “Lady Willow, you have the voice of a Stark, the line that united our lands. Can you think of any Lord better suited to keep that unity in these times than the respected Lord Jeremy Reed?” As she grew to a close she addressed them all as one “I ask the Lords to consider my proposal here today. Give the command to a man who has already fought for our lands against the Riverlords of the South.” With a final look to Reed she took her seat with some final words “House Manderly stands with you.”

Willow Stark​

Once Lyanna was safely out of the room and headed to find their father, those stormy hues wandered back to the group she’d unintentionally found herself hosting personally. She listened carefully to each one speak, her fingers locked together in front of her as she desperately kept herself from wringing her hands, not wanting any of them to know how nervous she really was behind that calm facade. Once more it was Lord Bolton who’d stepped forward to speak first, his posturing seen, heard, and felt by likely everyone in the room. He was trying to apply pressure, to bend the rest like sheep in a fold. Only Bolton was no shepherd, sheep are guided rather than forced through intimidation and insults. Lord Umber truly was no better…He’d gone from coward who wanted to tuck tail and go home to a man threatening a diseased man and even going so far as to bring Bolton’s wife into the insinuation.

Unlike others, Willow never took a seat. Perhaps a part of her just didn’t want to appear any smaller than she already felt, or perhaps she simply didn’t like the idea of sitting while Lord Bolton still stood. She brushed her hair back from her face as she listened to Lord Reed speak, her gaze flitting to Lady Manderly and back again. She’d never seen a woman lead a war, and though she had no doubts that Lysara could in fact outmaneuver and outmatch a good deal of men, she couldn’t see that flying here. Of course, Lord Bolton proved those thoughts in earnest, waving his dick around metaphorically as if that was the only thing that mattered in a war. Men. Most felt that women were breeding stock and that was all. Her father hadn’t ever shown that side when it came to her mother though, and so seeing it here was inflaming to say the least. But she held her tongue as she always did, listening.

Lady Manderly once more showed her intelligence as she came forward, a quiet smile perking the lips of the oldest Stark daughter as Bolton’s own good-sister essentially agreed with him and then blatantly stated that he was not a good candidate for leadership. That instead, that position should go to the younger and seemingly more level-headed Lord Reed. She considered what all had been said as she glanced between the faces of those gathered, trying to gauge who was likely to be diplomatic and who was likely to fight any suggestion made that was not their own. She moved to place her hands against the familiar tabletop, letting the texture soothe and ground her as she braced herself to speak. “What if instead of choosing a singular individual to lead the entire force, it was acted upon as a council? Lord Bolton would never follow Lady Manderly, but I should hope that he would at the very least listen to her council as she has controlled the Mander for a while now and has done so efficiently. Lord Reed would follow Lady Manderly but has already shown that he has the leadership skills to listen and to convey what is important without tearing down his peers, even Lord Umber has shown at least the respect to listen to him. It would seem to me at least, that perhaps working together could be the best way for the North to not only protect itself from the Riverlands, but to show them why they never should have tried to cross the Neck.”

Somewhere in the back of her mind she was still praying her father would arrive soon. Somewhere she was still panicking, this was not her place. This was not her job. Her mother could do this… her father should be doing this… and yet here she was, holding onto what little bit of spine she could and praying to the old gods that she was right in this path. While she believed Lord Reed would have made an excellent leader, she could already see that Bolton wanted the position and would not submit. Umber might, and Manderly would help keep that hierarchy in check… but Karstark had yet to weigh in and Bolton’s need to dominate a room had already shown him for what he was. A council though… it would mean each Lord and Lady got to throw their thought into the hat when it came to preplanning at the very least. Someone would have to serve as the head, but until that came up… it was at least an idea that they could get a feel for mentally before either embracing it and working out the kinks… or throwing it out because the one who’d suggested it lacked a cock between her thighs.

Lyanna Stark
​

“DAD GET YOUR ASS INTO THAT ROOM RIGHT NOW OR SO HELP ME GOD” “PLEASE GO LEAD”

Jaremy Reed​

Jaremy did not so much as blink when Bolton rose to dismiss his suggestion. He remained firmly seated in his chair, head canted to one side, and his arms briskly folded across his whippet-lean frame. There was no element of surprise in his face, no hint of backing down from his words at Bolton’s mockery as the other began to speak. And why should there be? The face of Greg Bolton might have been hidden behind that cold steel mask he wore, but there was no disguising the passion in his words. The flayed man wanted his command – No, perhaps it was better to say that he lusted for it, in the same way that men lusted for ale or for women. There would be no satisfying that one with reason or compromise. No doubt, Jaremy was certain that he would stand there even if it took him all night, shooting down each and every other suggestion that came so long as he got what he wanted in the end: command of the entire North.

But is that a bad thing?

Jaremy considered Lord Bolton again. Average height, comparative to the hulking Karstark and Bolton. Average weight, yet again. Silk and silver made up his words, yet they carried a dagger behind them, he was certain. His shoulders were squared, proud, and the embers from the burning brazier gleamed off the cold steel that encased his face. It was ghastly … and strangely brilliant.

He would terrify the Southron Lords, Jaremy admitted to himself with quiet envy.

But the ability to terrify and to hunt down all who opposed was not enough. Not enough to inspire loyalty in the men that were to follow and not enough to make the other proud Lords of the North put aside their differences and unite. As much as the Lord of the Crannogs could see the potential there, he was growing more certain by the minute that Greg Bolton was not the man to lead them.

Just as soon as he made that conclusion in his mind, the Lord of the Dreadfort was joined on his feet by Lysara Manderly. Jaremy ceased studying the masked man at once and politely settled his attention on her. Perhaps he expected a passionate rebuttal to her “good brother” about her qualifications for leadership. Maybe he expected her to rally others to her cause and take the opening in the door he had offered her. But the Mermaid did none of those things. Instead, she did the very last thing he expected her – expected anyone to do.

“I stand here today to say that we should all throw our support behind Lord Jaremy Reed.”

W-what?

As Lysara began to call upon Umber and Karstark for support, the Lord of the Crannogs could do naught but stare for words had completely failed him. Him, lead the North? For an instant or two, he saw a picture of himself in his head garbed in one of those ridiculous metal suits he had once seen etched upon the likeness of the first Dragon, riding at the head of a Northern host to war. The image was so comical, so out of place that he almost felt the urge to laugh aloud in front of all the gathered Lords.

Almost.

Instead, he kept himself composed as the Stark maiden spoke, and only after he finish did he finally push his chair back to address her and the gathered assembly at large.

“My apologies, Lady Stark, but a council would never work – or at least not in a time of war. When the jaws of the enemy draw closer, time becomes more precious than food, water, or even air. Each spare second wasted on words is a gift to those would bring destruction down upon us. When they come, and make no mistake they will come, each and every man must know who to turn for direction. They have to have absolute trust in their orders … That, and the men working on either side of them to make it through.”

He took a long even breath and then glanced around the room.

“I will not lie to you. I do not want this command. I already feel the weight of having to lead my own people through this war without the adding the burden of the North on top of it. But if my Lord of Stark wills it from me, I will do so.”

Jaremy cast his gaze towards the front of the hall near where Bolton stood, to the side door Lord Stark had disappeared through following the disastrous speech. The Old Wolf had not yet returned, and it was unlikely they would learn his thoughts on the matter anytime soon. He cleared his throat and continued.

“Until that time, I want it known among the gathered Lords that I know the Moat like I know the back of my own hand. There is not an inch of it I have not paddled or traveled afoot. My crannogs know every path in and every path out out of the causeway – which ones are safe, and which ones will lead you to doom. I don’t know if I am the right man to lead the North. That I cannot promise you. But what I can promise you is that there is not a Lord alive capable of breaching the Neck with their army in tact.”

Swamplord. Bogdevil. Chieftain of the Mudmen.

Those were the names his fellow northerners had for him. And regardless of who ended up leading the charge down south, Jaremy Reed was ready to prove that his people had earned those nicknames with good reason.

Bryce Stark​

Bryce eventually found his way into the council room once again, saying, “Just what in the name of the Old God’s is going on here?!” He looked to his daughter, saying, “What's happening, dear?” He didn't even care if he interrupted the Reed lad (who he actually quite liked,) as he could hear the yelling from his chambers. Amelia had actually gotten her spare dagger ready just in case she had to shank a Lord for threatening her family. The Starks were an interesting bunch. They were either shy and awkward, or extremely aggressive and angry. There is no in between. Not for the Stark’s, anyway.

Willow Stark
As her father walked in with all of the grace of a toddler, she couldn’t help but flush a bit across her cheeks. Turning to face the Warden of the North, she brought her hands back to her front, no longer capable of holding that facade of calm as she began to wring her hands. “A war council… Since Lord Reed has had the courage and decency to come warn us that there are Southerners who are attempting to breach the Neck. Not to mention you let everyone here know that we are going to war… and then left us with no direction.” It wasn’t in her to be snarky usually, but he really had left her alone with a crowd of rather miffed people and most of them were Vassals of their house. “I sent Lyanna to come get you so that you could be involved and perhaps lead them.” Because Old Gods know I am not capable of leading… I have no idea why Daeron would even consider such a thing… likely because he does not know me.

Torrhen Karstark

Lord Karstark had taken his seat beside his Uncle once again when the second phase of the meeting begun. “It’s alright Uncle, The words of a Bolton shouldn’t worry you. You are an Umber, always loyal. The North knows that. Don’t let him goad you, this is his strategy.” He said through gritted teeth, his voice a controlled low pitch only strained by mild annoyance.

This was not an argument, he had seen countless confrontations like this in Karhold. Between his many children, nephews and nieces… These So called Lords were squabbling like little kids! While a war was brewing just south of the Neck. His annoyance with them grew with every little barely concealed insult that they threw at each other. His sullen face, ever graced with a light frown deepened until slowly it started turning into a snarl but he managed to keep his anger in check, quite a feat for a Man such as himself. Mariah had really tamed the beast inside him. It had taken years but She had done it, but it felt like the monster was resurfacing itself. The monster who had no problem with raping a poor girl. This thought troubled his mind. He could hear that Lady Manderly had mentioned him, he just nodded his head and decide that it was better For him to wait this out until the door opened.

Torrhen’s patience had finally ran out by the time Bryce Stark returned to the meeting room. The absent Lord demanding the know what was going on in the meeting room in quite an aggressive manner was the final straw for him. “Enough is enough.” the Lord of Karhold mutturd rather loudly as he finally got up from his seat. “Everything my Lord, everything that concerns the North’s future.” He said with barely contained irritation as he faced his overlord. “We are here discussing the future of the North, the war that can possibly devastate the North and end our relatively important status among the Lords of Westeros. We are fortunate that your Daughter, Lady Willow was enough of a True Stark to control the situation.” He glanced towards the young lady, with a look of pity. ‘poor kid’ he thought, forced to deal with the most unruly bunch of Lords in Westeros because his father had no balls to face them “We Karstarks have always kept our oaths to Starks, it’s not just honour or promises of a long dead ancestor but our kinship, the blood we share binds us to the Starks. And I will serve them until my last breath.” He said, his gaze hovering over the Starks. “I wish I could say that I’d trust my Lord and kin Bryce Stark with my men and the future of the North, to lead us to another great victory, to show that the Firstmen aren’t dead, yet I simply don’t and trust me it pains me to say speak these words. To say that I don’t trust the Lord who shares my blood.” He turned to look at the macabre image of Bolton’s mask “We may have our differences but desperate times call for desperate measures. normally I would be against such an idea but he North needs to take decisions and it needs to do ifast, without wasting time. Lord Bolton is a respectable and smart Northman and I believe he has the best intentions For the North in his mind” he Then put his burly Hand over where his heart roughly would be. “And in his heart like any true Northmen.”he took a few steps to stand beside “Lord Bolton has my support, The Men of Karhold will follow him.” Torrhen faced his Uncle from his New position “Come Uncle, let this little name calling squabble be a thing of past. Stand beside me and Lord Bolton, You know that the North needs a strong leader.”

Torrhen only hoped that his Uncle would listen to his plea and support his decision to side with Bolton and that it would be enough to shift the Power balance and end this childish war of words.​

Lord Torreg Umber:
He’d been down this road before, the road to war. Surprisingly enough the council was just as chaotic when the Northern lords last decided to send their men off to fight, that time, the enemy was Maelys “the Monstrous”. This time the enemy’s an unborn child and a girl barely sixteen. Like every other war for the kingdoms before it, the fighting was fruitless, before, when he was young Lord Torreg may’ve been swayed by some fool claiming to be the ‘rightful king’, but now he knew the truth. It was all just a cruel joke, played with the lives of men every other decade. Hundreds of thousands would be sent to their deaths just to decide which fifth bastard sat on the throne.

Umber would not have this anymore, yes, the North needed strong leadership, but that wasn’t enough. The North needed purpose, a goal worth fighting for. And Daeron wasn’t it.

“My Lords and Ladies, my Nephew speaks well and truly. The North lacks strong leadership and undoubtedly Lord Gregor would be an excellent choice, for he is an honourable man. But what of lord Reed? The boy knows the Cannog’s better than any man here, and surely, he’s an honourable man? Lady Manderley certainly thinks so, and there’s no questioning her virtues.”

Lord Umber took a moment to pace himself, he was now standing upright, the pain in his legs masked by the weight of his thoughts. He knew what he was about to say would not win him any favours but he said it anyways.

“What do these honourable lords and ladies wish for us to do then? They want, northern armies to ride south in the name of Daeron Targaryen, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Do any here remember how the Targaryen’s came to hold that title - the king of the first men? The maesters must’ve told you once? It's quite a tale really, Torrhen Stark when faced with an Army half the size of his own but with three dragons decided that he’d rather bend the knee than fight.”

“The dragons are long since dead and gone my friends and yet these honourable lords and ladies insist that we must take up arms for the bastard that calls himself Targaryen.”

“To fight for our own subjugation? No I say, for too long has the North suffered under the Sotherton yoke, the time has come for a new era.”

“Last Hearth knows no king but the King in the North.”

Bryce Stark​

Bryce frowned, looking angrier than he ever had before. He paced about the room, eventually saying, “Karstark- Lord Karstark, you may be kin, but I will not tolerate this. What you speak of is treason. Traitors are punished, kin or no. So step in line, or I’m afraid you’ll be the first casualty of this war.”

He then turned to Umber, saying, “You speak of treason as well. You speak of betraying your king to follow the King of the North. That is treason. It pains me to say this, but I cannot and will not have vassals who wish to overthrow me and betray their king.” He finally turned to Lady Manderly, saying, “I will follow Lady Manderly. I trust you all do to the same. God’s know we don't need a fucking civil war.” He glared around, his eyes full of a fire he hasn't shown ever in his entire life. He was furious, beyond furious. The Old Wolf was finally showing off his fangs.

Gregor Bolton​

Anarchy. Chaos and anarchy. Those were the the only two words strong enough to sum up the current situation that was brewing in the North. It was enough to make even Gregor Bolton draw breath. He was not amused. Although the Lord of the Dreadfort had started this meeting with a smile upon his face and fire upon his tongue, things had taken a rather unexpected turn. This was not what was supposed to happen. This morning he had awoken with dreams of marching south and proving himself a true warrior of the North, claiming glory for himself and his family. This evening he had received nothing but resistance and idiocy. Bryce Stark’s earlier outcry had been but a symptom of a much larger problem. The whole of the North was in shambles. They needed leadership. They needed Gregor. Pride was all that stood in his way, the pride of every man and women of the North. They liked to talk big game, but in truth, no one else in the room had what it took to lead them to victory.

His face concealed behind not only a mask of iron, but one of composure as well, Greg surveyed the room, his one good eye darting from man to man. Lysara Manderly: a woman so enamoured with her own power that it was a surprise that she had not wed herself. Torrhen Karstark, a snake with low cunning and lower loyalty. Jaremy Reed, a youngling who was being forced into a position for which he lacked the skills just to spite Greg. Bryce Stark, who walked in clueless to a meeting that he himself had called merely hours ago. Then there was Toregg Umber.

To say that Greg thought that Toregg Umber was coward would be an insult to every coward in the North. Umber was something much worse. A craven. An idiot. A traitor. Toregg Umber was an old man who still lived in the past, as was apparent from his constant reminders of the Step Stones. Toregg Umber hadn’t done anything of note for decades, yet now he tried to call himself a hero and a man of reason. Now he tried to play the kingmaker. Greg had let a lot of things pass him by over the course of the night, he had listened and laughed as Umber insulted his manhood, he had japed when Umber insulted his wife, he’d offered nothing but a snide comment when Umber had threatened to walk his army home. He would not stand for this.

He opened his mouth to speak, but before he got the chance he was interrupted by Bryce Stark. Greg wanted to call out Umber’s treason. He wanted to beat a little bit of sense into the man. He wanted to to do a lot worse. It seemed however that he would not be given the chance. Bryce Stark offered nothing in the way of punishment but a slap on the wrist. Umber, Karstark, even Greg to a certain extent had spoken out against the Warden of the North very publically, they had mocked him to his face, yet Bryce did not seem capable of standing up for himself. Even his daughter had bigger balls.

This was exactly why Greg felt that he was needed. Manderly would no doubt make some veiled and idle threat. Karstark would make a snide remark. Reed would try and talk the North down. Greg was a man of action. Greg would take action.

“I am not sure if you heard correctly Lord Stark, but Toregg Umber just tried to crown a king.” He looked at Bryce in silence for a second, as if giving the man time to grasp the full extent of the situation. “This is treason. Treason of the highest order. Will you not do something?” It was obvious that he would not. Bryce had moved on quickly, giving Umber only a second of his time before immediately going on to give his army to a woman half of his age. He did not attend the meeting. He did not listen to his lords, now Bryce Stark wanted to play at being in charge. He wanted to dictate the final decision without consultation after refusing to listen to the council of any of his vassals. Greg didn’t know who he wanted to kill more, Stark or Umber.

That was not true.

Greg drew a blade.

It was a quick motion. He was a quick man. Greg had been standing in front of the lords of the North this entire time, holding a position even higher than the Lord of the North himself. It was time that he used that position. “We all know what the punishment is for treason. We all know what happens to a man who breaks his oath and betrays his king. Perhaps you are right, my lords and ladies. Perhaps I am not cut out for leadership. After all, an army requires a great amount of discipline, and I have been lax in my judgement as of late.” He took two steps forwards.

Although no one could see it, Greg was smiling. This was what he lived for, the thrill of the hunt, only this time his prey was much larger than the elks and does that inhabited the wolfswood. “So allow me to rectify this. I swear by the gods that I shall never neglect my duty to justice and decency.”

One second he was standing before everyone in the North, the next he was standing in front of one man, a knife in his hand and death in his eye.

Toregg Umber would not see it coming.

Torreg Umber​

It was all so sudden, violent and quick. It didn’t hurt really, it was rather something of a release. In truth he’d been looking forward to the day, Lord Umber was old, meek and broken indeed he could barely even walk, a husk of his old self.

They say your entire life flashes before you when you die, but all old Lord Umber saw was a mask covering the face of the man that held the dagger to his heart. He’d known the bolton boy for a long time, been to every nameday of that child, he was there when the grayscale claimed him and shared in his father’s joy when that chapter of the child’s life ended.

Torreg had always wanted a warrior's death, this was the closest thing to one he could wish for.

“The N...n-orth will always remember my boy, killing me has achieved nothing. We s...s...shall have a King in The North, evidently not in my lifetime bu-” Torregg huffed, struggling to speak they world around him growing dim.

“Bu-But someday, this I promise.”

Torrhen Karstark​

This evening was supposed to be a time for the Northern Lords to gather and strategize about the upcoming war in the name of King Daeron yet the day had turned into a nightmare… More so than talking about thousands of commoner’s deaths. First Bryce Stark had ignored them, then he had done that again and left the meeting. Bolton had tried to grab the power, only to be stopped by Willow Stark, the Eldest daughter of the Buffon and Lady Manderly. The only woman capable of dealing with the Lords.Then he had declared his support for Bolton. Which backfired when his uncle tried to crown a King in the North and now the air in the room was thick with tension… that was until Bolton moved.
The words Lord Bolton spoke was certainly threatening, especially mere moments after Torrhen himself and his Uncle had voice their honest opinions. Lord Karstark was many things a rapist, a crude barbarian, a but he certainly wasn’t an idiot. In fact he considered himself a man with high intellect especially among the brutes of the North. He could easily spot the sudden change in demeanor. He had a talent with such, just like how he had guessed that the newcomer to the hunting party was Lord Reed, based on his clothing, method of travel and of course the dead give away, his Height. Now Lord Bolton was no different. His posture had changed, albeit only a little. But the obvious was the blade. Only an complete and utter idiot like Bryce Stark wouldn’t notice that one swift motion that indicated the intent to kill. The Predator was going to use his superior speed and agility to kill the Old Bear before he could even react.
It was a good plan, Torrhen had to admit that. A plan based on the laws of nature, yet Gregor, who boasted about his hunting skills had miscalculated one little thing. He had left another predator in perfect spot to extract revenge. He too had hunted his fair share of game. Torrhen knew that striking Gregor from his right side would be problematic due to grayscale, and his mask would be a problem for a blow to his head, so he drew his blade and aimed to the one place that would guarantee a swift and unavoidable death and took a step, mirroring the movement of Bolton, certain that the man wouldn’t notice, too busy enjoying the sadistic pleasure of killing his prey. Mere seconds after He positioned himself, Lord Bolton’s heart would be punctured by his sword. He would have preferred to behead the Skinless Weasel and chop it to pieces to feed his diseased flesh to the seals but this would have to suffice for now. It was an eye for an eye. Old Gods would agree with his judgement even if the Petty Lord who liked to call himself Bryce wouldn’t. İt didn’t matter if he was to be killed or even banished to the Wall, which was a fate worse than death. He had done his duty to his family and the Old Gods as well.

Gregor Bolton​

It was gone. Everything. His dignity. His honour. His life. Greg had been gifted but a few short seconds to revel in the victory he had achieved against the Lord of the Giants before he was hit by the immediate consequences of his actions. He had always been an impulsive man, ever since he had been a lad. Perhaps it had been the greyscale. Many had thought that he would not live to manhood, fewer believed that he’d ever succeed his father as a lord, but he’d proved them wrong. Gregor Bolton had lived his life by the sword, and now he was to die by it. It was ironic that although he himself had utilised the effectiveness of a surprise attack upon Lord Umber, he had not anticipating that ability of other to do the same. Stabbed to death by his own lack of foresight. It was not a proud way to die.

As he watched the life drain from Umber’s eyes, he could feel himself beginning to slip into the eternal embrace of death. He didn’t want to die. That was the only truth he knew at that fateful moment. His cousin. His sister. His wife. So many people who relied upon him. All of them left behind. In that single moment, Greg saw a thousand faces flash through his mind. Not of those he loved, not of those he had cherished, but of those whom he had forced into a similar fate as his own. Gregor Bolton had not lived a good life. He’d hurt, he’d tortured, he’d killed, and now looking back on his life with the gift of hindsight, he could see that it had all led up to nothing.

Gregor Bolton had always dreamed of war. He’d always wanted to march south and claim glory for himself and his family. He’d wanted a soldier’s life. He’d wanted a warrior’s death. Yet now he stood here, in the castle of own liege, a sword only inches away from his heart.

“Fuck you Karstark!” He didn’t even have the strength to turn his head and look at the man who’d killed him. He didn’t have the strength to look him in the eye. All he could do was curse the man’s name and pray the old gods were still as good to him now as they had been when he was young.

He could feel the blade still clasped in his hand, covered in the blood of the giant lord. This was his legacy. The man who had torn apart the North. He supposed there were worse things to leave. He would be remembered, and that thought would make him smile if he still had the life left to do so.

Although death had stripped him of everything, it had yet to claim his courage, and Greg Bolton was determined to go down kicking. He lifted his knife, using all of the strength that he had remaining in his body. He would have his revenge. Blood soaked hands reached towards Karstark, as a single muted eye looked towards his target. “You’re a dead man.” The dagger went up. The dagger went forward. The dagger moved close, and then...

The dagger fell from his hands.

He had failed.

Torrhen Karstark was unscathed.

Gregor Bolton was dead.

Torrhen Karstark and Bryce Stark​

Bryce saw it coming. He saw Bolton pull the knife, saw him plunge it into the Lord of Giants. Then he saw the killer be killed himself. By none other than Torrhen Karstark. The bastard who had brought shame on the Stark bloodline for years for just being somewhat related to the Starks. Bryce had been a coward. Too scared to enforce the law of the land. He’d run away from the council, leaving his daughter to bring order. That was over. He frowned even deeper, unsheathing Ice as he stormed forward, saying, “KARSTARK!!!” He swung at the man, the blade going just behind him due to how his anger had blinded him. He brought the blade up ready to finally bring the council to order. Even if it killed him.

The last attempt at his life by Gregor Bolton had been futile, as the Blade fell, so did the body of the late Dreadlord. Torrhen put his feet down on the man’s now lifeless body and pulled his sword out of it. Gregor Bolton was dead for good, it brought some semblance of peace to his mind but the tranquility did not last for long as a cry of his name followed by the image of the great Ice just inches apart from his body brought him out of his thoughts. ‘’ARE YOU MAD STARK!’’ He shouted at the man, taking a fighting stance as well, years of practice and active combat against the Wildling raiders had made sure that Karstark’s skills as a fighter were honed ‘’YOU AIM TO BE A KINSLAYER NOW!?’’

Bryce gritted his teeth, saying, “No, I aim to kill a traitor!” He raised his sword to a ready position, his eyes locked with the man he once considered kin. But he was kin no more. Simply a traitor of the king and of the North. Just like Umber, just like Bolton. He swung the Stark family sword at the man, knowing that even if he blocked the strike, Karstark's sword couldn't withstand Valyrian Steel. Well, Bryce hoped at least.

The weight of the Greatsword weighted down on him but using his height and relative power advantage Torrhen kneed the crazed Stark, right in his abdomen and freed himself from the fierce clash., took a step back and aimed his sword towards Bryce, taking a defensive position. ‘’Enough blood has been spilled today! I’ll take the Black! Just stop this madness Bryce or one of us will end up dead and the other’s name will forever be remembered as the Kinslayer!’ he shouted at him, yet he knew Bryce wasn’t a reasonable man when he was in a good day, let alone when he was in a frenzy.

Bryce ignored him, saying, “Shut your fucking mouth!” Bryce, well, wasn't a very good person. He'd lost both of his parents at a young age, meaning he had very, very little direction in life. He kind of just did what he thought was the right thing and didn't give a damn how it affected others or himself. Thus he was stuck in this frenzy. The wind was knocked out of the man, stumbling back a bit before he charged the man once more, swinging his sword to try and catch Karstark in the stomach.

Torrhen side-stepped to avoid getting sliced in half by the massive sword, and swung his sword toward the man. Missing it by only a few inches. ’’You are worse than King Maegor, Bryce! Is this what the North has come to? Is this the measure of House Starks honour?”

Bryce was beyond reason. He was furious. More at himself than at Karstark. He’d let this happen, and he just watched it. He was a poor excuse for a Stark and he knew it. He could almost feel his father's gaze on the back of his neck, silently judging his son. This made him even angrier, his swings becoming wild and uncontrolled. His arcs were wide and indiscriminate, and he didn't care at this point.

While the fight between the Two lords raged, Two Karstark kids were returning from their errands. Slowly walking towards the dining hall. ‘’Well, at least we got to see Winterfell!’’ told the younger one of the two. ‘’Shut the fuck up Bryce.’’ Muttered the older one, annoyed by the cheerful chattering of his sibling. “You are no fun Rodrik.’’ Rodrik shifted his gaze to look at Bryce, annoyance clearly visible on his face “Maybe it’s because I’m stuck looking after Lord Karstark’s annoying runt.” “What else do you have to do here anyways? Ain’t my company better than being All alone?” “Unwanted company… Also I’d prefer being at the guest hall rather than being forced to follow you around, those Stark girls weren’t half bad to look at. The filthy Westerlander blood in them… If only had they been blond as well, now that would be sight to behold.” Bryce gave a questioning look to him “Why would you even want that Rodrik? Girls are boring. Their Hair colour doesn’t change that.” Said Bryce like the words he spoke were fact. His clueless attitude only worked to further irritate Rodrik “True to your name, you are as dense as a wildling. 13 years and you continue to amaze me.” Rodrik said, rolling his eyes. ”Was that a compliment I heard?” Asked Bryce, a lopsided grin forming on his lips, yet it didn’t last long as he heard Rodrik say “Just shut up and spare me the head ache.” After that retort the rest of their walk was filled with silence, as they neared to their destination they could hear the faint echoes of shouting but that was to be expected from a Council meeting. It was a sound both of them knew, the clashing of the swords. Without even a word said their place quickened and once they reached the For that led to the door that led to the meeting room, Rodrik pushed the girl that was listening the commotion aside with haste and muttered a half-hearted “Sorry.” Before he pushed the door open. With the door to the meeting room wide open, They could see the reason behind All the the shouts and the clashing of swords. Lord Stark was fighting with their father and it certainly didn’t look like friendly sparring match “FATHER!” cried the young boy as he dashed towards Lord Stark “BRYCE YOU IDIOT WA…” but it fell to deaf ears as Bryce Karstark, The Heir to Karhold continued to charge forward with nothing but his fists. “…it…” it was spoken in a Rodrik’s right Hand grasped the hilt of his sword as he too followed his younger brother in this reckless pursuit.

Bryce did not see them coming. His anger had consumed him, blinding him to his surroundings. Oh, he was vaguely aware of other eyes staring at him than just Torrhen Karstark’s, but in his head that only added to his guilt. His deep sense of shame. Gritting his teeth, Bryce unslung the heavy cloak from his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor behind him. His hands now freed up for combat, the Lord of Winterfell twisted his wrists, Ice singing as it cut the air again and again to dominate the space before him. Traitor, the air sang to him. Traitor. Traitor. Traitor. Torrhen Karstark was a traitor. A traitor and backstabbing murderer. One he had allowed to share his hearth beneath his roof, to sit upon his council, to drink his wine and plot with his uncle to declare himself King in the North! But no longer. He would prove to them all that there was at least something of a true Stark left in him!

He who passes the sentence must swing the sword.

And he meant to. Moving on instinct, the Lord of Winterfell lowered the point of his sword and started to cleave downwards, his leg extended to clear the space before him. Even as far gone in anger as he was, Bryce had been trained with the sword; he knew his reach was better than Karstark’s. With the floor open, all it would take was time before his blade found him. But at the last second before he could strike, a glint of metal caught his eye from the side. A glint of metal and the thunder of heavy boots. There was no time to stop and think. Bryce twisted on his back foot … and the blade came down.

Torrhen was occupied trying to fend of the strikes of Stark, not having any time to think or care about his surroundings as he parried the onslaught os strikes, then he saw Stark finally make a strike with thought behind it and Torrhen raised his blade to try and block the strike but he knew that his blade wouldn’t be able to stop a strike of such ferocity. Yet the strike never came yet…

A cry of anguish and pain filled the room. The voice was familiar, too familiar. He could see the . The cry of agony. His eyes shifted between the small pond of blood that was beginning to form around the horrid Rodrik’s sword fell from his grasp. It felt wrong, to look at that face, the face that symbolized the fact that Rodrik was never going to be recognized as a true Karstark, was never going to inherit anything not even the family name ‘’Gods Bryce…’’ He looked at the now unconscious boy’s face, averting his gaze from the wound. ‘’I… I’ll get help.’’ With that he got up on his feet and rushed out. There was one person he knew that would help him. Uncle Half-Dick. His sword laid forgotten on the floor.

Meanwhile, Torrhen had stopped on his tracks. It was one thing for the Mad Wolf to attack Torrhen. He had indeed killed one of Stark’s vassals and had been very vocal about his displeasure with Bryce’s rule but this was unacceptable, he could accept being accused of treason, being attacked even but no man would touch one of his children and live to brag about it. Torrhen’s grasp on the hilt of the sword hardened. ‘’You are a dead man Stark. You are not leaving this room alive you Whoreson.’’ He took position once again, the initial shock replaced by the rage, Torrhen raised his sword and struck.

The sword cut the boy’s arm clean off. Cut it off. Blood splattered all over Bryce, the man stumbling backwards in shock. He looked at his blood soaked hands with wide eyes. He held his head, muttering, “I-I didn't mean to…” The room started swirling, the incoming sword not registering with him until it was too late. Amelia saw the strike coming, saying, “Bryce!” Bryce looked up at her one last time, saying, “Amelia…” Then the blade struck, and the end of the Wolf was near.

Jaremy Reed ​

Jaremy’s face paled. It had all happened so fast. One minute they had been discussing whether or not Gregor Bolton was the man to lead them and then Torreg Umber was dead. Run through by the very same man who had thought to lead them. He had watched, stricken, as the macabre scene unfolded before them, half-rising from his chair and reaching for his frog-spear without realizing he had done it as they began to fall one by one. He stood as Torreg gasped out his dying breath. As Karstark thrust his blade through the Lord of the Dreadfort’s back. As Bryce Stark, the Lord Paramount, drew his sword and swung at Torrhen Karstark with murder in his eye. It was madness … Chaos.

The death of the North.

This can’t be happening. Not now. Oh Gods …

“M-my Lords …” He choked. His tongue had gone all dry and stiff. “Lord … Stark?”

But no one paid him any mind. He might as well have been invisible for all the two men in the corner paid him.

The door at the end of the room creaked open. Two men – boys, really – entered. One was tall, the other short. He vaguely recognized the taller lad as having been on the hunt with them. Karstark’s boy? His guess wasn’t far off the mark. They looked across the room, at the two men engaged in combat, and their expressions twisted to one of astonishment. The older boy ran at Bryce Stark first. Was he armed? Jaremy couldn’t see. The younger was at his heels. There was a glint of metal, steel. Bryce turned, and it seemed that all the sound in the world faded away as the greatsword traveled down – down into the young Karstark boy.

It was the screaming that did it, freed him from his trance. Although the chieftain of the crannogs still felt numb all over from the shock, he found his courage one step at a time, and started around the table towards the two lords. Torrhen Karstark was bellowing his fury. The Mad Wolf looked merely stunned, horrified at what he had done. Karstark lifted his sword and prepared to strike at the Lord Paramount.

It’s over, he thought to himself. Everything. I failed … I …

Every step had been for nothing. Each weary mile he had walked to cross the length and breath of the North? Meaningless. The North wouldn’t come. And House Stark had once more disappointed … Just as they had ten years ago.

The thought lent strength to the crannogman’s arm, and before he realized it, he was gripping the three-pronged spear in both hands, with the point aimed directly at Torrhen Karstark.

“LORD KARSTARK DON’T!”

Jaremy pushed the spear forward, aiming to knock the tip of the arming sword away from the Lord Paramount, but the aim of the blade was off, higher than he wanted it, and he watched as it found purchase through the man’s mail and into his shoulder.

Bryce Stark​

The blade struck true, Bryce violently coughing up blood as the blade pierced him. He fell forward, his arm resting on Lord Karstark’s shoulder. He was breathing weakly, his vision growing blurrier and blurrier by the second. His throat was suddenly dry, despite the blood, and a warm numbness went through his body. His limbs were weak, and he could only get a single word out before everything went black. “Karstark…” He looked the traitor dead in the eyes as he said this, falling to the floor as the numbness consumed him. His vision went white, the man seeing a figure in the light. And with that, he breathed his last breath, and the Old Wolf died.

 

[TheFool]

COLLAB POST
Jocelyn Baratheon & Natanael Baelish
Lingua Frankly Not


​

A dream had daunted her to wake.
Her eyes flit open and the sunrise slithered into her room like a sidewinding red serpent. With a slowness, she rose. Her hand moved down her dress until it touched where her pelvis was. She sighed when she found the area to be drier than the Dornish sands.
I guess it’s final.
Jocelyn had hoped her moon’s blood would beckon, but it seemed as if it would not. She had yet to come to terms with the fact that the change was upon her. Thinking of it…
Saddened her.
Hmm.
It made her feel as if she was less of a woman.

She got out of her bed and opened the blinds to let the light spill in. She basked in the dawn, before filling a chalice with wine. She took a sip. She spat it out and threw the cup against the wall. Arbor Gold. Feeling the taste of it on her tongue reminded her of The Reach.
Of Baelor Tyrell.
Of his whore of a daughter. Thinking of them led to thinking about Jaehaerys. Which saddened her more than not attaining her moon. She grabbed the flagon next to the one with the Redwyne wine. The one that held the Dornish Red.
She poured.
She sipped.
She poured again.
A knock came and Tyana entered. “Your grace.” She said with a drawn out bow. Jocelyn studied the girl. She has something to say.
“What is it, Tyana? Something troubles you.”
The girl shifted from foot to foot, “I- uh… you should read it yourself, your grace.” Tyana took out a small slip of paper and handed it to her. Jocelyn put her wine down and opened it up so to read its writing.
No.
Her eyes widened.
Storm’s End.

“I want you to tell them that the small council will be commencing at noon. Is that understood, Tyana?” Jocelyn said. The girl nodded a somber nod. “We have much to discuss.” She added as she looked at the piece of paper lying on her dresser.
She didn’t want to reread the words.
Lest the shock would seep in.
“Right away, your grace.” Tyana said as she turned towards the door.
“Tyana.”
She stopped and looked back, “Yes, your grace?”
“When you tell them, take the day off. Write to your mother. I am certain both you and her are worried.”
Tyana smiled sweetly,
“Thank you so much, your grace. You are too kind.”
Jocelyn smiled back and then dismissed her.

The next hour was spent sitting and drinking and thinking of her home. The Stormlands had been breached by The Reach. By Baelor. She wanted to scream. She ended up doing so. I must gather an army and- and send them to Storm’s End. I will not let him and his whore win this war. I won’t.
She chugged the wine from her cup.
What am I thinking?
She blinked.
I do not have a warrior’s mind. And… I am not Elaena. What happens will be her decision.
A knock came and Jocelyn thought of Tyana.
“Come in.” She called out.
An overweight girl entered. Her hair was like bronze. Her eyes a pale green. Essie Chyttering. One of Jocelyn’s handmaidens, however, she was no Tyana. Tyana was with Jocelyn most of the day. Essie was usually off cleaning or running the errands that were deemed undesirable.
“Forgive the interruption, Lady Jocelyn, but a Lord Baelish is here.”
“Baelish?”
Jocelyn’s interest was immediately piqued.
“Yes, he is outside. Should I send him in?”
Jocelyn stood, “Send him in a minute from now.”
“Yes, Lady Jocelyn.”
The girl disappeared behind the door. Jocelyn walked over to her dresser and took out a long robe of silver silk. Her eyes lingered on the letter from her home. She thought of Joy and her unborn babe. If that oaf hurts her or Alexander’s children-
I will…
The door opened once more. Jocelyn looked to see Lord Natanael Baelish. “Good morning, Lord Baelish. Would you care for a drink?”

-

The previous day had been long for Natanael Baelish. Arrangements, contingencies, conversations-- seeing to matters, to his guest--these were time consuming activities. He’d even received a letter of tidings from the Vale.
Today, he would impose his presence upon the Red Keep. Today, Natanael Baelish would move a piece in this game he played.
He dressed appropriately.
A sandsilk tunic of black striped with green sat cleanly on his form with flowing sleeves that spoke of Dorne, though his belt was not jeweled. A few smart rings graced his fingers. Natanael Baelish’s presentation was expensive but neat, pretentious but reserved.
Departing from his home located in the district by the Old Gate, Natanael traveled.
He arrived early to the Red Keep, assuming the Lady he wished to speak with may be less busy during these late morning hours.
Natanael was not wrong.

That short time passed in silence between Lord Baelish and Essie Chyttering following her announcement of a minute’s delay. It wasn’t uncomfortable; he was a charming enough man, and offered her a brief smile all the same. But he was not here for her.
A wooden box and its contents weighed in Natanael’s hands. He held the thing in front of his abdomen almost delicately, gloved hands cradling the ornate hexagonal box.
“Lady Jocelyn will see you now.”
The door opened once more. This time, he stood in a position to see inside.
His gaze flashed up.
He looked from the box in his hands to the interior of the chambers, and his expression of neutrality tugged into a practiced grin. The interior of the room was beautiful, but he only had eyes for Jocelyn Baratheon. To Natanael Baelish, she may as well have been the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, the objective distruth of that aside.
He stepped inside.
Sounds emerged from the box in his hands. There were contents inside it; jewelry, perhaps, from the way metal slipped against wooden interior. It was a distinctive sound.

“Your Grace.” He greeted.
The words were odd ones on his tongue. He found a distaste for them in that moment, but it did not color the words themselves or his expression.
Instead, he raised the hexagonal box as though in embarassed offering. It was a gift, by the body language of how he was presenting it. Wooden carved inlays sliced diagonally in circles around the top formed an almost-pattern. It was beautiful, in a way. And from Essos, probably.
“I appreciate your willingness to gift me your time. I would,” he said, glancing toward her wine, “generally, I might ask a vintage before agreeing; with you, I assume your taste impeccable.” The smile tugged at his features, widely displayed in wrinkles that inlaid his cheeks.
Perhaps boldly, he stepped closer.
He stopped a few paces away.

-

She filled a cup for the Braavosi before refilling her own. A Dornish Red. It wasn’t too vintage but that didn’t mean its taste was not sweet to the tongue. Mulled in Kingsgrave, I believe? She walked towards him with his cup in her hand. The tail of her silver robe slinked along the floor. When she was but a few feet away from him-
She gave him the cup.
Jocelyn then went back to her desk where her own drink was. She took it in her hands and sipped. It was bitter and rich. As she held the wine in her mouth, she glared at the gift Natanael brought. Or at least she assumed it a gift.
“Your appreciation is… appreciated.” She said, her voice slow. Though she had been awake for a time- sleep still stuck to her thoughts. As did the news. She was not in the right mind at this moment.

“So,” She began.
Sipping.
“What brings you to The Red Keep this morning? What brings you to me?” She asked. Jocelyn had heard about Natanael Baelish through gossip and general word-of-mouth. She couldn’t believe if she had ever met the man before however.
I don’t think I have. Maybe at Aegon’s funeral? She sipped. Or Jae’s…
She had met many a people over her years of being Aegon Targaryen’s wife. I was more so his Queen. Her fingers gripped the cup. Shiera was his wife in everything but law.
She tried to wipe the whore from her mind. Thinking about her would only bring anger. That bitch. Her and the bastards and Symond and Melessa and Baelor.
She sipped.
They will all pay.

Jocelyn refocused herself. Natanael was before her as a guest. She would give him her time. Not spend it thinking about the people she hated most.

-

His appreciation is appreciated.
How eloquent.
Natanael took it in stride.
Perhaps it was a boon that Natanael was not privy to the troubled thoughts affecting Jocelyn Baratheon; he could only offer distraction from them.
For just a moment, he rest the bottom of the cup atop the wooden box in his hand, but this was only to steady it. Steps then took him the short distance to the table so that he may rest the gift atop it, freeing now both of his hands.
He turned back to her.
“I thought, perhaps, that I may more properly introduce myself.” So they hadn’t properly spoken before; Jocelyn wasn’t wrong to have difficulty recalling.
He raised his glass in a small salute, and smiled.
It was almost serpentine.

“Your Grace. I’ve been informed by Prince Qoren that he has thought to appoint me as a Keeper of the Keys during his tenure as Master of Coin. I understand that I’m something of an unfamiliar figure to some within these walls,” he mused, “and I wished to rectify that.”
He drank.
Sweet, bitter, rich- Dornish.
He peered down at his glass for a moment as he tried to recall the estate. It was familiar. “Blackmont? No. Kingsgrave?” His gaze was discerning, but bemused. He couldn’t recall. “It’s no matter.” He was becoming distracted.
He looked back up.
His free hand came to rest fingers down upon the box.
“I’ve brought some tokens of my esteem,” he explained, his index finger tapping on the patterned surface. “The box is essosi. Crafted by a fine artisan of Myr.” His ships travel there to acquire Myrish fire… amongst other goods. “A free artisan.” In case that was a concern of hers, he clarified swiftly.
“I thought a Lady of your renowned intelligence may find some amusement in this lotus puzzle box. They are designed to make thievery quite difficult, and take a fortnight to create. May I show to you how it works?”

-

Why has he brought me this?
She sipped.
Her sight still set on the contraption. What does he want? He was handsome. Charismatic. His black hair and sun kissed skin. His eyes, tinted blue. Appearance aside, however, she was a slight bit suspicious of him. Though as his words hit her ears, she was won over. She pushed her cautiousness to the side and smiled at him,
“I am forever grateful, Lord Natanael.” She approached him. Her stare fluctuating between him and his box. “May I?” She asked as she stood a few feet in-front of him. He handed her the gift and she examined it with a curiosity. The craftsmanship is... something else.
“Please, if you’d be so kind, show me.” She said as she held the box in her hands. She had never seen such a thing before. Her interest was more than piqued. In both the box, and Natanael Baelish.

-

Natanael tilted his head in the faintest of motions that could be considered a bow, and a smile tugged mischievously across his features. “Allow me,” he mused, and he reached to take the box back from her. Once it was in his possession, this gift-weighted thing, he placed it down on the table at his side.
It laid there for a moment.
Beautiful. Bold.
Secretive.
The Lord’s hands came to the surface of the box. The circular cuts of pattern around the top of it, when he brought fingers to them, slid. Slices of dark and light wood moved at the behest of his fingers. One ring of pattern, two, three--as he moved them around, the top of the box began to show a different pattern.
“There are four separate drawers within this lotus box,” he explained, his head tilted sideward as his fingers stopped. The zig-zagged pattern of dark and light was complete throughout the circle.
Baelish’s left hand came down to the side of the box, and he pushed into an alcove.
It slid.
A drawer emerged on the other side.
“Each requires a different pattern to be completed atop it to be opened; otherwise, they remain locked,” he explained.
Baelish’s hand delved into the open drawer, withdrawing from it a necklace of white gold. The chains were, as was the seven-pointed star pendant. At each point lay a pear-cut diamond pointing inward. At the center, a large round yellow topaz; within, beneath it, a metal embossment of a crown that could be seen when the topaz hit the light.
“For you, Your Grace,” he intoned coyly, presenting it to her. The pendant lay cradled on his palm as his other hand offered the chain for her to take, if she wished.

-

She watched him work the box’s patterns. How curious. He moved the spirals almost methodically before a drawer slid out of the contraption. “Oh.” She said, almost in awe. The sunlight coming from the curtainless window behind them bruised the drawer’s innards. A white gold necklace was now sparkling in sun.
When he took the trinket out and offered it to Jocelyn, her jaw dropped slightly. She was used to gifts. She’d been receiving them all her life. Sweets and songs and silks. She’d been given it all. There was no lack of necklaces in her own jewelry box. But-
This particular present was somehow different. “It’s beautiful.” She said as she gently clasped the chain of gold from his hand. She examined. Her eyes scrutinising every single detail. When she got a proper look at the seven-pointed star- she gasped.
“So perfectly made.” She managed to say.
Her eyes locked on the pendant.
“Lord Baelish,
She stopped. “I…”
Jocelyn Baratheon was semi-lost for words. She gave the necklace one last glance before looking at the man who gave it to her. “This is so extravagant. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

-

Baelish’s gaze danced over the back of the pendant from his perspective behind it, looking then up to study Lady Jocelyn Baratheon’s expression. Yes; it was extravagant. He was aware.
That was rather the point, wasn’t it?
The smile that tugged at his features seemed a genuine one. Perhaps he was a kind man. Perhaps he found true happiness in spreading joy to women. Perhaps it was endearing to him how pleasantly baffled she was.
None of these were true, but it didn’t matter.
His facade is practiced enough to look truthful, and in this game- what was the difference?
“You needn’t, my Lady,” he promised to her.
Not yet.

Perhaps it was arrogant to presume he may, but Natanael Baelish was capable of a certain boldness; he took one of his now free hands and dragged fingers along the edge of the table, feeling it as he sat down in the drawn chair. He had no way of knowing it was the one she had recently sat within, but he certainly may have guessed that.
“If I may,” he began, that coy tone returning to his voice, “I would like to show you the contents of another of these drawers. I pray you’ll forgive me for completing half of the puzzle for you.”
His hands came to draw the box toward him on the table.
And his fingers came gently to rest tips on the inlaid pattern.
“This next one may be more precious, yet.”
Though it wasn’t as beautiful.
He peered up at her, awaiting her consent.

-

She continued to study the pendant, her eyes a light as she did. It is… perfection. Baelish watched her watching the necklace before moving past her. Towards the chair she’d been sitting on earlier. Without even asking, he took his seat. She stared at him for but a moment. His action was slightly irritating to Jocelyn.
Who does he think he is?
Her stare left the trinket she held. Now focusing on the lordling. If he’s even considered one. She thought. House Baelish isn’t on any list of esteem I’ve read.
Still-
As she looked at Natanael, she smiled. Jocelyn put down her cup of wine, that of which she still held. She unhooked the back of the necklace and wrapped it around her throat. She then reconnected the two ends of the white gold chain when it was in its position. The seven-pointed star leaned against the bosom of her robe.
“By all means, show me.” She said, picking back up her cup of Dornish Red. Almost empty. “Though I do doubt that these other gifts can garner more preciousness than the pendant necklace.” She humoured him.
Baelish had an arrogance to him that made Jocelyn filled with an almost unnecessary dislike, but said arrogance seemed to be diluted by his charisma. His smile. There was something about him that gave her grievance.
But his smile. His smile made her want more. She approached him, sipping. Waiting for him to show her what hid within the box’s drawers.

-

Certainly, it wasn’t the circumstances of Lord Baelish’s birth that had given him any reason or right to grow into that caustic charisma. Still-
There would be other times, perhaps, to question him about this, and for him to respond. For now, other matters of more import than that resided in the drawers of that box, though she knew it not.
Lord Baelish did.
Upon receiving Lady Jocelyn’s acquiescence he turned his attention back down to the surface of the container, pushing in the extended drawer until it clicked. Then, he went about the process of spinning the different rings of designs this way, and that. Slowly, they came to form something of a pattern of chevrons leading inward.
When this pattern was complete, Baelish felt around the side of the box, finding then the now unlocked drawer. He pushed it through.
Within lay two items:
A curled croll, bound and sealed with no mark, which within read thus-

Her Grace Jocelyn Baratheon,

In my possession, outside of the walls of this keep, I have acquired and since kept safe a figure I believe may be of interest to you- one Lord Theon Stark, whisked away from the turmoil of the North, he who should by all birthright now be Warden of the North following the death of Lord Bryce Stark.

A small chunk of wolf’s fur attached to hide sat within the drawer as well, and he took it out to hand to Jocelyn along with the small scroll. It looked as though it had been removed from a pelt, or perhaps some northern cloak.
Admittedly- the chunk of fur may seem odd until she had opened the scroll and read it.
He handed both to her with a smile.
Until that moment, Natanael Baelish sat in that chair, taking up his glass of wine once more so that he may drink of it.
And he did.
Admittedly, the contents of this drawer were less gift than offer, but-
The offer had been made.
Icy blue eyes watched Jocelyn.

Spoiler: MENTIONS

Rusty of Shackleford