The North

[TheFordee20]

Spoiler: Map Of The North

FULL MAP

CURRENT DATE :
Spring, 246 AC

 

[TheFordee20]

In The North,

Haunted by the death of his sister, Lyessa, Logan Stark has had enough. He has declared himself ‘The King In The North’. And a letter has been sent to King Aemond detailing his declaration.

The North prepares for war.
Will they succeed?
​

 

[ChimpMan]

Darrun Snow
_________________________​

It was a cold morning, even for ones accustomed to the North. However, one could find solace in the hall of Mormont Keep. Darrun was reminded of this when he stepped through the doors besides his sister, Breyna, from the cold and grey morning beyond. The crackling fire had always made for a warm and comforting scene from the winds outside. Perhaps it was merely comfort of home, although Darrun always suspected it was due to the small size of Mormont Keep. The hall was certainly no great hall as one might expect of a Stark or Peake. It was a modest Keep for a modest house.
At the head of the hall sat Freyda Mormont, Lady of House Mormont. She was flanked by the maester of House Mormont, Harwin and Master-at-arms, Garick. Together, the three spoke in murmured tones, their focus on a parchment held up by Lady Freyda so that it covered her face.
"Mother." Spoke Darrun announcing his arrival in a low but powerful tone of voice. It was impossible for him to deny his curiosity. The call from his mother had been abrupt, especially for such an early hour. Darrun knew whatever this was about, it was important.
"You requested to see us?" Continued Breyna. "What is it, what's happened?"
Lady Freyda set down the message, revealing an aging woman with greying auburn hair pulled into a bun, above a wrinkling face, sharp cheekbones and wisdom-sharp eyes.
"We have news from Winterfell." She said, signalling the direwolf sigil on the parchment and looking at her children. She looked at Breyna, short, slim, smooth of skin with her long blonde hair braided and very much as fierce and beautiful as her mother once was. Then she looked at Darrun. In many ways the opposite of his sister. His face not so pretty, but broad and masculine, and his demanour permanently stoic as if he had the feelings of a block of ice. He stood with his arms folded as the tallest man on Bear Island- and perhaps the North. His body lean and powerfully built, with legs like tree trunks and shoulders broad to match the mass of his arms.
"And?" Said Breyna inquisitively, patience never her strong suit.
"Lord Logan Stark has announced himself as King in the North. He calls for his bannermen to join him at Winterfell."
A brief moment of silence ensued.
"What does this mean for us mother?"
"It means we prepare for war." Said Freyda with not so much as a hint of hesitation. Though maester Harwin beside her gave a worried glance at Darrun and Breyna. As if she had eyes in the side of her head and saw this, Freyda continued.
"House Mormont has sworn allegiance to House Stark for a thousand years. I do not mean for it to stop now. Garick and your uncle Fernar shall keep watch here while we're gone."
"You-" The maester opened his mouth to make a suggestion.
"- I may not be as young as I was." Continued Freyda in an annoyed tone suggesting she was repeating herself. "But I will certainly not sit idle here as my children and people fight in my stead. I can still wield a blade and so I fight."
The room was silent for a moment as if to contemplate all that had been said in such a small amount of time. A thoughtful look painted Darrun's face. If he had it in him, he may have raised a few questions or objections - particularly about his aged mother wanting to march on to battle - but he didn't. Darrun never questioned orders. Especially ones from his mother. In that regard, he was the perfect soldier. So instead, he began to mentally prepare himself for the inevitable battles to come as a result of this news.
"Then we shall prepare to march for Winterfell." Said Darrun.

 

[Leusis]

Logan Stark
​

Sitting, blanketed by the leathers and furs of a northern lord Logan contemplated his actions. He was a young man, though he was respected by many if not all of his vassals. He was competent both in personal combat and in strategy, the truest heir his father could have hoped for. However, he had just thrown himself and his people into a war that seemed impossible to win. He was outnumbered at least five to one, and he had no true naval power to speak of, while Aemond had hundreds of warships at his disposal. The King could land on his shores tomorrow with tens of thousands of men and he could do little to stop it. In all ways it seemed as if Logan had no possible way to win this war, but he was nothing if not determined and faithful to his people. He had no intention of allowing Aemond into his lands to pillage and rape. And it was for this reason that Logan had sent out ravens to all his vassals nearly a week before he had sent his letter to the king. By now the armies of the North were likely marching to Winterfell, gathering to support their young king in the battles to come.

Slowly standing from his desk he sighed softly, taking the immense blade that sat, leaning against the wall in its wolf skin sheathe in one hand as he exited into a long hallway. The sword was nearly as tall as him, and extremely broad, a disturbingly large weapon, and one that had struck fear into the enemies of House Stark for centuries. Ice was its name, and it was the very blade with which Logan intended to behead King Aemond Blackfyre for the crimes he had committed on Logan's family.

 

[Blitzer]

White Harbour​

Lord Mort Manderly sighed slowly and rubbed his throbbing head. He really should stop working so late with so little light. However, right now, he need to prepare for war. With his eldest son going to Winterfell, and his other son doing his best to prepare for the inevitable invasion of the north, he need to work as hard as he could to get what he could of the finances in order. As soon as Stark approached him with rebelling, he had sold of many of his assets at a loss rather than having them seized. He sighed and tried to focus on the paper, but it blurred. Finally he got up and head out. His Maester, Ed, looked up at him and was about to speak when Mort brushed by him and stood at the window saying. "What a mess this is. All that I worked on gone to nothing with a single war."

"True, Lord. However, if we do well in this war you will have a most prominent position."

"More like my sons will."

"Master of Ships isn't a bad post for a second son, and your eldest will prove popular at court if there is anything to go on with him."

Manderly fell silent and kept staring out the window toward the ocean. "Yes, if they manage to survive this storm that comes. Winter is coming!"

White Knife River​

Devin Manderly gritted his teeth as water sprayed his face. He was on his way to Winterfell with a 100 troops to pledge his loyalty in place of his father. It was tiresome to travel, honestly Devin prefered to remain back home in his office managing all of his delicate thread he'd created. The captain of the forces was one of his threads and a good one Red was At least when he wasn't to dense. Devin leaned out over the edge of the ship and dragged his hand through the water entirely uncomfortable. His brother was the outdoor of the two of them. Too bad he was too busy building up the military to actually come here. Ah well, no matter, he was finally going to a proper court once again. He'd have to be on his best behaviour.

​

 

[Braddington]

Rickon Glover
Deepwood Motte
​

Lord Glover awoke to fighting in the courtyard, they seemed to be training particularly hard today which was unusual for Deepwood Motte although Rickon hardly spent time there so how could he know for sure that this was unusual? Getting up in such a large room was weird for him, even the bed was so comfortable that because he was not used to such a thing it had been uncomfortable the first few nights. Unlike his father he put on his own clothes not needing servants to help his every word even if this was out of the ordinary for a Lord 'A lord....what am I meant to do? All I saw father do was sit in the Great Hall and pass judgement" He thought to himself still unsure as too his new role, at least he had memorised the names of his vassals and their family's....although he still had not memorised what a vassal was.....

Emerging from his room he made his way to the Council Chambers as he did every morning at almost exactly the same time to hear the issues of the day, when he made it there all of the most important members of the household has already assembled and they all had grave looks on their face. At the centre was Rodrick Forrester dressed in his armour a little earlier than usual.

"Good morning my Lords, what is the matter? everyone appears to be an ill mood." Rickon said trying his best to sound like a Lord and for once somewhat succeeding.
"An important letter has arrived from Winterfeel, my Lord, it's from the Starks you're liege Lord" Rodrick replied in a worried tone. "What does it say? have I finally been summoned for my oath of fealty?" Rickon tried his best to say glancing around wondering if he has said the right thing, he knew the Starks were above him but not sure if he had to make oaths to them.
"No, my Lord, it appears.....Lord Stark has declared himself King In The North and wishes for our men to join his host that will march against King Aemond." Rickon was trying to digest this information slowly understanding what this meant before taking a seat at the head of the table.
"Should we not support King Aemond? he is the King and I know he was the one who legitimised me and I know for sure I have to swear an oath to him." That is what Rickon had come to know, the King was above everyone even the Starks of Winterfell and he would not even be in this position were it not for the Kings signature. "No, we should raise our men for the King"
Everyone in the room took a shocked gasp at this before Rodrick gave them all determined looks "My lord, it is not that simple the Starks have ruled over Deepwood Motte for centuries...you're father would have answered this call." The Castellan whimpered in the background

Rickon stood up like his father used to when proclaiming his word as the final and in as deep a voice as he could muster stated "We side with the King, he is above the Starks and he is the one who made me a Glover. Rodrick, call the banners and send a letter to the King."

Rickon went back to his room content with his choice, this is what was right thing wasn't it? What his studies had informed him. The King was the supreme law of the land and he was only fulfilling the one oath he made.

Later that night whilst wandering the castle as he often did he came across his fathers study where all the accounting books were kept, there sitting at the desk was Rodrick composing a letter with the Glover sigil. Rickon entered the room to see what was happening.

"What are you writing Rodrick?" Rickon asked a little tired from a day of training and preparing "Well you see, my Lord, I have come up with a plan that could help the King. I am asking Lord Stark to let our forces past the Neck in return for spying on the Kings army, in fact once there our forces will join with the King to fight the Starks." Rordrick replied with a look of deception in his eye. Rickon for the most part agreed with the plan because even he knew that they were in a terrible position. "Very well, I agree to this plan." With this Rickon went back to his night time walk.

Leusis

 

[ChimpMan]

Freyda Mormont
_________________________
​

The banner of the black bear flapped in the wind proudly over the convoy of House Mormont as they travelled the dirt road. The forestation of the Wolfswood hung overheard, blocking out the afternoon sun, save for few rifts between leaves allowing the light to pierce the ground below. At the head of the convoy, Freyda Mormont was saddled upon her auburn mare with her two children riding at her flanks. Freyda looked over her shoulder to glimpse the convoy at her back. At first glance, the force may have seemed meagre compared to that of other houses, and in truth it was. House Mormont was not a large house and couldn't assemble a large force, even when accounting for the added boon of having female warriors. But for what they lacked in numbers, they made up for with pride and strength. The two most essential values of any Mormont. Freyda smiled at that as she looked at both her children. Breyna, her slim figure comfortable in her leather armour, with her head held high. Darrun, a towering figure - having to duck his hulking figure beneath tree branches that would comfortably breeze above everyone else - and with the strength to match ten men.
'Pride and strength.' Thought Freyda, proudly smiling to herself.

After a day's march, Deepwood Motte soon appeared above the treeline. True to its name, the castle first appeared upon a large earthern mound, which would tower above anything below, allowing for a brilliantly defensive position. Below the shadow of the castle was the bailey-village and the entrance to Deepwood Motte where the silver fist of House Glover hung proudly. A great sight, the castle and sigil together created a picture which exuded strength. However, Freyda always questioned the sigil. A silver fist, perhaps if they were south of the neck. But this was the North. She always figured an Iron Fist would've been more accurate.

The convoy came to a halt at the gates to the village. Four Glover men watched the gate from defensive positioning above. One of them made to say 'Who goes there?' but quickly cut himself short, knowing it was a dumb question as the black bear sigil was held at various points above the caravan.
"House Mormont has arrived to pay visit to Lord Glover." Announced Freyda, her voice stern and authoritative with age. But only a formality. The guards knew to expect them of course. Freyda had made sure a raven was sent to the young Lord Glover a week prior to their arrival. The gates to Deepwood Motte opened before Freyda, allowing her and her followers entrance.

Braddington

 

[Braddington]

Rickon Glover
Deepwood Motte
​

A few cavalrymen led by the Master of Horse leads the Mormont convoy through Deepwood Motte which seems to be on high alert and oddly preparing for what looks like a siege, hardly the actions of a house marching off to war. Most of the small folk seem to be clad in Glover colours manning various important points in the stronghold while the clashing of swords can be heard all around with the shouts of knights ordering men to do better than their current performance. Another thing to is striking, the Stark flag that flew next to the Glover flag at the Keep itself visible to all miles away seems to have been taken down and replaced by another silver fist.

Once at the Keep itself the Mormont contingent is let inside and in the courtyard Lord Glover with the Master-at-Arms surrounded by other various Councillors wait to receive the Lady. As soon as Lady Mormont is visible, the group surrounding Lord Glover bow their heads and Lord Glover does the same observing the courtesy the rest show.

"Welcome to Deepwood Motte, my Lady, it is an honour to meet you." Lord Glover says in as deep a tone as he can manage.

Next to Rickon the Master-at-Arms seems tense and eyes Lady Mormont with a look that signals an enemy.

ChimpMan

 

[Yarrow]

Rickard Stark
Winterfell

Rickard wandered around Winterfell. He had just returned from a ride. Alone. Something his brother probably wasn’t happy with, but Rickard wanted to see if some of the Lords were already arriving with their troops. So far no other lords had arrived. That wasn’t strange, Logan had send out the letter just few days ago, but Rickard just wanted to check. And ride. The atmosphere at Winterfell hasn’t been that good since the declaration of Independance. Everyone supported the new King Stark, but there was war coming and people were preparing for the worst.
Because everyone was busy, no one wanted to spar or talk with him, of course, they talked with the prince, but it was just short answers to his questions. Prince.. Rickard was a prince now, was he? Or would his nephews be the Princes of the North, but Rickard has no nephews, so he was the heir of Winterfell and the North, but also a prince then? And no one wanted to answer his questions.
So, after some walking, he stepped into the chamber where his brother was and bluntly asked “Logan, now you are king, am I a prince now?”




Leusis

 

[Hypnos]

Halfjon Umber
The King's Road, Wintertown, The North​

Save for the Wall and the many fortifications that adorned it, the Last Hearth was perhaps the Northernmost structure in the entirety of Westeros, its humble, yet towering walls surrounded by naught but forest and hills for hundreds of miles in each direction, far from any other form of civilisation. As such it was queer to think that the delegation of House Umber would be the first to fly their banners beneath the walls of Winterfell, trekking from afar to show their loyalty to the newly crowned boy king. There had been doubts at first at the necessity of such a trip, after all the Stark boy was young and new to his seat, still emotional from the death of his family only a few weeks prior. Many had thought that his declaration of war was merely a gut reaction that would soon be rectified over drinks of wine in the south when Lord Logan finally came to his senses and that the boy would soon lay down his arms and sue for peace. The Halfjon knew better. He had ruled as lord for the better part of a quarter-century and in that time he’d had many dealings with house Stark: good men, for the most part, and honourable too, but they were also quick to offend and proud to a fault, as wild as the Direwolves that adorned their banners. The Halfjon was more than aware of the consequences of the rash decision that had been made in declaring the North an independent kingdom, and knew all too well the punishment that would be issued by the Blackfyre king for disobeying crown law, but he was an Umber of the Last Hearth and loyalty to the North was in his blood.

Just under a week the march to Winterfell had lasted, giving The Halfjon just under a week to decide how he was going to deal with the situation that was unfolding to the south. For a time he had considered sending his son alone to deal with the Stark boy in his stead, but he was no coward. Next he had contemplated demanding tribute for the countless lives that would be lost for the young kings folly, but he was no whore who would only show his **** for a pile of gold. No, as Wintertown grew ever closer, and the Last Hearth faded further from the landscape The Halfjon grew more and more sure that there was only one course of action that could be taken. He must fight. Would he die? Almost certainly. Would this bring an end to the North as a political entity? Perhaps. But it was better to die a martyr for a good cause than to freeze his balls off in Last Hearth while better men gave their lives in his place.

Still deep in contemplation as his party drew closer to Winterfell, The Halfjon would only awaken from his thoughts when his horse (well it was more of a pony) slowed it’s pace below the shadows of the large entrance way. Riding had always been a pain for the little lord, his limbs proportioned in a way that made it impossible for him to ride with any conventional saddle, however he’d sooner be dead than be caught riding in a carriage or wagon like the pampered ladies of the south.

It did not take long for Umber to be granted entrance through the gates, Lord Logan did not hire men so blind that they could not see half a dozen cloth giants flapping in the wind, and besides that, The Halfjon’s height was more than enough to prove his identity on its own, for who would stoop so low as to intimidate a dwarf.

“I seek audience with his grace. It seems that even from such a great distance as the Last Hearth the mighty stride of a giant is enough to put us ahead of any of our peers. Perhaps some ale would be nice whilst we wait? Unless Logan has decreed that common courtesy is one of the southern customs that is to be outlawed in the North.” Perhaps his words would have held some authority if they weren’t spoken by a man who relied on two other men to pull his safely from horseback. As it was however the guards at the entrance merely stood and gawked until finally one of them had the sense to comply with his requests. “And now let us see if we made the right the decision coming here.”

Leusis Yarrow

 

[Leusis]

Logan Stark - Winterfell​

Logan paced around a large table, a map of Westeros stretching across its entire surface. "White Harbor. That should be our first concern, its an obvious target with our enemies massive naval advantage. They know as well as us that its the only city we've got and its the only place that could ever afford to make us a fleet of our own." Logan spoke with a small amount of irritation in his voice, having just received a letter from Lord Glover stating that he had proclaimed his allegiance to King Aemond. However, the boy also claimed he was only doing so to spy and that he needed Logan's permission to take a force south. Logan's maester was one of the few to see this as a possible trap, not expecting completely loyalty from the northern lords. It was due to Maester Lucan's distrust that Logan had sent a letter to Lord Glover detailing how he was only to send a small force of 100 men, men which he was not to lead himself, but send another in his stead. This would guarantee that any possible trap would do little to help their enemy and assure that Lord Glover could not escape to the south personally. As Logan recalled, his father always said treachery was strongest in bastard blood.

Having his attention pulled elsewhere he turned to his younger brother as he barged his way into the war room. He was little more than a boy to Logan's eyes, but he loved him dearly just as he did all of his family and he was the only family Logan had remaining. "You are" he spoke plainly "But I don't expect you to go flaunting that fact or dressing in fancy silk clothes now because of it" he said with a smirk before their master at arms Lawsen entered the room. "Logan, Lord Umber has just been let through the gates, surprisingly hes the first to arrive". To that Logan would nod to the man, an individual at least 30 years his senior and possibly one of the greatest warriors in the north, or at least he was in his youth. Now he was a much lesser man, Logan bet Rickard would nearly prove an even match for him, which was exactly why Logan had taken the helm on his brothers martial training over a year ago. Proceeding out of the room Logan waved for Rickard to follow as he strode towards the gates to try and meet Lord Jon Umber before he made it too deep into Winterfell, not wanting to waste a moment in greeting a welcomed guest.

 

[ChimpMan]

Freyda Mormont
__________________________________​

"Welcome to Deepwood Motte, my Lady, it is an honour to meet you." Said Lord Glover in as deep a tone as he can manage. Next to Rickon the Master-at-Arms seemed tense and eyed Lady Mormont with a look that signalled an enemy.

"Thank you for your hospitality Lord Glover. My you have grown well in such a short time." Said Freyda as she looked down at the child who seemed ill fit in his Lordling boots and then raised an eyebrow questioningly above her brief but cutting glance at the Master-at-Arms. To some the boy may have appeared comical. Though he did not carry himself with one raised in comfort. He looked as humble as the stable boy and displaced as a fish amidst the sands of Dorne. Freyda didn't quite know how that would prove for his lordship and the people under him. The boy would need to be handled with caution she knew. There had been many child Lords in her time. All of them dangerous. Their hearts swayed and minds influenced so easily.
"I'm afraid we seem to only ever meet under troubling circumstances." Continued Lady Mormont. Indeed it had not long passed since her last visit to Deepwood Motte for the former Lord Glover's funeral. But in truth Freyda's mind was more on her surroundings. Something was amiss. This was not a house preparing to march for Winterfell. Turning briefly, she glanced back at Darrun who was rooted like a tree not too far away and then indicated to the Glover guards stationed around the stronghold with a serious and alert look in her eyes. Darrun nodded his head in response. In spite of being a man of very few words he was surprisingly more perceptive than most. The unspoken message being 'Keep alert until I return.'
The action lasted a second before Freyda turned back to the young lord, expertly transitioning back into her - now - false smile of greetings and appreciation.
"I trust you have kept well since we last met?"

 

[Hypnos]

Halfjon Umber
Winterfell, The North​

Patience was not a virtue that was stressed at the Last Hearth and as such Logan’s fear that the Halfjon would delve too deep into the halls of Winterfell would soon be realised. Although he wasn’t a particularly large man, The Halfjon Umber still maintained an impressive physique, and for a man of his age he was still remarkably spry, this meant that it came as a surprise to no one that by the time Lord Stark had arrived at the entrance hall with the intention of greeting his guests, the Halfjon had already excused himself to another section of the castle. Waiting around in silence whilst he was talked down to by a man with enough arrogance to call himself a king in the wake of his family’s demise was not a prospect that appealed to the Umber, the man instead preferring to determine the circumstance of their meeting himself. Being greeted in an entrance hall surrounded by dotting toadies and lickspittles would always feel manufactured to the advantage of the host, whereas a more private and personal environment made it harder for someone to maintain a facade of respectable friendliness that they obviously had no desire to keep outside of the confines of the public gaze.

It was this line of thinking that led the Halfjon away from the entrance hall of Winterfell towards where he knew Logan’s study was located. During the journey he was stopped on several occasions, on account of walking through the castle with no supervision, or permission from its lord, but a few gruff words and halfhearted threats were enough to dissuade any guards from keeping the Lord Umber for any more than a few seconds. When he arrived at the chambers to find them empty, he merely smiled. He would not attempt to gain entrance to the rooms either by force or coercion of the guards around him, he was not that sort of man, and would instead merely move along his way. He was in no hurry, after all he was the first to arrive and if Lord Stark wished to speak with him then the man could come and find him here.

Leusis