Fandom ♛ Blackfyre : A Game Of Thrones RP

[Hypnos]

Garin Uller​

For the third time in just as many nights, Ser Garin Uller was awoken by the harsh sounds of a child crying, cutting through the nighttime silence like a knife through warm butter, and causing the already irate Dornishman to curse profusely. Uller had made a lot of stupid decisions in his lifetime, mostly fueled by a history of overindulgence in Dornish Red, or any other form of alcoholic beverage, however his actions at Castle Ashford had perhaps been the stupidest decision of them all. What had he been thinking? Had he been thinking at all? He had no rite to take hostages from the Reach, nor did he have the capacity, nor capability to hold them. What would his mother say, the Lady Uller, when he returned to Hellholt with a Reachman’s child under one arm? Would she turn him away? Scold him? And what of Prince Mors? House Martell? Himself and his brother had spent years traversing the Reach, bullying the local gentry in the name of the King for extra taxes and honours, but never had they gone so far with their escapades. How could something that felt so right at the time, now feel so wrong?

Ulwyck’s death had hurt Garin more than he would like to admit, like a blunted knife pushed haphazardly into his back, twisting and writhing every time he drew breath. In life, the two brothers had been inseparable, like twins, doing everything together from riding and hunting, to frequenting the same local whorehouses, and even sampling the same women. From a young age, Garin had seen Ulwyck as someone to look up to, to be admired and praised, and even when he had been barely knee high, he had tailed his elder brother like a shadow, wanting to be just like him. But now Ulwyck was gone, and somebody had pay.

The Dornishman raised two fingers to his temple as he arose from his bed, attempting to massage the bridge of his nose which ached after another long night of drinking. ‘Shut the fuck up.’ He grumbled under his breath, though to little avail as the child continued to weep, sobbing about family and home. Gerin had half a mind to silence the child, to grab it by its little pink feet and dangle it out of a window until it ceased this horrible noise so that he could return to is slumber, but no matter how annoyed Garin was, he was not one to harm a child, no matter how hard it weeped.

Grumbling as he stood exposed and stark naked in the largest private room that this inn had to offer, Garin moved over to a jug that rested lazily upon the bedside table, groaning as he observed the contents to be a murky water rather than Dornish sweetwine, though pouring himself a glass nevertheless.

‘Can’t you shut that thing up?’ Garin turned to see the pale face of his bedroom companion, clearly as unimpressed as himself to be subjected to loud calls of a miserable child.

‘I don’t know how.’ The Dornishman retorted, somewhat angrily, ‘It just won't fucking stop.’

‘You shouldn’t have brought it here. Shouldn’t taken it in the first place.’ Golden curls shifted, as the figure sat up in their joint bed, a look on her face clearly one of unamusement.

‘They killed my brother!’

‘The child killed your brother?’ She raised an eyebrow in mock amusement.

‘Fuck off! You know what I mean.’ Garin reached his head out of the bedroom door, and reached his hand out to grab a passing servant, shoving the water jug into his hands before he had a chance to protest. ‘Go and get us something stronger.’

‘You’re an idiot, Garin.’

‘And you’re fucking an idiot, so what does that make you?’ The Dornishman climbed back into bed, attempting to ignore the constant screaming of the child, and concealing himself beneath the covers.

‘An even bigger idiot.’ She stuck out her tongue. ‘But at least I’m not gonna get myself killed.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’ Garin replied, ‘how long will your father be gone?’

‘He’s gone to preach in Strickland’s lands, so it’ll be a week or so until he returns. You shouldn’t be so scared of him.’

‘I’m not fucking scared.’ Garin puffed out his chest. ‘If anything, a rablerouser like him should be scared of me, if he causes anymore trouble, I’ll have to have him strung up and sent back to Sunspear in a box.’

‘He’s harmless,’ the girl protested, ‘just a confused old man who’s found the Gods in his advanced age, nothing more. Besides, you’ll have to confront him when we wed.’

Garin’s uncomfortably shifting gaze did not go unnoticed.

‘When we wed, Garin.’ She repeated. ‘Like you promised. When the sickness finally takes the lemonbitch.’

‘Of course,’ Garin said uneasily. He had made a lot of promises in his life, but this was perhaps his most generous. It was true enough that soon Garin would be free to once again wed as he pleased, after his wife, Mara of the House Dalt had been infected with the dangerous Grey Plague from across the Narrow Sea, and currently remained in complete seclusion in the Lemonwood, however he was not sure how his mother would react to the idea of him marrying a Reachwoman, especially one with no lands and titles to give him.

He was beautiful, that much was true enough, with flowing golden hair that curled around her face, and skin as place as porcelain, and she had give him many memorable nights during his stays in the Reach, but Garin was unsure if a good lay and a perky pair of tits was enough to make his settle down.

‘And once we’re wed, you will talk to Prince Mors about restoring my brother’s lands?’

‘I said I would, didn’t I.’ Garin raised an eyebrow, slightly irritated. ‘Your brother can have his shitty little castle, just make sure your father stays out of trouble.’

‘And for that, I am grateful.’ The woman moved in closer to him, pulling him into an embrace.

‘Now get up and deal with that damn child, before I give it something real to cry about.’

‘Why should I deal with it? It’s your mess.’

‘You’re a fucking woman, that’s what you do.’

She pouted a little bit, but stood up nevertheless, moving close to where the child rested in an open chest of draws, and picking it up, cradling the little Reachman between her arms. ‘You can’t take it with you.’

‘Why not? I’ll bring him back to Dorne. It’s been so long since my mother has had a child around the castle, I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.’

‘You’ll get it killed before you even cross the Red Mountains.’

‘Then what do you expect me to do about it? Leave it in the woods to fucking die?’

‘No. You don’t have to be so extreme. Just leave him here?’

‘What? In this shitty inn?’

‘Yeah, in the inn. Pay off the matron and I’m sure she’ll take care of it for you. Come back when you need him. Better than carrying it around the whole time.’

‘Fine.’ Garin grumbled. ‘I’ll leave the little whelp here.’ They reached the conclusion just in time for the servant to return with a jug of cheap wine, Garin taking it directly from his hand, and drinking straight from the container, not wasting any time with cups of glasses. ‘Now, back to important business.’ He turned to face her hungrily.

 

[Arcanist]

Olyvar Redwyne
​

Somehow, Oldtown seemed less imposing, than it had originally seemed in Olyvar’s youth. Perhaps it was the difference in height from his youth that had influenced such a view. The structures didn’t seem so towering anymore, though, he had more concern for getting lost in the maze of damp cobblestone streets. Even as they had been entering the port, the vast number of buildings and streets far ahead of them already sent the young Lord’s mind whirling. Not surprisingly, he felt quite at home on the waters, in and amongst the other ships that were docking.

The port was crowded with trading ships to the sails of those travelling from the Summer Isles themselves. The docks were hiving with said crews of trading ships passing on their wares, and guests for the wedding of the season arriving. Olyvar wasn’t surprised, since Oldtown always was a hiving city. Very little changed that way since he and his half-siblings had last been here.

His sister, Brea, insisted that he make an appearance to this wedding. Olyvar, in all honesty, had forgotten about it with the recent news concerning the murder of Dornishmen, the death of Naemidon’s son and heir, the fighting and destruction in Planky Town...it was difficult to juggle all these affairs, all so different in nature to one another. The Lord figured it was better to attend the wedding than make the journey all the way to Highgarden. Either way, he was travelling in a similar direction. This one was just much shorter. Though Olyvar was closer to Peake’s blood than his siblings’ connection to the Hightowers, the Redwynes were still entwined with the Hightowers. It would have been disrespectful not to at least show his face at the wedding. He was no less a nephew than his sister and his brother was.

Rufus…

Olyvar gripped the rail of the ship, his knuckles paling. He should have been the one making this journey to Oldtown. He should have been standing where Olyvar was, sucking in the magnificence of the looming Hightower that watched over the city, its inhabitants, the ships that sailed away or came right back to visit. What the current Lord would have given to change the events of the night that blasted riot had taken place. For him to be lying beside his wife instead. For Olyvar to have taken yet another blow for House Redwyne. It would have suited his family better. But it was the hand he had been dealt. It was a hand he was forced to play with.

“Thank the Seven for some solid land. If I had to circle this deck one more time, I would have chosen to swim the rest of the way from the Straits.”

Olyvar scoffed, though, smiled affectionately at the voice of his mother. “With the amount of time it would take you to swim, you would have missed the wedding,” he turned, leaning against the rails with folded arms. “In fact, we would have fished you out of the water on our way back home.”

“Olyvar Redwyne, don’t make me throw you overboard,” Alesa warned him, finger pointed and ready to pull away to follow through on that warning. She appeared thoughtful thereafter, and parted with another warning, “Watch your words here, son. Not only for your own sakes but for all of our sakes.” She sighed when she watched her son’s brow wrinkle at her words. “It isn’t a Reach exclusive wedding, Olyvar. We could have Dornish Houses here, too, and I’d rather you not stir up hostilities with them, nor say something that could damage the ties to Hightower.”

“I doubt the Martells will be rushing over to watch this wedding,” Olyvar murmured. In all fairness, he didn’t know that they wouldn’t come. And the noble Houses in Dorne weren’t limited to them either, he supposed. “And besides, the Hightowers have profited after the Targaryens were tipped off the Iron Throne. We wouldn’t be a loss to them even if I did offend them.”

“No, but it would be a potential loss to us,” Alesa’s tone lowered further, as low as her joking warning to Olyvar the first time. The difference this time was the sharp look she gave her son. “I love you, my son, but that fieriness in you will be your undoing one day, particularly if it comes out in your words.”

Olyvar hummed something of a reply. Her mother was a good judge of character. Though, she forgot it was difficult to change someone’s nature. His gaze returned to the Hightower that followed their ship for some time now. “Maybe it will. But it won’t be today.” He murmured, straightening himself up. “For now, we have a wedding to attend.” He smiled at her, before he walked past, watching the deck grew much busier, preparing for their arrival.

 

[Arcanist]

Gwynesse Crakehall

​

Gwynesse would have been lying to herself if she said she wasn’t eyeing the Lannisters’ lavishly decorated pavilion. She felt it was overdressed, if you could refer to the pavilion in that sense. Though, it wouldn’t be a Lannister seal of approval if they hadn’t flaunted their status to the rest of Lannisport through such decorations and slapped the golden lion of their House on every banner or material they owned. It was distasteful, in the young woman’s eyes, for a pathetic pride of cubs to ride on the sigil of the original Great House.

Gwynesse’s nose wrinkled at the smirk that enveloped Gerion’s lips after hurling his first underhand insult but refused to let her expression reveal any more displeasure. It was not the comments that irritated her so. Had she a dragon for every insult on her more muscular build, coupled with being taller than the average woman, perhaps she would bid for the ownership of Lannisport. The young Lannister’s attitude towards both herself and Robert was enough to test her patience. She resolved that she would playfully swipe back with them, though, she hoped her patience didn’t run dry. Otherwise that smithy's lance would end up in a less than desirable place. But she exhaled, trying to hold onto that tiny shred of patience Crakehalls possessed.

Her urge to resist straightening out her skirt was strong, but she forcibly kept her hands behind her back. To do so would only signal hesitance, fragile self-awareness – in their eyes, at least. Instead, the Gilt attempted to plaster on a smile, though, forcing such a smile often brought along the unavoidable trait of her squinting.

“No, Lord Gerion,” Gwynesse finally responded, though her mouth twisted in such a contorted way as if putting ‘Lord’ and ‘Gerion’ together left a sour taste in her mouth. “I opted for something more practical and comfortable rather than lugging that armour around,” she explained, taking her time to reach her next point. “After all, I see no reason to wear it unless I expect there may be a physical altercation.” Perhaps another time, you’ll see it, she had been tempted to throw in, but her better judgement advised against it. If Robert could hold back on verbal altercations, then she could too.

Gwynesse’s eyes drifted towards Lynora, as smug and entitled as her brother. Of course, she was dressed as fancifully as the pavilion was. She found her eyes drift between her dress…and the drapes all around them. Strikingly similar. Perhaps her dressmaker took inspiration from them. Or, so Gwynesse would’ve liked to think she did, just to spite the girl. Lynora was pretty, Lady Crakehall would admit. Though, in her eyes, she would have never held a candle to Lanna.

Spoiler: Honourable Mentions

TheFool RayPurchase Braddington ailurophile

 

[QuirkyAngel]

Ser Conrad Stone
(Highgarden, The Reach)
​

“Consider this a thank you for helping my daughter out back there,” The large merchant waved a meaty hand over his displayed wares. “Pick any one you’d like,”

The street seller’s stall was full of different ornaments and trinkets. Red ones. Blue ones. Shiny ones. Dull ones. There were so many choices, Conrad had a hard time choosing. Since he was getting one free, picking the one with highest worth was the best deal. However, he also had to factor what he thought Lilana would like in his decision.

Whatever he chose would be a gift for her, after all.

Just in case the victory thing didn’t pan out. Conrad didn’t want to return to the Vale empty-handed. A true, chivalrous knight might turned away rewards for doing his duty. Nickolas certainly would’ve. But then, his kind were one in a million. And they usually ended up dead.

Perhaps it was because of how he was raised that Conrad noticed it. The tension that lay hidden beneath Highgarden’s festivity and merriment as people prepared for the Tyrell tournament. Anton had mocked the Tyrells for wasting money. Conrad didn’t think it was necessarily a waste. He’d seen more and more nobles arrive to the Reach’s capital for the tournament. How could he not? Anton took the time to point out every single noble they passed when they arrived at Highgarden, listing their house crests, and making sure he memorized the names and faces.

That was before the vagrant nobleman decided to wander away to wet his mouth on more Arbor wine. Conrad sighed, looking back at the merchant’s various wares. He fully expected to find Anton drunk when he returned to their inn. The more money nobles and kings spent in the city, the richer it would grow. And the richer city grew, the richer Tyrell coffers became.

Well, Dornish coffers.

Conrad wasn’t going to pretend to fully comprehend the political situation of the Reach. It didn’t really matter to him. A long time ago, not even the Vale did. He could live anywhere, work anywhere, so long as he had his sword. That was what he’d thought when he’d been single. When he lived alone after his mother died. There was nothing to tie him down. No attachment to his homeland. No wife. No family.

So much had changed since then.

“Having a hard time choosing, Ser?” That was the merchant’s voluptuous daughter.

Conrad averted his eyes. “I don’t know what a woman would want.”

The redhead stepped closer to him, a little too close for comfort, and picked out a pendant with a green stone. “This one,”

It didn’t look bad. Taking the offered necklace, Conrad felt the smoothness of the stone. It reminded him that Lilana used to have a rock collection when she was younger. She’d offer to pay him with it every time she needed his service, insisting it was worth more than any gold coin. Smiling at the memory, Conrad looked up to see the merchant’s daughter staring at him.

Conrad coughed. “I’ll take it, thanks.”

“You’re here to participate in the tournament, aye?” The redhead’s father inquired. “You seem to wield that sword well enough. As good as a knight.”

“Yes I am.” Conrad was surprised the merchant had managed to figure that out. He’d left his armor at the inn.

“Well, best of luck to you then, Lad. See that you don’t you don’t end up like that Ser Ulwyck Uller. We’ve been seeing enough deaths as it is.”

Ulwyck Uller.

The White Knights.

Names he’d been hearing a lot since he and Anton had arrived at the fertile lands of the Reach. Murmur of rebels. Of dead Dornishmen. Lord Elstan had warned him that discontent was stirring in that region of the Realm. He offered to send a group of guards with them for a safer journey. Yet it was for that very reason that Conrad declined. Traveling to a large city with guards and banners seemed like an easy way to paint a target on ones back. Though, perhaps Conrad was simply used to doing things on his own. Besides, keeping the men of the Vale behind the Bloody Gates seems like the safer option.

“Death is normal. Only an idiot thinks the war is over.”

Not with a Targaryen still alive and the Northmen supporting him. Most Northmen, anyway. Domerick Stark seems to support a different king from the rest of his family.

“Aye, but I wish it were. I don’t even care who sits on the throne. I just want it to be over. These days even saying a small little thing is enough to pick a fight when talking with the wrong crowd.”

"Your daughter is brave."

The merchant snorted. "Foolish. I'm thinking me and my family will just pack up and move out of the Reach once the fighting with Dorne starts."

"Where will you go?"

"Pentos? Or maybe the Vale. I don't know. Somewhere where there isn't a battle."

"If you choose the Vale, stop by Ironoak. You and your family can meet my wife."

"That's who the necklace is for?"

"Yes," Conrad pretended not to notice the disappointed expression on the merchant daughter's face. "We're recently married"

"Congratulations are in order then! A pity I missed the wedding. Go ahead and pick out another one. My gift to her."

"You're the most generous merchant I've ever met." He was beginning to suspect not a normal one as well.

The merchant only laughed.

 

[TheFool]

Gilliane Manderly
Pearl




​

Maekar.


It was a name she dreaded hearing. A face dreaded seeing. Though she wouldn’t see it again. His corpse was rotting away in The South. Wasn’t it? It had to be. He was dead. Killed by the very man that stood in front of her. The very man who shed soft tears.

She did not know how to react to it.

Seeing a man cry, a King especially, was not an ordinary thing. If she was her father or perhaps Lord Stark - she’d scold him for it.
Tell him that a dragon should never weep.
‘Leave that to the women,’
They’d say.

Her hands fell to her side.
She walked towards him - slowly. Her feet squishing against the snow.

When she stopped, she was at his side. She put her hand on his face, cupping his cheek. He was taller than she was. As tall as Maekar was. She remembered it. She remembered Seagard. The screams and the panic and the prayer. All of the prayer.
Not to the Old Gods but to the newer ones.
Did they listen?
They must’ve.
For she prayed for the death of a prince.

She used her thumb to wipe away a tear. “It’s alright to cry.”
Gilliane told him,
“It’s alright to… be… frightened. Scared. Afraid of things that may loom. That may hurt us.”

“We’re not us if we’re not.”

Spoiler: Gilliane's MENTIONS

Braddington

 

[ailurophile]

Calla Waters
​

Majordomo of the best brothel in King's Landing, and Calla was still making beds.

Admittedly, nobody asked her to. But there was something satisfying about keeping her house in order, making sure everything was the way it should be. As a little girl, she'd never imagined having children of her own: now, though, it seemed she had more children than any woman could physically hope to have. Because that was the way Calla saw her so-called colleagues, really, as children, and many of them were: it didn't take a whole lot of intelligence to work with her, and some of these people she felt would be dead in a day without the protective walls of the Silk Robes.

One of these people was Lauryn, the girl who's pillows she was plumping up and smoothing out. She'd met the girl a few years back, covered in mud and tears and god knows what else. It wasn't an uncommon sight in the city, no matter how unfortunate, but for once she'd been swayed-- she looked like Calla herself, and as someone who'd always yearned for a sister, it'd been hard for Calla to abandon her. Impossible, even. After taking her in and cleaning her up, she'd found that the girl was surprisingly well spoken for someone she'd found in the gutter-- suspicious.

She'd also introduced herself as half of another name before settling on Lauryn.
More suspicious.

Calla was never one for sentimentality but she'd felt so badly for the girl, who reminded her so much of herself, that she'd never questioned her. It felt like that period of unconditional trust had passed. For underneath one of the pillows, wrapped inside a handkerchief, Calla had found a brooch. Incredibly expensive, a three headed dragon with an inscription on the back: "V.B."

And she had pocketed it, with the intent to ask Meryn what he thought it meant when she had the chance.

At first, she'd wondered if perhaps it belonged to Vaegor Blackfyre, a token of appreciation? But she couldn't recall seeing him in the brothel. Her mind had then naturally wandered to his little shadow, Rodrick-- had he given something of Vaegor's to Lauryn? It seemed unlikely, there was something delicately feminine about the piece. Besides, she couldn't see him stealing from the prince. She'd often wondered just how close the two boys were-- in her experience, men did get very curious, and who better to experiment with than one's own best friend? Still, she'd never had the chance to explore that line of inquiry. But Vaegor Blackfyre was awfully pretty for a man.

-

Fast forward no more than thirty minutes and Calla found herself keeping house yet again. This time, much more interesting, newer. On the top floor of the brothel was a room, and that room currently housed Domeric Stark. Under strict instructions, Calla was the only one allowed up there. It was what she had to do to protect the poor boy-- never in her life had she seen anything as pathetic as her girls clamouring to be the first to go to bed with the Stark boy.

And in the end, he'd taken none of them.
How curiously noble.

"I'm coming in, so you have two seconds to make yourself decent, my lord," Calla purred, bumping open the door with her hip: her hands were full with the tray she'd brought him. Breakfast. If she couldn't fire up his appetite with the usual service, she could at least be hospitable. Besides, the poor fool deserved it for the amount of money he was paying for a room that had once been the scene of the messiest... Not to worry. It wasn't as if he knew about that little debauchery.

"If you need anything else, let me know, alright my dear?" She lingered in the doorway then, keen eyes scanning the room for any sliver of gossip. Something interesting. Besides his rumoured gift, of course: the idea that Domeric Stark had a cock comparable to Calla's forearm had spread like wildfire in the first few hours of his residency. A rumour she'd have loved to have proved for herself, if she could ever get the chance. It was a shame Meryn never wanted to know about that. Though admittedly, the first rumour of that nature had been about the man himself, and it'd been far less complimentary than Domeric's. Men could be so sensitive.

It was a wonder they managed to dominate anything at all.

TheFool

 

[ailurophile]

Vaella Blackfyre​

“You could but—“

Dyanna was cut off by the door opening. Quickly, she slipped from the bed and busied herself with fixing it. The process took a lot longer than it should have, granted, but she liked to get it right: Vaella was incredibly particular about such things. For example, she liked her current book to be on the left side of the bed, with a full cup on the right. She always had her nose buried in a book, and Dyanna simply couldn’t understand it. Yet Vaella always seemed as satisfied with a book as Dyanna felt after four men and the handle of a hairbrush. Each to their own, she supposed.

“Oh, Rodrick, hello.” Vaella greeted, unsurprised by the sight of her friend. There had been so many occasions where the two of them had spent time together in her bedroom that she no longer felt it was any different to having one of her brothers in there: he had plenty of interesting stories and was always a brilliant confidant, so she didn’t see it as strange at all. Although admittedly they were always discreet: others may not be so nonchalant about the extent of their friendship. Nothing scandalous had ever happened, but people would talk about anything, and any man in a woman’s bedroom would spark a furious rumour, that much was guaranteed.

That being said... Vaella couldn’t help but recall her grandmother’s reccomendations. Conquer men. But no, that was a silly idea in this context, as previously stated Rodrick was very similar to a brother. Even so.

“Dyanna, dear. Would you go and find me some new flowers, please?” It wasn’t as though she was going to replace Domeric’s, but with no exact instructions given, the request would probably buy her a good hour or so. As expected, Dyanna immediately jumped up and scampered for the door, though she didn’t miss the wink the girl shot Rodrick on her way out. Sometimes she wondered what it must be like to be Dyanna, to be free of responsibility and conscience, to do whatever she liked with no regard for consequence or shame. Of course she’d heard the stories about her handmaiden, and she had to expect many of them to be true.

Gods be good, nobody will ever know the things we’ve done.

Finally alone with her friend, Vaella headed to her dressing table and sat down. Sighed. Inspected her reflection in the mirror.

“Rodrick... am I, you know, pretty?”

The pathetic nature of her question hit Vaella only seconds after it had escaped her mouth, and she quickly backtracked. She whirled around on her stool to face him, and attempted to distract.

“Sit, sit, my dearest darling,” Vaella insisted, using the teasing nickname reserved just for him. “What brings you here, anyway? You look like you’ve got something on your mind. It’s not Domeric again, is it?”

Akio

 

[TheFool]

Gerion Lannister
Lion




​

He grinned,
“There will be no physical altercations tonight, my lady.”

Gwynesse was, in his eyes, a beast of a woman. Though he thought most women were - she was something else. Something oddly unique. Her appearance and the way she held herself was almost admirable. Does she wish to be a man? He wondered. His stare studying her.
I mean, I would not blame her for it.

A breeze blew by them. He could feel his golden locks waving in it.

Reyne spoke.
If he did not detest the man so much, Gerion would likely find him handsome. He was fierce. Strong. He was also a pest, however. A thorn. Delicately piercing House Lannister’s side. Gerion found his grin slowly but surely dropping with each word that left the red lion’s pink lips.
How dare he?
He was frowning now.
His own lips pursed and pouting.
He wanted to swing his fist - and hope it connected with Robert’s face - but he could not. He would not win that fight and he promised Gwynesse. It was to be a night of civility. I cannot say the same for the mornings to come however.

“Is my dear father making you sit and stay, Robert?” Gerion asked. He glanced back at Lynora. “If so, then he has you taught very well.”
Another breeze.
He saw his father approaching them from behind Crakehall, Reyne and the blacksmith’s boy. A small man, not too old but already too frail. A lion not worthy of the title. Not worthy of the rule.
“I guess old cats can learn new tricks, no?”
Gerion finished.
He attempted a smirk, so to piss Reyne off, but his frown was fixed.

“Father!”
Gerion announced.
“Have you seen my new toy?” He asked, his gaze lingering on Leo.

“A fine lance by the looks.” Jaime Lannister spoke. His words as soft as he was.
He was accompanied by his best friend, Loren Doggett, and the old Gylbert Lanny, his father in law. The grandfather to his children.
To Lynora and Gerion.

“My Lord Reyne. My Lady Crakehall.”
Jaime said, bowing his head by an inch or two.
He makes himself even smaller.
“Thank you for coming. I am ever grateful.” He continued, “There is so much I wish to discuss.”

Stupid little man.

Spoiler: Gerion's MENTIONS

ailurophile
Arcanist
Braddington
RayPurchase

 

[TheFool]

Domeric Stark
Traitor




​

He watched Gilly as she spun her little web. Domeric was surprised she was still here. Surprised she hadn’t left this room in a hope to find a bigger one. A better one. Does she have a family? He wondered, watching. Do spiders even have families? He hoped so.
He didn’t want this tiny thing - a fraction the size of his fingernail - to be all alone.
He knew how that felt all too well.

He sat cross legged on his bed, wearing nothing but brown burlap pants. He looked away from the creature and at his arms. Patches of his skin were brightened with red. Tender to the touch. Sunburn. His neck got it the worst, however. Each time he went to scratch it - he winced.
Domeric wasn’t use to this.
The heat.
The fiery kiss that the sun would peck him with.
He missed The North. He missed the cold and drab days where his skin would be almost grey instead of scarlet. He had been walking around Silk Robes shirtless for the last two days because he couldn’t bare to put any armour or fabric over the stinging areas.

This made the girls swoon.
Which he hated.
Emma, Jocelyn, Lauryn and Leona. They all teased him when he walked by. The most former trying, on several occasions, to put her hands on his chest. And on… other parts of me.
He shook his head and sighed.
Domeric was not a prude, no. He lost it years ago. To a girl from Torrhen's Square. A girl he could not remember the name of no matter how hard he tried. And he tried very hard. It was a drunken thing. Alyn and Brandon told him he had to do it.
He had to lose it.
So at a feast. For someone’s something eth name day. He drank more ale than he had ever drank. The girl had been flirting with him all night - he was sure. She invited him out to a stable and they…
Well...
“Very fitting.” She said when pulled down his pants, as he lay in the hay.

Alyn called him Domeric The Horse for months after he told the two of them.

He was slapped from his thoughts by the words of the Silk Robes owner, and the opening of his door. Calla was a beauty. Not so much as Vaella, of course. The majordomo was less refined but that was not a bad thing. She always looked as if her life was so lively. So full of entertainment.
Something Domeric was jealous of.
The last time he looked in the mirror, he looked a mess. Red burning skin and blue bags under the eyes.

She came in and placed the tray of breakfast down.
Gods.
She was good.

“Ah, m’lady. You’re too kind to me.” He said to her as he got up off his bed, making sure not to bump his head. He looked at Calla, and then at the spider, and then back again to the lady and the tray she had put down. Eggs and bacon and pork sausage and toasted bread.
He licked his lips.
He took the tray and sat back down on his bed. Beginning to eat.

“There is one thing…”
He did say, just as he was about to take a bite of the bread. “I, um, well. There’s a girl. A very… important girl.” Gods. He could feel himself blush, making his face even more red than already.

“I was wondering - and do forgive me if I am intruding Lady Calla - but what can I do to show this girl my affection? And how would I know if she has seen it?”

Spoiler: Domeric's MENTIONS

ailurophile

 

[ailurophile]

Lynora Lannister ​

"I think the dress is perfectly nice. Although I think the armour... suits you more." Lynora was quick to make her almost-compliment backhanded, privately taken aback by her initial slip of the tongue. Gods, what was getting into her? She felt she was off form that evening, perhaps because she'd been so busy moping about Gerion's absence that she hadn't fully recovered even with him back at her side.

Or, rather, her at his.

A pout settled into her lips and she appeared to be about to drop a more cutting remark when she opted for a bright, sweet smile, her attention turning to the arrival of her father. Though he had long been surpassed by Gerion in her eyes, he was still her father, and that title demanded a little respect. For the time being, at least. Besides, it'd be inconvenient to lose her angelic persona-- it'd gotten her out of so much trouble over the years. Apparently, it was very difficult to deny big blue eyes, particularly when they belonged to your own beloved daughter.

Simpering fool.

Her hand found the back of Gerion's arm discreetly as she watched her father greet their guests. Only one man could make her feel safe, and that was her brother. How gallant he was, how strong, it was remarkable he and their father were even of the same blood. Still her smile remained, sickeningly pleasant, devilishly perfect. The smile faltered somewhat when her own childish curiosity outweighed her art of subtlety.

"Discuss? What sort of thing, father?"

TheFool Arcanist
-

Calla Waters​

She felt it was almost a blessing that Domeric had decided to make his way to King's Landing, as she couldn't help taking a small glance at the man: such a body had no business being kept away in the North under mounds of furs. Still, though, Calla was a professional at heart-- if she'd scolded her girls so many times for pestering the poor boy, she couldn't very well try her own luck. Such was the burden of responsibility.

Calla watched him as he ate. The smell of the food made her sick, but this wasn't obvious. Food had always been a complicated thing, ever since she was a young girl. First, she'd never had enough. Then, she'd had plenty, and had overindulged. As an adult she'd begun to worry about the effect it would have on her. But it couldn't have that effect if she was very careful about her intake. Everything recorded neatly in a book beneath her bed, everything measured out to the last crumb, everything in moderation. It made her weak sometimes, both mentally and physically, but it was always worth it for the look on a man's face when she dropped her dress to the floor.

Everything for men, such was the way of the world.

Her train of thought was broken by Domeric's question, which piqued her interest. Carefully, gently, as though trying not to frighten a stray dog, she lowered herself into a chair and smiled. It appeared she'd be staying longer than just a few moments, as originally planned.

"A girl already? My, my, Domeric, you do impress me," Calla quipped, folding her hands in her lap. A blush mingled with his sunburn-- a big man, yes, but also a soft one, it seemed. She paused, apparently considering his question when she already knew she was first going to pose him one of her own. "Who is she? If I can ask that. I know you're probably harboring that little secret, but... discretion is my specialty."

To emphasise her point, she gestured around the room.

"I suppose it really depends on the girl. We're all different, you know. Some girls like flowers, and some like jewellery. Some like a tender heart, some want you to massacre an army before they'll let you between their legs." She shrugged. "The point is, sweet one, it's complicated."

She felt that was not the sort of answer he wanted and resolved to steer him back into conversation.

"As for whether she notices... This girl, have you spoken a lot to her? Is she friendly? Laughs at your jokes? Has she gotten down on her knees and--"

Cruel.

"Apologies. I suppose I'm getting carried away. I very rarely get to talk about romance."

TheFool

 

[Yarrow]

Quentyn Allyrion

After the news of the death of his brother-in-law had reached Godsgrace, Quentyn saw the love of his life, his wife Arianne, falling apart again. She had been so happy after the birth of their latest child. He saw her falling into the darkness of drinking. While she always appeared to have some control over her drunken body, Quentyn knew she was barely holding up. A letter had also arrived from Sunspear, Ysilla Martell, the daughter of Mors Martell, had called for a meeting in Sunspear with the Ullers and the Allyrions. Once the Ullers arrived at Godsgrace, the state Arianne was in had gotten even worse. Together with them they had sailed down the Greenblood, Allyrion loved sailing down the slow river.

Once they arrived at Planky Town they made their way to Sunspear. Just as they were about to enter the big hall of the castle a man soaked in wine. Quentyn grinned, the man had probably done something that caused Ysilla to soak the man in wine. Quentyn liked Ysilla, she was just like his wife a very strong woman, she knew what had to be done and a real Dornishwoman. Quentyn supported Arianne when they walked in together with the Ullers. With each step he felt the scratches on his back itch. This was maybe the best thing about the state of Arianne, her skill and stamina in the bedroom had doubled. The scratches didn’t have much time to heal before there were new ones added, so the back of Quentyn looked like a warzone. Much to the likings of Quentyn, formalities were kept short and Ysilla also wanted to talk about more important matters, the Reachmen and how to deal with them.

“It is indeed a pleasure, Princess Ysilla. We have much to discuss, I hope your father can keep the capital on our side so we can punish the Reach for what they have done!”

TheFool ailurophile



Meryn Flowers

Meryn wasn’t intimidated at all by the hand of the King. Meryn knew everything about everyone, they actually had to be intimidated by him. As soon as he got the attention of Mors Martell he walked back to the chamber of the Grandmaester. He walked quickly, it wasn’t like running, but you had to do your best to keep up with the tall Reachman. Meryn looked back to see if Mors was still following him

“I have no idea yet what the cause of dead is. There is blood, shattered glass and other things. I saw no deadly poisons in the possesion of the Grandmaester, so I doubt one of his own experiments had gone wrong.”

He took a turn left and there they were again

“There is also some news from the Reach, an Uller family member from Dorne has been hanged at Brightwater Keep"

Both events would have great impact on the Kingdom. Well, the southern regions, the tension between the Reach and Dorne would rise even more. Meryn was stuck between two sides. He was a Reachman, and his father publicly supported the King, and thus the actions of Mors Martell. However, he didn't knew his fathers true intensions. One thing was clear for him, don't trust Mors Martell.

Akio

 

[RIPSaidCone]

Aycella Marbrand
Lannisport

The young Aycella sat situated within the largest of the several Marbrand tents located at the docks of Lannisport, just like all of the other noble houses. Surrounding the appropriate collection of tents were a number of foot soldiers and cavalrymen, stationed outside to act as both a show of force and to prevent the causing of any trouble near the House's chosen area of the docks. Within the largest of the tents, Lady Aycella herself was surrounded by the officers of her House's army, or at the very least the ones that were not by her father's side in the Riverlands. If it had been up to Aycella, she'd have put on her cousins in-charge of House Marbrand's attendance at the Night Market, as she had far more important things to attend to, far more important things that she would also rather be attending to than whatever this was.

Her officers stood while she sat, a table with a map of the Westerlands seperating her and them. The tent was large, but with the number of people, it was beginning to feel somewhat cramped, and humid given the heat that summer was bringing. Aycella sat in what she considered her underarmor, that being a simple black tunic and trousers, with a hardy pair of boots, her decorated armor sat comfortably by her side, as did her sword. Bringing herself out from her own thoughts, Aycella realised that she hadn't been paying attention to her meeting for the past few moments, a fact that was swiftly confirmed as one of her officers, an older man from one of the larger towns that was nearby Ashemark, coughed to garner her attention. Succeeding as the young woman gave a short nod and looked towards him.

"Continue." She said, and so he did.

"So far, my Lady, we've managed to levy around a thousand men, they'll be assigned to the regular duties once their training is done and they've all been equipped, guarding Ashemark, patrolling our lands, keeping the peace in the towns and farmsteads, among other things." He started, Aycella continuing to nod lightly, it was something she did without really noticing, but it did a good enough job of showing that she was actually paying attention, although the officer had stopped with his remarks by this point and now it was Aycella's turn to speak. Over the past week or so, she had been practically working day and night to bolster her House's military power, dispatching recruiters, organising the manufacturing of weapons and armor, making sure there were enough adequately qualified trainers available for the new men. With the Prince's untimely demise, her father had made the seemingly wise decision to brace their House for whatever uncertainty was to come next, and she, as his heir, was to help him do so.

"Good, good. Now, I don't want their training rushed, the last thing we need is to waste good armor and swords on a bunch of green boys."

Her officers nodded in agreement, she knew they would, but had felt the need to clarify it nonetheless. Fuck it was hot in this tent.

Rubbing at her forehead, Aycella took a moment to gather her thoughts on non-military matters before speaking once more.

"So, what about.." She paused, waving a hand in the air. "This. How's the Night Market going?" Her tone was hardly enthusiastic, and in-fact sounded rather forgetful, but she supposed she had to ask, considering they were here, and just as present as any other house, despite not wanting to be. At the question, her officers seemed as unenthusiastic as she did, eyes darting to one another, looking to see who would be the one to deliver the mundane news of the night. Maybe she should have brought some of her house merchants into the tent as well to discuss such matters.

"The Market has so far been both prosperous and without difficulty for us, my Lady." The balding man spoke up from the back of the tent, surprising both the cabal of armored officers in-front of him, and Aycella herself, who had forgot that she had in-fact invited a merchant into her tent. It was a surprise, but one that was welcome nonetheless. Lifting her chin and sitting up slightly more in her chair to try and get a better look at the man. She jerked her head in direction of the tent's exit when she found that she could not see him still, signalling for her officers to leave, which they quickly did, flooding out of the tent like water through a burst dam until it was just Aycella and the merchant, her merchant, the man who kept her in the loop, the fact that she'd forgotten about his presence in the tent must have been her mind's way of telling her to get some sleep. He was a smaller man, smaller than her actually, and he was noticably pudgier than most, as was the life of a successful merchant it seemed.

"And the other houses?"

"I would be lying if I said there wasn't a slight bit of tension in the air on this otherwise fine night."

Idly scratching at the side of her nose as she gave another acknowledging nod, Aycella looked away, and then back at the merchant. Her eyes surveying the tent.

"And.. The idea we discussed, with the gold?"

"We've found several worthy sites, it shall be ready soon, my Lady."

"Alright then.. Thank you for letting me know, and you'll let me know if anything else occurs, won't you?"

"Of course, my Lady." And with that, he was gone.​

 

[High Moon]

Prince Arlan Blackfyre

Sleep eluded him as it had for the past weeks. With Daemon nowhere to be found, Arlan had foregone drinking. Without the sweet ale to muddle up his mind, thoughts of all kind entered his mind with nothing to occupy it, no one to talk to. His chest burned and ached as if charcoals were slowly burning up in his chest. leaving him restless.


Not even the ‘The Red Dragon and the Black’, if anything the book made him even more uncomfortable. There were too many similarities, change the names, adjust the details and one could easily see the resemblance to what was happening now and deduce the future. Odd as it had been a personal favourite just mere months ago, a source of inspiration had turned into the source of his nightmares. Putting aside the book. Something more peaceful. Perhaps one about Philosophy. Looking through the bookcase. Arlan cursed the day he had brought these dusty old books to read. ‘History of the Rhoynish Wars’ and ‘The Conquest of Dorne’ all about wars and conflict, and admittedly perhaps wasn’t the best books to keep around these days, with the Sand thieves, stealing wealth from his kingdoms. and his bastard mongrel prowling around in the keep. They were no different from Robber Lords in his eyes. Leeching off of a legacy built by far greater man. that is.If one could consider the selfish son of a whore atop the throne ‘great’.


A stroll could help perhaps. Ease his mind of these ideas of a disaster in the near future. The sun was yet to rise, it meant there would no one to bother him other than a few knights of the company yet it also meant that there would be no one to talk with as well. Maybe he could try his luck in the Kitchens but that would be risky. Putting on a more suitable clothing and the golden cape, Arlan moved out, into the vast halls of the Red Keep.


As he predicted, the Castle was yet to awake, pairs of Knights occasionally passed by him, patrolling. Not far from the Throne Room, a Portrait caught his eyes. On the Wall was an old family portrait of the Blackfyres.


He could remember the day that the painting was made. Considering how awkward they day had been it would be a miracle to forget. Six years ago, he had been recalled from the Reach just to be present for the occasion, A Pentoshi Painter had been hired to paint the royal family. their father really wanted to immortalize their mess of a family. Show it off to all the Lords who would enter these very halls.


It was easy to pick himself from the dense portrait, being the only sibling with dark hair, plus the golden cape was present. A nice contrast to the dark garments he wore in the portrait. His sense of fashion certainly hadn’t changed a bit. He stood in between Vaella and Vaegor. Shame and regret washed over him, soon after the portrait was painted, the relationship between himself and his sister had taken a downturn, due to a selfish decision, one made during the heat of the moment. It was truly a pity how things turned out, yet a small part of him was still proud of himself over that small, petty achievement over his brother. He had done what he couldn’t, what he never could. It had only cost him his dear sister, one of his few friends in this bleak keep.


Naemidon towered over them all in the picture, that fact certainly hadn’t held up for long. The once all and mighty image of the king had diminished over the years. At least in his eyes. No longer did the ever present frown induce fear in him, He was the one who towered above him now. That gave him a slight sliver of satisfaction, a feeling of superiority, that quickly vanished as soon as his eyes settled on the figure next to their sire.


Maekar.


He regretted pushing away his elder brother, it hadn’t been his fault that the way the things were. No, but Maekar was much more approachable, much easier to hurt, to manipulate into guilt. A perfect stand-in for the source of his despair. Looking back, it ought to be hard for him as well. Being the golden child and the crown prince. An image to keep up, a facade to wear in front of the realm and even the family. To look perfect for all. Arlan dreaded even the prospect of it.


It was too perfect, an idealized image of a flawed man. The Artist’s rendition, his touch. Probably demanded by the King, they had to look perfect. Perfect for him, for the realm.


Even when that could be brushed aside, none of them looked like what they should look like, these… Children in the portrait weren’t the vultures they grew up to be. Vaegor, Vaella, Matharys, Aerion and even himself. The Portrait truly belonged to a time gone by, a simpler, better time for all of them. A relic of the days gone. That left a bitter feeling on Arlan.


A sudden urge to light it up. Set it ablaze. Destroy the false icons. Put and end to the charade. Light them up! Turn them all to cinders! Take what’s his!


He would take what was his by right! Maekar would have wanted it that way. Dragonstone, the Iron Throne, Seven Kingdoms. No will would stop him from claiming his right. Not even the King’s.


With haste he made his way down the hall, his destination set. Barging into the Throneroom. ‘’Your Grace! I Dem...’’ To an empty hall. Surprise. Both for himself and the startled knights who already had their hands on the hilts of their swords.


One of the Knights slowly approached him. Ser Brynden Keath, if he remembered correctly. ‘’Prince Arlan. We’re on a state of emergency. The Grand Maester has been found dead.Poisoned, accoeding to the Hand. He has declared a lockdown. It would be for the best if you remained…’’


With a look of disbelief Arlan cut off the knight’s sentence ‘’Nonsense, The old man probably had a stroke...’’ yet dread and doubt filled him, The burning embers of rage slowly giving place to the coldness of dread. The Grand Maester wasn’t anyone important in the new affair, just an old man who could be half-senile as far as Arlan knew. Killing him wouldn’t benefit any of them.‘’The Solar’’ With a nod of acknowledgement, The Prince excused himself. Making his way back to the private quarters.


Without even a warning he opened the door to his Father’s private room. tired violet eyes stared Perhaps he too was burdened by regrets of a past that they could never fix.. ‘’Father.’’ The word felt bitter, out of place. The usual ‘Your Grace’ or ‘Sire’ used in public had long ago replaced that one. ‘’ I believe we have much to discuss…’’ He moved in and took a seat in one of the chair nearby. ‘’Yet first of all, there’s one question that haunts me. A simple one.’’ The burning embers of hatred mixed with curiosity and confusion.glared into the matching pair. ‘’Why?’’


TheAncientCelt

 

[Optimus Princeps]

Naemidon Blackfyre
Bewildered​

“Your grace..”

The Black dragon blinked upon the sudden noise, the soft press of a body on his causing the numbness of sleep to fully fade as two violet eyes stared up from the couch he lay upon. A servant girl, barely old enough to wed, kneeled in front of him with wide, concerned eyes as she beckoned him from his slumbers. His thoughts were racing as he pushed the sleep from his eyes, spurring a yawn past his lips. Seeing she had her king awake, the girl continued to kneel in silence, her head now craned downwards. ‘When did I fall asleep?’ Naemidon thought, not yet addressing the girl below him. Sitting up straight, Naemidon discovered the book he was reading, discarded along the couch, shut and with his placement in that tome lost.

“You woke me.” Carrying unintended waves of irritation, brought on by the abrupt end to his nap, Naemidon studied the girl’s features more carefully. A wide, circular face with smooth skin. Likely the daughter of some knight, given a position in his palace courtesy of Mervyn or Martell. “I assume there is a reason for that?” He finished, when the girl took no initiative to explain herself.

‘How fortunate it was this child to find me and not Daenys.’ Naemidon chided himself on sleeping in such a public location. His Solar, while intended for himself and a select few others, was not regularly guarded or patrolled. Staff would clean it several times a day at most. The servant’s presence indicated either the young girl was likewise knowledgeable over these threats, and deemed herself fit to arrange the king’s safety. Or, something happened.

“Yes, there is, your grace.” She reasoned, chancing a glance upward at the drowsy monarch. Her articulate and respectful nature, opposite of many other helpers throughout the castle, made Naemidon assured that her lineage included a land holder of some quality. “Lord Hand Martell is gathering the Small Council, your grace.”

An eyebrow quirked in surprise at the news of that. “Has there been a raven from the Riverlands?”

“Pardon, your grace, tis not war that Lord Hand calls your grace for. The Grand Maester has. .” Her eyes found the floor once more, her form, which has thus far remained still, began to shake in silent dread. “Dead, your grace. He’s been found dead. Lord Hand Martell suspects foul play.”

Had Naemidon not risen minutes ago, perhaps he’d of better hidden his reaction. “Argrave’s finally gone then?” Despite the situation, a shallow grin formed, his pale lips forming an awful, crooked sneer. “Inform Prince Mors that-” Before his decree could be made, the far entrance into the Solar was thrown open, the voice of his second oldest roaring with it. Naemidon’s violet eyes fell hard on Arlan, whereas the servant girl shifted to stare at the young prince from the corner of her sight. ‘What does he want now?’ Hearing that Stormboy had something to say to him brought a bitter taste to his mouth. “Tell Martell not to wait for me, and I’ll speak to him on the matter soon enough.”

“Tis your will, your grace.” She spoke louder now that the prince had arrived. The dark haired child didn’t risk another glance before pacing from the room at a quickening rate.

Once the sounds of the doors shutting reached Naemidon’s ears, he loosed a great groan. His son now sat across from him, any held words now pouring out like wine into his father’s gullet. To the Blackfyre’s credit, he managed to keep a straight face despite the growing exasperation he felt. ‘I awoke not minutes ago to hear that Argrave’s dead,’ A ghost of a smile formed on his lips, fleeing quickly however. ‘And that Arlan has issues with me once more.’ If only this were a rare occurrence, Naemidon may look at his tired boy with a glimmer of more pity than the apathy that stretched across his features. That mask fell, for but a moment, when Arlan posed his question. The first of many, to be sure.

‘Why?’

There need not be any words joining it, for Naemidon could read Arlan well enough to understand the true extent of his question. ‘Why was I not made your heir?’ Was the first that Naemidon heard, his own voice echoing it in his head. ‘Why was I deemed lesser than Maekar?’

A final thought joined the first two soon after. ‘Why do you not love me as you did Maekar?’ Naemidon visibly winced at the accusation left unsaid. Without another thought spared, he pushed far from his mind.

The hate in his son’s eyes was not unnoticed. A deep anger accompanied it, nay, pushed it forward and propelled it like any reinforced Summer Islander bow would to a fleeing arrow. But, past the hate and resentment, Naemidon found strained grief. Deep, in the violet eyes of his third born child, the Blackfyre King saw what likely pushed Stormboy to confront his father suddenly. His expression melted into a grim reflection of his son’s rage filled visage. “Do not deceive yourself, Prince Arlan. My intentions behind these current events were not meant to slight you.” Though, even then, Naemidon knew that they could be perceived as nothing but an insult. A public shaming. “I did not remove the possibility of you succeeding me, nor did I declare I would be upset with you as my successor.” Naemidon explained as diplomatically as possible, his tone laced with a softness that rarely accompanied it.

A minor pause, Naemidon shifted forward. “You may not understand it today. . But, someday you will.” The king placed the old book back on the table between them, deciding he’d later return it to his chambers where people were less likely to barge in on him. “When I was but a lad of eight, I was similarly distressed. For mine own father was refusing me, in much the same manner. I requested that I be given my own horse. Not outrageous, you would agree. Yet my father was persistent in denying me a horse.” A chuckle, caught somewhere between nostalgic and sour, escaped his throat. “The children only several years older than me ridiculed me. I’d ride a pony or be with your grandmother, if I wanted to be atop a horse. Those children all rode their own steeds as if they were gallant knights that bards sing of. And, in my wisdom as a child, I decided enough was enough and demanded my own steed.”

Despite the years that had passed, Naemidon could recall that day perfectly. It was a modest spring morning, with his father barely past morning duties, a skin of wine in one hand and a tankard of ale another. With fury in his eyes and brimstone for words, Naemidon vividly recalled his father’s muted reaction. “Meeting between our points, he gave me your grandmother’s zorse to look after. A dreadful creature, but I was satisfied. And so I cared for it. I cleaned it, and took it riding everywhere. I was the envy of every other child.”

He pursed his lips, knowing that sooner or later, his stubborn child would interrupt. “For a time, at least. And, in the infinite brilliance that accompanies youth, I ended up injuring the zorse in some silly game. It’s leg broke and I was flung from its back.” His teeth clenched at the thought, his tongue trapped between his molars as he remembered the expression on his own father’s face. “Your grandfather and I put it down. . He told your grandmother that it died of malnutrition to save me from her wrath, though I have my doubts if she ever believed that story. And I was not given my own horse until I was older. Until I was ready.”

With the story over, Naemidon allowed a small silence to build between them, no longer feeling the urge to continue the subject.

 

[Mion]

Aerion Blackfyre
​

The Young Prince had said his farewell to the Lady Kinvara before being escorted away by a group of kingsmen. He made smalltalk with the men as they walked back to his room, how their days were going, how their shifts were like, how there family was doing. Despite the situation in the Red Keep being an emergency of sorts, Aerion did not seem to be the least bit worried. With the same smile that he had been wearing in the gardens he waltzed along with his guards in a carefree, happy go luck stroll. Although as they drew closer and closer to the princes room... There was a sense of cloudiness that appeared in his eyes.

I feel like I have forgotten something...

Something definitely felt off... But as it stood he could not place exactly what it was.

That was until she came into view. Queen Malora Hightower. His mother. She stood there, with her arms crossed, her index finger rapidly tapping as she grew more and more impatient. She had a terrifying look on her face and it appeared that a vein on her forehead was about to burst from rage. Oh... Aerion scratched the back of his head. That was it.

The kingsmen had been momentarily frozen in place by the monstrous beast that stood before them, like if any of them stood but another foot forward then they would lose their heads. Aerion on the other hand let out a bit of a sigh, a nonchalant 'phew' kind of noise. He had a habit of letting things slip his mind so he was rather pleased whenever he managed to recall something that had. Although having recalled it now was rather useless for the Young Prince... It was too late to be of proper use.

"And just where have you been?!" Malora gritted her teeth, for but a second there seemed to be an intent to compose herself although the glare of daggers that she was shooting at the group made it clear that such a thing had been hastily discarded.

"Good morning Mother." Aerion bowed in greeting. "I thought it might have been nice to take a morning walk to clear my head." He beamed a refreshing smile back to meet his mothers grimace.

"If that was all it was you could have at least waited for me Aerion. Your mother has been worried sick you know?" Malora loosened up a little, although she have a little bit of a perplexed look on her face. As if she was to say 'clear your head? be careful with that or you won't have anything in there.'

"Ahaha. Sorry mother, it was a whim of mine and you know how I can be in the morning." He turned to the kingsmen behind him. "If you would be so kind to keep monitor of this hallway then me and my mother would be most appreciative." A request, albeit an unneeded one. These men were here to look over him for the time being, taking up posts outside of the Young Princes room would have been what they were expecting.

Malora opened the door to her sons room before letting out what was almost a growl of anger.

"You bloody stupid dog! Get off the damned bed!"

Aerion rushed into his room, he knew what was the fuss.

Balerion, the young dog belonging to the young prince had once again made the princes bed his napping spot. It was nice and warm and comfortable, one couldn't really blame the dog for it. Aerion himself never minded, his mother however was infuriated by such things to her wits end.

"Get on your own bloody bed! I paid good money for that thing so use it you- you!" She angrily picked up the small black dog and placed it in its corner, there was quite an expensive cushion as well as several pillows. A dog bed fit for a prince of dogs.

Ahhh... If only they would let me take Balerion to the sept. Last time I tried the High Septon gave me a row... Several rows I think...

He gave the dog a look of apology.

"Aerion!!! If you are going to go on your stupid walks then take your stupid dog with you! Or at least clean your bloody room first!" Malora was almost shrieking as she was picking up the pillows lying across the chamber floor.

As deftly as he could the young prince covered his ears with his gentle hands.

"Sorry... Sorry..." His mother had always been like this in the mornings. He had grown rather used to it.

But. She must have been really worried... Aerion knew that his mother cared for him deeply and so she must have rushed her sooner than usual once the commotion in the castle began. Whatever that commotion was it did not really matter. Malora would always rush to her sons side to make sure he was alright. And so Aerion could only take his mothers words in stride, with a resigned smile.

Aerion tidied up the rest of his bed as Malora made a fuss over his desk. "When did you manage to collect so many books?" She asked, with a rather pleased tone. She had asked him to keep reading as much as he could.

"Asked around the Red Keep mostly... Although some were sent from the Citadel, I think Vortimer sent one too." Aerion seemed to ponder on it a little bit. Mayhaps I should write down a list of who to return them to.

Aerion had not noticed but at some point his mother had taken out a vial or something. What it was he could never be sure of, but she poured it into the tankard that had once been full of water, and poured some wine in after it. Malora picked up the tankard and walked across the room, offering it to her son.

"Drink this Aerion." Was all that she said.

"Mother... I am afraid I have grown to quite dislike wine..." Aerion looked almost downcast.

"I know my love. But I assure you that if you drink it this time then you will find things will improve greatly." She placed it in the princes hands.

"I will go to your father and seek out what in the seven hells is happening now. But you must remain here do you understand? I don't want you walking about until everything has been settled." Malora spoke in an authoritative tone.

"Of course mother. I will remain here." Aerion responded before his mother left him.

Now alone with no one but himself and his good friend Balerion, Aerion walked back over to the desk and placed the tankard in his hands back onto the top.

I will throw this out later.

The young prince retrieved one of the books from among the pile. A book on different medicines and treatments. Best finish it... The prince thought as he opened the book to the place where he had last stopped. He would be able to return these ones to the Citadel once his lessons with Kinvara began.

Malora left with some of the kingsmen that were standing guard outside. But she did not go to see the king.

 

[Optimus Princeps]

Lady Ynys Yronwood
Hinterlands of the Reach​

The Reach had an odd appeal.

Though Ynys had been to many lands, as far North as the Twins and even a guest in the Eyrie once, to as far East as the city of Qarth, stopping at nearly every city in between. Through her many exotic journeys, of which she could only afford due to her luxury position as Bloodroyal of House Yronwood, Ynys had been privy to many wonders. The elephant ridden streets of Volantis, flushed red with the forms of the Red God’s followers. Braavos, a city of blues and oranges, with streaks of red cut from the very citizenry in their vicious and sporadic dances. Ynys even admired the great golden harpy of Mereen on two separate occasions, dazzling in detail and sculpture, with its sheer size and the wealth in it alone enough to make any Westerosi noble recoil in muted shock and respect. And despite her experienced eyes, the Bloodroyal found herself admiring the lands she and her lord-consort-husband traveled through. Owned by the Peake’s, subservient only to House Tyrell. It was green, so much green had rarely been seen by Yronwood in the past. Green, rolling with meadows and fields of flowers, buzzing bee’s and the forlorn fox, oft hiding its well furred coat in fear of unseen predators, no doubt.

It was not great, as the Black Walls of Volantis were. Nor did Ynys spy any fortress built atop a perilous peak, whose structure stood for centuries, if not longer, with no signal of defeat against merciless winters. And Ynys was entrapped with the green that encapsulated the lands around her just as much, if not more, than any other sight she came across.

This was not the Bloodroyal’s first visit to the Reach. Nor even her third. But trips in Winter or an early Spring hardly compared to the heart of the Summer’s warm embrace, urging life to flourish with vigor that was not quite seen in Dorne.

Ynys’ nose scrunched at the thought. Her own lands were beautiful, in a simplistic design. They were meadowed, green and fertile, more than most lands. But they did not boast the same volume of life that Lord Peake’s lands did now. Much of Dorne was garish in its color. Yellow and muddling brown, with few oasis’ worth visiting. Sunspear wasn’t so pretty, despite their famed Water Gardens. Nor were the people. The Sandy and Salty mingled freely in the home of House Martell. Where that shrew, Ysilla, claimed her father’s seat and presumed herself worthy enough to make demands of the Bloodroyal.

Unceremoniously, Lady Ynys spat on the ground from atop her perched position, leaning further on the Dornish stallion to avoid mixing her salvia with his ruffled, white mane.

“What troubles you, my truest love?”

The voice of her companion, her husband, and best friend drew Ynys’ immediate attention. Sitting nobler atop her steed, she twisted to give him a false grin, which under his studious eyes melted into a faltering grimace. Lord Petyr Dayne, now Lord-Consort Yronwood, was not a conventionally attractive man. He was old, more than twice Ynys’ age. His hair, once a vibrant yellow, mellowed into a shade she acknowledged that snow must be. A form that was once on the squatter side, however muscular at the time, devolved into a wide bellied whale of a man. Even if beauty had fled from her husband, Petyr made up for it in charm, wisdom, and patience. For, all Seven knew, no man without patience could tolerate the Bloodroyal for long.

“A bug flew into my mouth, Petyr. Think little on it.” She shrugged off any thoughts on Ysilla Martell and her ill company would not trouble Yronwood’s mind.

“Truly remarkable, isn’t it? So many flies buzzing past us, why, I’m half expecting to learn that a village was bewitched into them.” Petyr said smiling, riding his own horse gallantly, with purpose. As if, both animals were born from the same womb, as attached as Ynys was to her legs. “Though they say flies flourish in healthy lands. Lord Peake must be revered in these parts.”

“Healthy lands as well as troubled.” She added softly.

“Is that what troubles you my love?” Petyr looked from his wife, out to the column of men that both preceded them and rode ahead. Over a hundred strong in either direction, and that was merely including Lady Yronwood’s associates. Lord Dayne (of Starfall) added countless others to their marching parade. “We’ll not be made unsafe or unwelcome in these lands. I assure you that.” He grew silent, Ynys considered speaking up, though the thoughtful expression on her husband’s face spoke out against it. “We have brought with us over two hundred men at arms and dozens of servants. We’ll not be Uller’d.”

Finding a smirk on her face, one she could not shake, Yronwood let out a shallow chortle. Soon enough, Petyr joined her at the morbid, humorless joke with a sensible laugh of his own. Some eyes fell on both, but the Bloodroyal barely paid attention to those so far beneath her. “Very true. These renegades likely lost money to those Uller’s.” She found herself gazing at her husband, perhaps for too long, before her lips curled higher on her cheeks. “Notorious gamblers, their lot. Awful, awful habits.”

“Dreadfully embarrassing.” Petyr Dayne included. “Rumors of these. . What are they calling them?” He shook his head as he tried to recall the rumors. Not two weeks after they returned from their voyages abroad, she’d been informed of the on-goings of the Reach. Of murder and intrigue. “Noble knights?” He tasted the name, and decided it was bitter, but wasted no further effort on them. “Likely brigands who were fed up with the Ullers. Not that I much blame them.”

“My worries are cast aside, my noble knight.” She practically purred at her husband. “I can always count on you to protect me, can I not?”

“Were it so easy.” Dayne urged his white stallion closer to hers. “You are particularly gifted at sourcing out mischievous activities. This old man can barely keep pace.”

“Are you too slow for me, Lord Dayne?” She inquired with brow raised in delight.

“I could not think of another as fast as you, Lady Yronwood.” Gently, he took her hand as they rode barely shoulders apart, and planted a chaste kiss. “Mistress to none but her own voracious desires. I pity any who tries to match your gait.”

“You flatter me too much, Ser.” Ynys felt a familiar heat rush to her face. “You’ll keep it down once we see Lord Peake. I dare say our jovial nature will be but insults in his. . Hardships.”

“On that,” Petyr’s voice changed, a harder quality accompanying the familiar sound of his voice. “I was considering navigating around Lord Peake’s castles.”

“Quite an odd trip.” Ynys mused, offering little else as she waited for her husband to continue.

“Indeed. We would only be held up, I figured, with festivities welcoming us. Lord Peake’s generosity towards his friends from Dorne well known throughout all lands.” Petyr started, though Ynys’ thoughts traveled else where. To another night sleeping in a tent. Another morning where her back felt sore. She did not grimace or show many signs of distress at her husbands plan, for she knew he had a point he had yet to make clear. “We would be at Highgarden days sooner. No doubt, we’d be wrangled into Lord Peake’s own party.”

“And you desire to reach Highgarden so soon? I hadn’t known you were so anxious for the tourney, husband.” Her lips thinned as she gave an accepting smile, albeit not happy with his chosen excuse. “Do you plan on participating, after being so far removed from the dangers of the list?”

Blowing air from his lips, Lord Dayne tore his eyes from his wife, down to muddy path they trodded upon. “I am excited to see what the youthful knights of the Reach bring forth, I fear I would do little else but fall on my fat ass.”

Ynys nodded in understanding, spotting both wistful fantasies dancing in her husband’s head and acceptance of his bitter reality. Before Ynys was even born, Petyr Dayne had been a knight. A warrior. The Warrior incarnate. Able to sweep down five foes with a wave of his greatsword, during the Dragon Flight. Left in such a state where he could only observe, forced from the field of glory, surely made Petyr feel emptier. As if losing a good friend. Ynys herself compared it to if she were told to relinquish all control of her house to Petyr. He would be a fantastic lord, able minded and sensible. But the Bloodroyal could never imagine being happy with being forced to the side.

“I hear that Lord Tyrell is an accommodating lord however. Smart, witty, and as handsome as his wife is beautiful.” Petyr said with a knowing glint in his eyes. Yronwood narrowed hers suspiciously.

“And who shares these rumors with you, a lecherous old friend of yours?”

A gurgling laughter erupted from the Dayne of High Hermitage. “Not so far off. One of your cousins wrote as much while we were away.”

“Must’ve missed that letter.” Ynys muttered.

“The sooner we reach Highgarden, the sooner we’ll be able to enjoy those fantastic. . .Gardens, that is the envy of the world twice over.” Petyr grinned.

“She can’t be that pretty.” The Bloodroyal tried to explain, but shrugged off the voice in her head telling them to stay the course, to Lord Peake’s seat of power. “Very well. The petals of Highgarden better be as you suggest. You should tell your cousin of our change in course, though. Lest he be very confused.”

Petyr once more gripped her hand, planting a deeper kiss on her fingers. “Qoren,” He called to a rider, tanned with dirty blond hair. “Find Lord Dayne, let him know that we wish to make directly for Highgarden and that I hope he is not irate with out abrupt changes.”

“My lord.” Qoren nodded, breaking column to track down their distant relative.

Lady Yronwood cast her gaze from Peake land, to a distant river. She wondered if that was the border, between where their closest ally ruled, and the dangers that every Dornishman had been whispering on for quite some time now. Her eyes could see no sudden differences, the land was equally as lush as Peake’s, perhaps greener, though Ynys wasn’t certain from her distance. She felt no fear as they turned to face the river, these knights would trouble them little, if at all. They were house Yronwood. Noble and dignified, not like Uller or Martell. And she was not some some second son, knighted out of necessity. She was the Bloodroyal.

 

[Akio]

Mors Martell
Hand of the King

​

Mors walking speed was far from slow and even if he had to take longer, quicker strides in order to keep up with the larger Reachmen while he found himself thinking into thought even as they moved. The Grand Maester had not been a young man and it was quite possible he could have just simply died from natural causes usually but speaking of blood and shattered glass unless something came upon him suddenly he could not help but think perhaps this situation wasn't as clean as he might have hoped on a different day. Old men did drop dead from time to time but rarely in a shower of blood. His face had already turned grave but they made it the Grand Maesters room he got yet another shock. He paused in front of the door and turned to regard Meryn as he couldn't help but hide the shock in his eyes. "What? Could she really be so bold? Have you confirmed this?" He asked as his tone was near incredulous that such things could even happen. Even if Uller had committed some assumed crime it was beyond anyone's capacity but the King, Mistress of Laws, or Himself to judge on the matter between two different realms. One could not imagine that someone could get away with something like that.

Not to mention combined with the deaths of Drinkwater, and the other Dornishmen it seemed an enemy was rising in the south. While they were all Dornishmen they were operating on the kings business and to attack them was to attack house Blackfyre. Such things could not be let slide quietly. Mors eyes seemed to harden into flints as he stepped past Meryn and into the room. It was a rather grisly scene, the old man had fallen back into a table with a glass case on it and now the shattered pieces of glass lay around him while the back of his head bled profusely as it seemed he had opened much of the back of his skull with the force of the fall. Mors took a step into the room as his gaze swept the room of his learned man. Blood splattered the cool cobblestones and much of the desk as well in which an open book lay and also a tray of food and wine. Both things were splattered with stains of blood and it seems he was bleeding before even the fall.

Mors stepped a step closer to the cooling body of Argrave, his shoe stepping partly into that pool of blood that parted around the tip of his shoe as he looked the Grand Maester over. He was no Maester himself but it was easy enough to tell the Grand Maester was bleeding out of both his eyes and his mouth and given there was blood sprayed even where the book was several feet away he doubted that blood came from the fall. He had been bleeding beforehand. Without standing or turning towards Meryn he spoke, his cool voice echoing in the small chamber as he called out with a rough note in command in his voice. "Guardsmen." His two guards who had followed Mors from his room stepped in and stood attentively as they waited for the Hands command. His command. He was just about to speak when he noticed movement under the bed and he froze upon catching sight of it. As he went still the guards took notice and as its head came out from under the bed they lowered their spears as they paused not wanting to move in. It was a snake, a rather large one and Mors dimly remembered the broken glass tank and now he realized what had been inside. He raised his hands to stop his guards but made no quick movements as he stared down at the snake.

He knew that if the snake wanted to strike it would get to him far quicker then his guards could and so he wanted to keep moving in the background so as to not startle the snake as it slid a bit further out from the bed, its body coiling. Looking at the creature Mors felt his thoughts turn to his daughter, she would probably quite enjoy this specimen if it were right in front of her. How many times had he caught her playing with even venomous Dornish vipers which had become docile in her hands? He wasn't anywhere near as skilled as she was in this field but he had been forcefully educated due to his daughter keeping quite a few of the animals around at different points and she always enjoyed showing off her latest catch to him, her eyes vibrant with excitement usually while he always carefully tried to stay out of the snakes range till he got more used to it. He fell back on her excited voice now telling him how to identify these animals and he looked over the snake features and after several tense moments with the snake only being a few feet away from he relaxed. While it was difficult to say he was one hundred percent certain he was fairly confident this snake wasn't venomous which made it a rather nonthreat. He slowly moved back with gradual motions allowing the snake to come a bit farther from the bed. He could hear his daughters voice in his mind as he watched the snakes tongue flicker the air.

"There's little reason to be worried about snakes. We are not prey for them so snakes will rarely be aggressive unless you startle or upset them. It's not a big deal to be around a snake or hold a snake as long as you know how to do it. It's like a sand steed, you have to treat them with respect and they will respect you and even be good friends. Treat them well, understand them and you never have a reason to be afraid." Rang that high and passionate tone in his ear as he kept near level with the snake as his hand came low and slow near the ground as he positioned himself at the snake's side and lightly pressed his hand against the snakes middle potion. It froze and tensed up and for a while, neither of them moved till the snake acclimated to the pressure and his presence even further. This was made a step easier due to the fact it had already been a pet before which made it much more docile then many would be. Wrapped around its body he lifted it from the bottom middle half of his body while his other hand came to take the snakes upper middle to give it plenty of support in its hands. If it slithered in his hands he would lightly shift the grip letting the snake move almost freely within his hands due to his shifting grip while his guards looked at him in shock as he helped the snake in his hands.

Glancing up once more and the snake under control he returned to his orders. "Take the Grand Maesters body and find another Maester to look after him. Have him check his body and see if he can find out the cause of death, while the fall may have killed him I'm not sure that's all there is to this situation. Also, take that food and wine and split it into two portions. Have one portion sent to a Maester to look for poisons and have the other portion kept aside till I require it." Both guards would hurry to obey his orders and Mors would turn his steady gaze to Meryn, the snake moving in his hands facing forward though for a moment it almost seemed to stare at him, flicking its tongue out at the Waster of Whispers. "Till the matter of this can be ascertained we need to take additional precautions. Make sure all the royals food is taste tested and they are put under guard. Lock down the castle till we had a chance to check those within and find the person who found him like this and hold them for questioning." He said turning his eyes to the snake as he felt himself get ready to take the next step. "And summon the Small Council, there is much that needs to be discussed.

 

[TheFool]

Ysilla Martell
Sunflower




​

They walked.

Ysilla’s heels clicking against colourless marbled floors. “I hope the journey wasn’t too tiring?” She spoke with a soft facade. A voice she’d often put on when attempting to sound like she actually cared more than she did. It was one she used with her two sisters many a time throughout the years. Unlike her sisters, however, the guests she spoke to had yet to catch on.
“I dare say it was.” Edric Drinkwater replied.
He was of average height, which still meant he was smaller than her. A well kept beard fashioned itself on his face. His hair was brown - like soil. He looked nothing like his brother.
Something that was considered tavern talk.
Smallfolk said that the brothers were only half. Edric and Trystane did not share the same father. That was the whispering.
No one would ever say it loudly, however.

I would,
She thought as she looked back at him.

“I am sure your trip was lengthened by your grief, ser?”
Edric eyed her up, “That, or the horses were shit.”

Mallador opened a door and gestured. They followed, filling the room. It was lit by sunlight. A council room, half inside and half out. They all took their seats as a bird sang a shrill note. Ysilla, of course, sitting at the head of the table. The seat her father would’ve sat in -
If he was present.
The serving girl from earlier trailed behind them. She placed a cup in-front of them all and began pouring, starting with Elia Uller who faced Ysilla at the table’s end.
“Thank you, my lovely.”
The crone said. Her eyes dark and sunken. Surrounded by crows feet. Her daughter, Arianne, sat beside her. Arianne’s husband beside her. Drinkwater adjacent to Arianne. Mallador next to Drinkwater and Ysilla. The only sound beside the bird was the wine.
Carefully being poured into the cups.
Ysilla took a breath.
She watched the girl as she served. Quiet.

Until she got to her.

“What wine is it again?” Ysilla asked, feigning curiosity. She well knew. The serving girl stopped. Ysilla’s cup already half full.
“A… Arbor Red, princess.”
She squeaked.
Voice like a mouse, caught in the jaws of a viper.
“What was that? I could not hear.”
The room was silent.
No one dared to speak. Not until Ysilla got her answer.
“Arbor Red.”
“Arbor Red,” Ysilla repeated. “You’re serving Arbor Red.”
“Yes, princess.”
Ysilla looked at the cup. Her glare one wrought with anger. With a swiftness she raised the back of her hand and hit it against the chalice. It slid off of the side of the table, and spilled onto the white marble below. Red liquid spreading across it, looking as if someone was bleeding out. As if someone was dying. “Get out.” She said, almost casually.

The serving girl did not look back.

“Lord Quentyn,” Ysilla began. “I’ve received a letter from my lord hand father. Requesting me to muster three thousand more men and send them through the pass to help fortify The Reach. A task that as of utmost importance, I’m sure you’d agree? White Knights run rampant. It is up to us to leave them bloodied., yes?” She looked at Mallador to her left and pointed at the puddle of wine.
He let out a sigh and stood up, leaving.
“I am putting you in charge of these three thousand more men. I’ve already been in contact with many of the other lords and ladies. Dalt, with several dozen, will be here in the morning - as will Toland with significantly more. I am also sending mine own men. A large amount. A little under one thousand.”
“So generous.” Edric snarked.

Hmm.

Ysilla looked at him, “I would of course send more if Sunspear’s retinue wasn’t already scattered between Highgarden and King’s Landing.”
“Or course.”
Mallador returned, cloth in hand. He knelt down and began wiping the wine.
“Lady Elia, I hope you can also provide a set amount.”
“How much do you want?” The woman asked.
“How much do you wish to spare so to avenge your son’s murder?”
There was silence.
“I’d send them all if it meant such a thing.”
“We can’t have that,”
Ysilla spoke with a slow shake of her head. “A hundred will do.”
“A hundred it is, my lovely.”
“Perfect.”

Perfect...

She turned to Lord Allyrion again, “You leave tomorrow morning. Early. On your way there I expect you to add to the army with your own and at the pass you will meet with my uncle’s men and Qorgyle’s and Lady Manwoody’s. You will have full charge of all of them until my father says otherwise.”
My father.
“Edric will accompany you. Acting as your right hand.”
She added.
“Oh,” Edric put in, “Will I now?”
“You will.”
“I thought you’d give me some time, princess. To grieve.”
“What better way to grieve then to drive your sword through the chest of a White Knight.”
“I can think of a few. Spending time in mine home with my nieces. Being there for them when they weep over their father’s death.”
“A death caused by White Kn-”
He cut her off,
“A death caused by your father, princess. You sit here in front of us, spilling good wine and demanding we give more men to your father’s cause. More men! Dorne is already empty as it is. If an army of Reachmen were to attack Sandystone, I’d barely be able put up a fight.”

Ysilla listened.

“How many more men?” Edric continued, “How many more men need to die? How many more wives widowed? Children orphaned? Write to your father. Tell him to… leave The Reach. To return home here. I have had enough of the fighting, princess. I think we all have.”

“Lady Elia?”
Ysilla asked, looking at the old woman.

“If young Edric had of said this two months ago… I’d be in agreeance. Dorne misses its men. I missed my son. Arianne her brother…” The mother and daughter exchanged saddened looks. “But now it does not matter, for Ulwyck is dead. Butchered by the men who mockingly call themselves knights.”
Her voice was raspy with age.
Her jowls vibrating with every sentence.
“The Reach must pay. Even if it means our soldiers do as well.”

Ysilla smiled slightly.
“Lord Quentyn? Lady Arianne? Any thoughts on the matter?”

Spoiler: Ysilla's MENTIONS

ailurophile
Yarrow

 

[ailurophile]

Arianne Uller
​

Ysilla's rejection of the wine barely drew any reaction from Arianne. Not a noticeable one, at least. Had one looked at her eyes, however, they would see a flash of pride, respect. For a long while now, she'd harbored a deep admiration of the woman who sat at the head of the table. An admiration the girl's father had never received, not from Arianne. Now, he probably never would. What sort of man still couldn't control the very lands he occupied, even after all these years?

Not a man fit to lead.
She gently pushed her own cup forwards over the table, away from herself.

Her mother promised their men's services and Arianne sat silently, brooding. Mulling over recent events. Her gaze flickered to Edric, as every word that fell from the man's mouth drew her lips into more of a snarl. The ferocious glare dimmed as she locked eyes with her mother, a shared sorrow for her brother, a longing for a presence neither woman would ever feel again. How awful it was to lose somebody, let alone someone so brilliant. Truly, the world should have wept. But of course they wouldn't. She doubted many outside of their close circle had shed a tear or taken even one mournful moment in memory of the deceased. The thought made her sick to her stomach.

Made her blood boil.

Never in her life had Arianne been more proud of her mother than she was right then. Never had she felt so closely connected. Bound together by grief and bloodlust. It was a peculiar connection to have with someone, but a powerful one, one that stirred something deep within her. She straightened up in her chair slightly as a newfound purpose flooded her body: it was as if she could feel it in her veins. Boiling, burning. Boiling, burning.

The tears she had shed for her brother would be one solitary drop in the ocean compared to the tears the Reach would weep in penance. That was the promise she made to herself then.
To Ulwyck. Wherever he is.

As Ysilla opened the opportunity for input, Arianne's hand clasped her husband's thigh, stopping him. It was her turn to talk first. So many thoughts ricocheted around her brain, so many complex murmurs of agreement, so many rousing words. In the end, however, only one short request -- desire -- escaped her.

Dark hair hung over her face, her eyes. A stare sharper than any sword.

"Kill them all."

TheFool Yarrow

 

[RayPurchase]

Robert Reyne

Lannisport​

A hint of a smile tugged at one of the corners of Robert’s lips. The smile did not reach his eyes however, as they bored into Gerion’s own. The pout, the tensing of his fists, that smug smile removed. It looked like the boy almost wanted to hit him, perhaps this little lion cub had some claws after all, and wasn’t just some preening peacock. A dry chuckle escaped his lips at the insult that came his way. He took a step forward, leaning in so his words would be for his ears only, the smirk that Gerion failed to conjure up, materialising on Robert’s own lips.


“An Old Cat and 2 Kittens… quite perilous indeed, to many predators in the Westerlands, that would be just a light snack,”


He gave Gerion a firm, bordering on heavy, slap on the shoulder. Turning to see Lord Lannister finally making his appearance. He appeared older than his years would suggest. Robert held no real ill will against him, and that perhaps was sadder than anything else. This bumbling old fool meant no harm to anyone, and yet he was expected to be the Lion of the West. Robert almost felt sorry for him, what chance did he really have? He turned fully to face him. Inclining his own head in the shallowest of bows, only perhaps matching Jaime’s bow. Subtleties and little things, that is all that was needed. The man was a weak fool, but only a fool would outright mock or attack the man, he was still Lord of the West in name, and the King still had a Lannister wife. Lions, Boars, many would need to be gathered to bring the old pride down.


“Lord Lannister, it has been too long. If you wish my ear then you may have it of course, I am as always your loyal bannerman,”


Loyal Bannerman… even to Robert’s own ears it sounded like a barefaced lie.

( TheFool )

 

[Braddington]

Leo
Blacksmith in Training


Leo knew when never to interrupt something. A family feud or drunken bar brawl was not quite to the same level as these mighty beasts but what went for normal people must go for these ones ten times over at the least. He knew not what their snide remarks meant, he had not a clue who many of these people were and he certainly couldn't grasp some of the more subtle insults that were flying about. But he managed to get the drift all the same. The Red Lion and the Boar Lady had a dislike for Lord Gerion, and he had one right back at them. Was the Red Lion sworn to the North, perhaps? It would be the first he heard of it. Maybe the Lady had beaten Gerion in a joust? Did women joust? Maybe. Or maybe it was simple envy. Lords always wanted what the Lord above them had right up until they became King. No matter the excuses they hid behind in order to get there.

Opportunism was something all men practiced. He surmised lions were no different.

He did not have time to speak even if he wished to regardless. Another entourage approached, though this one was much more important and quite recognisable. He could not move at first, awe struck by the man who ruled over his town. He looked strong, like a Lord should be. He looked kind. As more of should be. He could not help but glare at the Red Lion and his childish bow, did he not know respect?

Leo bowed low to the man, lower than perhaps he had ever done before, no doubt looking ridiculous and making a fool of himself. He did not know why they treated the Lord so. He had always ruled fairly, justly, the city prospered under his leadership and war had not touched its people like it had elsewhere. He could scarcely find a fault in the man, and the people of Lannisport thought the same. Was he missing something?

“Thank you, my Lord. My father will be most pleased.”

Should he have pushed for sponsorship? Perhaps he should.

“It was my father and I who made this as a gift for your heir. Mayhaps you have heard of my papa? Benedict, my Lord. You will find none better and our services are always open.”

He had done all he needed to. The words were spoken, his task complete. He could have left at that very moment, handed over the lance and walked away from whatever….this was. But he did not, he stayed, his eyes judging Gerion, looking him up and down. There was something in the man, insecurity, jealousy, a thought of superiority. Where did it come from? Why did he care?

He stayed, in the shadows, but there nonetheless. Amongst those far more powerful than him. Far richer. And far more important.

His eyes, simply focusing on the object of his thoughts.

TheFool RayPurchase ailurophile Arcanist ​

 

[Arcanist]

Gwynesse Crakehall​

Gwynesse had been waiting for the Lannister girl’s own insult to be hurled after her brother’s, only to be caught in a surprised stupor at what came out of her mouth. She had been prepared for it, what with her brother’s comments, his calculating stares, only to be completely thrown off guard. The broad-shouldered woman could feel her jaw gravitating towards the ground, though, remembered who unfortunately shared in her presence, and tightened her jaw once again. It was an insult from the moment Lynora spoke, yet, dare she even think, there was something of a compliment in there. She wondered whether she should even thank her for it. Then she remembered this was a Lannister she would be thanking, and for the slip of a tongue, nothing more. She made no comment, to an extent that she tried to seem like she didn’t acknowledge it, despite her confused conflictions over the matter.

The Gilt had little time to consider her confused feelings as she noticed the siblings’ eyes gravitated to behind both her and Robert. Glancing over her shoulder, she witnessed their father, Lord Lannister, entering. Her conflicting feelings hadn’t ceased there. His entrance was by all accounts like him; small, pitiful. She had hope for him once when she was younger, to take the seat of the old Lannisters. She was naïve to believe such a rule would come to pass under Jaime Lannister. She would be more naïve to think such an age would be replicated with his son. It didn’t mean to say she didn’t have an ounce of pity for the man, however. His family just couldn’t carry the mantle, live up to the name that had been revered in the Westerlands for years.

Hence why such Big Cats had to be put down.

Regardless, she kept up appearances, giving him her own short bow as per custom. “My Lord,” she began, throwing on politeness and chivalry. The time for sharpened claws and tough tusks was not now, as much as she wished to participate in a physical altercation with the sneering Lannister boy. Her patience had waned, but she had at least some left to give to his father. “Your presence is always felt among us. Your son and your daughter have made us feel most welcome here.” Gwynesse physically had to keep her mouth shut, so her teeth wouldn’t graze over her lips. She seemed more aware of it after her mother had pointed out she done that as a habit of not being entirely truthful. She became even more self-conscious of it now more than ever. But it couldn't be helped; she had to at least dress up her words, else let her bluntness escape and cause more friction than there already was underneath the surface.

Spoiler: Honourable Mentions

TheFool ailurophile

 

[RayPurchase]

Rogar Bolton

Lord of the Dreadfort

​

Rogar swept into the Great Hall of Winterfell, the doors quickly slammed shut behind him, a welcome barrier to the cold wind blowing outside. The hall was mostly deserted, servants going to and throw, bored looking guards on post, by the looks of it he was the most exciting individual to appear all morning. It suited him perfectly, he had never been great with the hustle and bustle of large crowds, and the crowds in Winterfell these days were far too large, the Targareyns and all of their southern followers having flocked to Winterfell, like children around a mother’s skirt. It seemed like true Northman were becoming a rarity, even here in the hallowed halls of the Starks. He eased himself down onto one of the benches, the fire behind him was lit, and he welcomed the warmth flooding over his shoulders. He gently rubbed his hands together, the pale, thin fingers interlocking and releasing, his eyes trained on the fire on the opposite side of the room, catching shapes and figures in the flickering flames. A Northern presence was needed here again, and he was more than happy to provide it. He looked uptowards the dais, there stood Stark’s chair, warped and weathered, and beside it, taller, newer, the Targareyn’s temporary throne. It had no place here, like a squatter, a cuckoo’s egg, placed in a nest that was not its own, the time for it to fledge his nest had long passed.



He was momentarily stirred from his musings as a servant hurried over, carrying a steaming plate of thick cut bacon, bread, butter, and of course a flagon of ale, he made no comment as the plate was placed in front of him and the servant hurried on his way after a courteous greeting, the poor man was probably terrified around him, if the tales were to be half believed there was a good chance he would turn the poor man into some sort of garment for nothing more than him being in a bad mood. The guest rights had been seen to, or at least the first part, the Lord of Winterfell had not yet made an appearance, or anyone else for that matter, but the hour was still early, and if there was one thing Rogar had in abundance it was patience. He tore into the bread, ripping a chunk off as his eyes returned to the fire.

(Open to any currently in Winterfell)

 

[TheFool]

Gerion Lannister
Lion




​

Loyal bannerman?!

Gerion had to stop himself from scoffing. In his eyes, it was preposterous talk. Lies upon lies. The people of The Westerlands hated his father - hated his family. They were bannermen, but they were far from loyal. He felt his fist clench. His muscles tense. Jaw tightened. A scowl on his face. He stared at the lion, at Robert, and he saw red. A hand touched the back of his arm, gently.

Lynora.

Her caress healed him. It filled his head, and heart, with a cooling calmness. He felt himself relax - a slight bit. She relaxed him. Gerion looked at her. His stare telling her all she needed to be told. ‘The red lion has annoyed me’. As did their father.
As did everyone…
They were the only two that mattered. Even with bannermen backing them who did spit behind their backs - the loyalty between Gerion and his sister was the only loyalty he needed.

“Come, sit.”
Their father said. A weak smile on skinny lips.

They went on their way, back towards the pavilion covered in Lannister colours. Reds and blues and golds. Gerion took his sister in a short embrace.
He held her.
His hands on her elbows.
Briefly.
Before he pushed her away. “Sit with them. I will catch up.”
Lynora nodded at him and the two blew each other a little affectionate kiss. When she walked away, Gerion turned his attention to the one who did not follow. The son of the blacksmith. The apprentice. “I’m asking you a favour, ser.”
Leo?
He moved closer.
It was Leo, wasn’t it?
“Mind the lance for me.” It was more an order, less a favour. “Stay here. Buy something for yourself. Enjoy the market.” Gerion put his hand in his pocket and took out a few coins. Golden dragons. Six of them. They glimmered under the newborn moonlight. “Take these.” He slipped his hand, the one with the coins, into Leo’s back pocket. He let the money go - and grabbed him. Feeling his skin underneath his trousers.

“Enjoy the market,”
He repeated.


“When I return, you can enjoy me.”


The pavillion was full.
His father sat in the centre, one leg over the other. He spoke about trivial things to Robert. The weather and the recent death of Prince Maekar. Trivial things. Gerion took his seat, in between his great grandfather and his sister.
“I’m assuming I’ve missed nothing of importance, hm?” He asked Lynora, as he moved around in his seat. Attempting to find a comfortable position -
If such a position was possible.

Lynora glanced at him. She wore a look of boredom.

Gerion sighed.
Seven hells.

He looked around. On the right of his father was his mother, a tedious expression on her face as well. On the left was Doggett - looking as out of place as ever. Robert sat next to him. Gwynesse next to him. Uncle Emory next to her, wearing his heavy armour. Abbigail and Gerion’s other cousins sat around him of course. They were all silent. All except his father.
Who prattled on.

“This summer is one of the hottest I remember.”
​

And on.

“Though it makes sense. The maesters say that an awful cold winter brings and awful warm summer.”
​

And on.

“The sweating is the worst part. I wake up in my bed wet with -”
​

“Father!”
Gerion said, loudly. Fiercely. He stood up, unable to find a pleasing way to situate himself in the seat. His heels clicked as he did. “I am sure we all want to listen to you chit chat about the temperature, but we have a busy night ahead of us all. A busy market to attend. So… spit it out.”
His words were blunt.
Harsh even.
Jaime Lannister was used to it, however. It was the way Gerion always talked to his father.
Gylbert clapped,
“Here, here. The words are all too mere.”
“Thank you, Lord Lanny.”
Gerion sat back down. Hanging off of the seat’s edge instead of leaning back.

Jaime nodded once. Nodded twice. Before he stood, carefully doing so. Cautious not to stumble in front of his men. Like he had done several times before. Gerion thought back to his eleventh name day - were his father slipped on a laid out piece of satin carpet. Gerion remembered the laughing.
All of the laughing.
He makes our House so easy to mock.
He shook his head.
Someone should put a knife through his chest. A good end to the bronze lion. A better end than any of the others he might get, like choking on his drool or falling down a flight of stairs.

“My son is right. I brought you here for reasons.”
Lord Jaime spoke.

“You did.”
Gerion cut in. Annoyed still.

“My loyal bannermen,”
Jaime began.
There’s that word again.
“My Lord Reyne. My Lady Gwynesse. Your allegiance to me is of utmost importance. It is paramount in keeping order within my lands. Within our lands.”
Our lands?!
Gerion frowned.
“So, I ask this of you. Beg even.” Jaime continued to talk. Gerion continued to feel his blood simmer. What he wanted to say. To scream. The things he wanted to let them all know. “Twenty years ago, Casterly Rock fell and my father ushered in our rule. The Lannisters of Lannisport. The road from there to here has not been easy, that much is true.”
Jaime stopped.
Swallowing.
“But we’re here, and I want us to go further. To form bonds as strong as the ones of old.”

What is he trying to say?
He is making us look weak!

Gerion looked at Lynora. That look. It was all he needed to tell her of his anger.

“Which is why, Lord Robert - I ask you to take my daughter’s hand in marriage.” He said. “And Lady Gwynesse, if you could offer yours… to my son.”

Balls.

Spoiler: Gerion's MENTIONS

ailurophile
Arcanist
Braddington
RayPurchase
MedievalFanatic2023

 

[Braddington]

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

Her touch was gentle, soft, delicate. All the things he had never been, was never allowed to be. Each dexterous graze of his cheek sent shivers that reverberated throughout his entire body. Not unlike the impact of dagger, but much more welcome and much more tender. He gazed into her eyes, the tears subsiding as he focused in on them with an intense flame. He wanted her. He wanted to kiss her. He needed her. The sounds of berating Lords and family alike swirling within his mind, but in that singular moment, they did not matter.


She was right.


It was not weakness to show emotion. It was not weakness to shed a tear for the thousands dead in foreign lands, or even your own being. It showed strength. Devotion. A willingness to survive, thrive and win.


She was right.


And in that he discovered more about his own dedication than any lecture on Aegon the Conqueror could ever give. A dusty old tome didn't matter. He cried because he cared, not about the past, but about the future. A future he wanted, a future he was fighting for. He was scared of failing in those aims. What could be more Kingly than that?

He leaned forward, against the auburn pearl, holding her head in tandem with her hands on his. Her skin felt warm, untouched like the walls of the very castle he had cursed for being so unchanged. Yet no curses escaped him. She was everything he could of hoped for.

Without hesitating, without letting the reasoned voices tell him why he shouldn't he moved his lips forward.


Then they touched.


It was passionate, it was loving, it was energetic. It was everything he couldn't express in words, it was everything he had pent up over two decades of solitude. It was true.

Gentle moans escaped his mouth as his eyes closed and he became encapsulated in the kiss. He could stay like this forever. If only it could be so.

TheFool ​