Fandom &nbsp; The Winter&#039;s War: A Game of Thrones/ASoIaF RP

Whisker · Feb 1, 2019

Prince Elaerion Targaryen
King's Landing, Early Morn, 301 AC.

His face burned.

Worse today, it seemed, than any day since he had woken bloodied and in bandages on the maester’s table. Laying in semi-darkness beneath a coverlet of soft satin sheets, the Prince of Dragonstone ran his fingers up and down the length of his face. Though he could not see it, he could feel it. The hideous, nearly 8-inch scar that crossed from earlobe to the bridge of his nose.

The scar that had been intended to end his life.

And nearly did, Elaerion thought ruefully as his gaze turned to the window. Outside, the clouds hung low and gray. He could hear rainfall trickling onto the balcony, as his window had been left open to the elements. Louder still were the bells from Baelor’s Great Sept, tolling and tolling …

Only to be soon broken by footsteps and a crisp, stern voice.

“Prince Elaerion!”

Father? No … Too highpitched.

Before he could put a name to face, the door burst open. Two guards, each of them with three-headed dragons sown to their surcoats entered. Elaerion studied them with suspicion as they approached. They tapped their chests in salute.

I do not recognize these.

With each passing day, it seemed that he was to be surrounded with less friendly, familiar faces, and more strangers. Faces that he had never known. And yet, these were supposed to be his one day? Would that I could just return to the fields of Highgarden instead.

That seemed more home to him than the Red Keep could ever hope to be.

“What's this?” he rasped, trying to keep the thin line of annoyance out of his tone.

“Sorry to disturb you, Your Grace,” drawled the foremost guard, sounding not sorry at all. “Your Father requests you attend him immediately.”

Elaerion sat up slowly. Strands of white-blonde hair fell before his eyes. The same as his father’s. “He is up this early?” Of course he is. Elaerion could not remember the last time his father had rested peacefully, bells or no bells. Perhaps, before the war? Before his Uncle Aerys had died?

“Aye, that he is, my prince.” This time it was the second who answered, a shorter, squatter individual than his companion, with long brown hair that fell well past his mail gorget. “He was in the entry hall, last we saw.”

“And was my mother with him?”

The guards exchanged glances. “We have not seen Her Grace this morning.”

“Right, right." He released a sigh. Situation normal, then. Stretching his arms back behind his head, the prince groggily pushed the covers aside and found his feet. There was no need to dress. He had fallen asleep in his clothes again, same as he had the night before. Hastily, he ran his hands up and down the scarlet doublet in an effort to smooth the tell-tale rumples that came with sleep. His sword belt lay half slung across the back of his wardrobe, and he started to reach for it, but drew up just short as the bells started up again.

Bong … Bong … Bong

Elaerion cursed. “Seven Hells, can one of you lads shut that window? It’s four days out from the coronation, still. What are the Septons trying to do? Wake the bloody dead?”

The taller guard shrugged. “It’s for the benefits of His Grace’s guests. The Lords and Ladies wot are arriving for the coronation,” he said as he made to pull the balcony doors closed.

As if that's like to improve a damn thing. The city already smelled like something like something that crawled out of a privy without making a hideous racket, too.

When his sword was secured in place, the Prince of Dragonstone looked to his escorts. “What are your names?”

“Steffon, My Prince,” quipped the tall guard again. “And this is Garth. Garth Waters.” The shorter guard he indicated bowed low in acknowledgement.

Elaerion reached out and clapped both guardsmen on the shoulders. “Right. Garth, Steffon, escort me down to the Throne Room. Best not keep His Royal Grace waiting. Oh, and uh ... Not a word about the clothes to my father, alright?”

The words were said with an easy smile, a reflection of the boy he must have once been. Though as each day passed, that eternal summer of youth seemed to be getting further, and further away from him.

Mentions:

Lingua Frankly Not

TheFool

High Moon · Feb 3, 2019

Lord Erich Qarlon ‘Reaper of Conquest’ Harlaw of Ten Towers

Ten Towers

Lord Harlaw stood on the deck of his Longship, watching his men tie up a rather young septon onto the deck. “Spare me my Lord! I have done nothing but serv…’’

His pleas were cut short as Lord Harlaw roared with laughter. ‘’Hear the weepings of the greenlander, me lads! Begging a mere man to spare him. What happened to your Gods? The Mother, The Father? I see they blessed you with a new pair of balls!’’ Harlaw quipped, kneeing the said area of the septon.

The Septon groaned, but some fight remained in him. “The King w-will punish you for this.’’

Harlaw’s smirk quickly reformed into a snarl. “Shut yer fucking mouth ye river bastard! I have no King to bend to except for the one in Pyke. Not anymore.”

Apparently, his anger over the mention of the King had yet to subside. Not even after the hard fist that loosened some the Septon’s teeth had lessened his rage.

He turned to his gathered men. “Rid this one of his tongue. His weeping is gettin on me nerves.”

The boldest among them stepped forward, a pair of cruel iron tongs in hand. The metal glowed white-hot, as if freshly pulled from a forge.

“Ye heard Lord Harlaw, Harrion,” called one of the others in the crowd. “Do it! Don’t make the good Lord wait!’’

Harrion raised the tongs once more, as two of Harlaw’s crew forced the poor septon’s mouth open. Animal cries of fear were soon followed by cries of pain and then just unintelligible gurgles.

“’Be grateful I don’t stick that tongue right up your arse, ye bastard,” said Lord Erich Harlaw when it was over. The crew scarcely had time to get out of the way before his hand lashed out, shattering the remnants of the Septons nose. “Watch him carefully boys, I want him alive for the voyage.’’

Erich cleaned the blood off of his hand with a rag handed to him by his deckhand, one of his many grandsons. The son of Todric, perhaps? No, no, Todric’s boy was in the Keep. Harrion’s? Or was it Harren’s? He didn’t know and he did not care enough to dwell on it, throwing the rag back to the boy he made his way off the ship.

The proud lord of Harlaw didn’t pay much attention to the ongoing preparations of his men as he walked back to his Keep. Every captain was ‘decorating’ their longships just as he did. The cries and pleas of countless men and women fell to deaf ears. Erich himself had ordered that no prisoner be spared.

The greenlanders would pay for the sins of their kin and their “King”.

Hundreds, and if he were successful, thousands of souls would be reaped by the end of his reign of terror. The Treachery of the Crown would cost them dearly. When The Reaper of Conquest sailed east, no lion would roar, roses would shrivel and dry up, towers would crumble into rubble, and the Mander would run red with the blood of Gardeners. Then trouts would drown in mud, cranes with broken wings, and stallions set ablaze, along with the withered tree. And when The Scythe turned it’s sails westward once more, all the three-Headed lizards would be left with nothing but salted earth and an army of skeletons to rule over.

By the time his mind was once again clear of the rage filled thoughts, Erich Harlaw stood atop the Easternmost tower among the Ten Towers. The Widow’s Tower, men called it. He got a letter out of the pocket of sent to him by his trusted patrons Essos, yet the news from his associates in Lys were most troubling. The dreaded letter sent by them had crumpled in his hands when he first read it’s revolting contents, detailing the foul schemes and treachery of their counterparts in the mainland. Even simply fathoming the contents was revolting.

Scowling, he placed the letter back into it’s envelope and took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the distant sea, searching for the sails that were sure to arrive soon. He had ordered his own maester, Rolph, to send ravens to every remaining Lord in the Iron Islands as soon as he had read that letter, calling them to gather here at Harlaw. Fortunately, his demands had been answered, and soon Ten Towers had welcomed many ravens from all directions.

First to arrive was the reply from Dalton Goodbrother, his good-son and staunch ally in the Islands’ politics, followed by a raven from Lady Helya Codd, who had recently taken the helm of her house. The third had come from Lord Blacktyde, the man who had recently taken one of his own daughters to wife as well. It would be a lie to say that he liked the new Lord of Blacktyde much. The lad was a fool who stuck to the Old Way, yet their alliance made sure they did not outright oppose one another outright. Fourth to answer was Lord Farwynd of Sealskin Point. Erich had once been friends with the young Farwynd's father, so mayhaps that played a part in it. The last to answer had been Lord Eric Drumm, albeit reluctantly, making it clear that he’d rather sail to King’s Landing to join the Greyjoy host instead. Erich thought that perhaps Drumm would be the most affected by the news he would announce.

Some of these were unsurprising. He had always expected Dalton the be the first one to answer his call. The Goodbrother of Hammerhorn had always been a reliable ally and had supported Harlaw ever since he had given his daughter to him to wed.

Jeyne was a good-fit for Dalton, too. The girl was perhaps his only daughter to inherit the Ironborn spirit; it had been hard to make her agree to marry. The little weasel had even tried to escape Harlaw Island in a merchant ship when she had found out.

Though the eventual wedding and bedding had been a night to remember for every attendant to the marriage, he couldn’t blame Dalton for his preference of other women. His little girl was a hell of a fighter, after all. Erich, himself, would also prefer the company of more gentle women, and had prefered it once, as evidenced by his many bastards. Yet, now, was not the time to think about such petty thoughts. No… There was a matter at hand that would require his full attention.

All his vassals and their men had readied their ships and made their way to Ten Towers already, awaiting rest of the Islands to make their eventual appearance. One way or another there was going to be another conflict soon. One, that would be, perhaps, bloodier than the last for his brethren. Hundreds and maybe even thousands would lie dead in a weeks time, all because of those sly…

As Erich thought about what would happen his eyes noticed something off in the distance. Ships. On the foremost sail, he could make out the heraldry of House Goodbrother, a warhorn with a red background. So he began his long descent back into the halls of the keep. Dalton wouldn’t be long to dock. It was time to go down and welcome the first of many lords to come.

Yarrow - As Lord Goodbrother of Hammerhorn

Whisker - As Lord Blacktyde of Blacktyde (Special Thanks to him for helping with the post)

Hypnos - As Lord Farwynd of Sealskin Point

JPTheWarrior - As Lord Drumm of Old Wyk

Braddington - As Lady Codd

Elucid - As Harlaw of Harridan Hill

Akio - As the Greyjoys

ailurophile - As The Heir's Wife

Yarrow · Feb 3, 2019

Dalton ‘The Bloodbrother’ Goodbrother of Hammerhorn

The red canvas fluttered as it regained the wind in it’s back. Dalton stood firm behind the helm of the Hammer, he newest ship. Halfway during the war his ship was damaged and he ordered the making of a new one, a more bigger one. His youngest son, Tommen, was standing on the prow, checking if he could see land. This was Tommen his first journey on sea, after learning the tricks sailing near the mainland. Rickard, his eldest son was sailing The Devil Brother, a smaller version of the new Hammer. After the war he granted his eldest son his own ship and crew.

Two days before, Dalton received a message from his father-in-law and biggest ally, Erich Harlaw. He requested Dalton’s attendance at Ten Towers. Without question he wrote his reply and started to gather all his men. He had an idea what this was going to be about. It took a whole day to get his men ready, but in the morning they sailed to Harlaw.

“I see the Ten Towers, Father” Tommen shouted from the prow. Dalton smiled “Thank you Tommen”. Dalton looked to his side and shouted to his son on the other ship “Once close to the harbor, reduce the sails and take the oars to navigate into the harbor!” Rickard put his hand in the air to show he understood the message. Dalton smiled, his sons were doing good work. Urron and Donnel were the frontmen of the rowers, each on their own side. The twins were perfect to get the ship in a good rhythm. Dalton liked sailing with his sons, learning them how the sea and ships works.

Once they were close to the harbor Dalton shouted “Reduce the sails, oars to water!” all oars were raised simultaneously and his twins began shouting “1, 2, 1, 2..” after the first few sequences Dalton didn’t hear the shouting anymore, it became normal and faded to the background. In the corner of his eyes he noticed the red sail of the Devil Brother coming down while he focused on sailing the ship in the right direction. The ship fared perfectly into the harbor, the only thing to do was to dock now. He saw his father-in-law already standing, waiting on him. Dalton blew on the horn near his tiller, his crew knew exactly what to do and a few minutes later he was standing on the boardwalk. He walked firmly over to Erich and nodded on time “Erich Harlaw, what is so urgent”. Dalton was without fuss, straight to the point

Hypnos · Feb 3, 2019

Maron Farwynd

Gentle waves pressed slowly against the characterless wooden hull of the ‘Seal Stalker,’ pushing the humble vessel ever closer to the shoreline and towards its destination within the harbour of Lord Harlaw’s gargantuan keep. Ten Towers was a much larger castle than Maron was used to, though in truth that same thing could be said about almost all castles within Westeros, for Maron’s home of Sealskin Point was a squat little holdfast that couldn’t even boast a single tower, let alone ten. Whilst Harlaw’s colossal walls were manned by tough warriors in full armour, numbering higher than Maron could even count, the strongest defences that The Point could boast was a half a dozen fat guardsmen in various stages of being either drunk, or hungover, and a legion of crabs and seals. Compared to Ten Towers, everything Maron knew felt a little bit smaller.

House Farwynd had always been a little bit detached from the other houses of the Iron Islands, queer folk, with queer traditions, and whilst Sealskin Point was not home to the same type of lunatics that inhabited the far off isle of Lonely Light, it was not far off. They mostly kept to themselves. Away from problems and away from trouble. Maron knew more seals than he knew people, and whilst that might not sound like an appealing prospect to many, he was more than content to keep it that way. Maron didn’t like new people. Maron didn’t like leaving The Point. Maron didn’t like change. Apparently change did not share that same sentiment. Apparently change loved Maron.

It had been begrudgingly that Maron Farwynd had answered the calls of House Greyjoy and sailed off to war. His mother, Lady Alannys Farwynd, a senile old woman who ruled Sealskin Point only in name, had ordered him to follow his liege wherever the wind would take them, for she would not have House Farwynd declared treacherous or lazy. That was exactly what Maron had done. Followed. He had followed Greyjoy into Seagard where their armies had been pushed back. He had followed Greyjoy into the Riverlands where they had burnt entire villages and put all their inhabitants to the sword. Then he had followed Greyjoy back home again. That was the end of that. He had done his duty. He had served his time. He had fought his war and won his glory. He had hoped to return back to The Point in time for whaling season, so that he might enjoy a well earned rest upon the high seas.

Once again, change had conspired against him.

Maron did not know the contents of the letter that Erich Harlaw had sent him. The heir to Sealskin Point had never had any need to read, and had therefore never learnt to. The last Maester that Sealskin Point had housed had died almost a decade prior, and there had been no one learned enough to write to the citadel to ask for a new one. The Point did not receive letters, and The Point did not send letters. It was only natural. Why would anyone need to contact House Farwynd? Correspondence with House Greyjoy was always accomplished through messengers, and even that was infrequent. House Farwynd had not so much as paid, or even collected tax, for the better part of half a decade, and their previous revenues had been so minute that no one seemed to notice.

That was what made this letter special. It was unknown. Normally Maron would have thrown a letter such as this in the fire. The parchment would make good kindling, and The Point was already low on timber reserves. But Maron had paused. He many not have known the words contained within, but he recognised the seal. A scythe. House Harlaw.

Erich Harlaw had been a friend of Maron’s grandfather, Lord Godwyn Farwynd, and whilst he had never met the man in person, he knew him by reputation. A good man, his grandfather had called him, an honest man. In Maron’s experience, honest men were much rarer than honest seals.

It was under these circumstances that Maron found himself sailing to the Island of Harlaw, Captaining an old whaling vessel that had been misappropriately named the ‘Seal Stalker.’ He would find out what Harlaw had wanted. He would do whatever he could to help. He would return home for whaling season. A plan so solid that ever ‘change’ couldn’t get in the way.

Salted air filled Maron’s nostrils as he stepped off his boat and onto the dock below, He eyed suspiciously the men who had gathered around to greet the new arrivals, only murmuring in dissension as one such man offered to take his sailing gloves.

‘Harlaw’ he grunted, holding up the letter he had been sent as if that answered all subsequent questions. ‘Where’s Harlaw?’

‘Me Lord, I…’

Immediately, Maron embraced the man. The person before him was tall and imposing, wearing leather armour with the Harlaw scythe imposed onto the chest. It must have been Lord Erich. No other man would be so grand in attire. No other man would hold themself in such a way. ‘Harlaw, you look well, I would...’

‘Get off me ya fuckin’ idiot. I ain’t Lord Harlaw.’ Maron’s face went red as the man pushed him away.

‘Then why the fuck you wearing Lord Harlaw’s clothes.’ Maron asked accusingly, drawing closer the other man and gesturing to the sigil upon his chest.

‘I’m a Harlaw. Doesn’t make me the Harlaw. Lord Erich is over there, talking to his goodson, Goodbrother.’

'Fuck you.' Maron spat, as he pushed past the man and moved towards his real destination, a scowl upon his lips, partially from anger, and partially from embarrassment.

‘Harlaw. Goodbrother. I am present, and ready to make your acquaintance.' This time he would not be so forward, lest he risk a similar form of embarrassment.

Yarrow · Feb 4, 2019

Arryk Rosby

Arryk was riding alone. Well actually not alone, he was surrounded by a few guards and servants but it felt like he was alone. It was the last day of riding to the Capital. Everyone always said that Rosby Castle was so close King’s Landing, but it was still a ride of three days. He inspected the lands and the farms on it. He took note of some farms that were behind on their payment or needed repairs. Arryk owned most of the farms on the lands and he was determined to become a big supplier of food to the Capital again. He also took a note that he needed to speak to the castellon or someone else who bought all the food for the Castle and the City.

Once in the city it was hard to find an Inn that was still free. Rosby wasn’t invited to stay at the Castle, so he had to find a room to stay. He was done with trying to find an Inn and said to one of his servants that he was going to the Red Keep. Once it was time for dinner they should get him at the Red Keep. His councillor protested first, because he didn’t wanted Arryk to wander alone in the Capital. Arryk assured him he would be fine.

Alone Arryk didn’t really draw the attention to himself. His black and white boiled leather tunic didn’t stand out. Arryk wondered if Daenaera would be in the city already. As cousin to the family that were the cause of the war she had a hard time. Arryk and Daenaera had met during one of the feasts of Aerys. The little Arryk wasn’t afraid of the nine year older girl. The became friends over time, but for some time Daenaera had a crush on his eldest brother, who died during the war.

The road to the gate was blocked somehow. A big line had formed. Arryk steered his horse to the front. There she was, Daenaera. Arryk smiled and moved his horse next to her carriage. "Lady Velaryon! A pleasure to see you again, what is the hold up?" Arryk asked.

deer

TheAncientCelt · Feb 4, 2019

Gyles Hightower

King’s Landing - The Red Keep

Rapid footsteps.

Metal scraping on metal.

And an irritable lord’s scowl was what the servants of the Red Keep and its newest guests were greeted to, should they come across Hightower and his retinue of four. His grey cloak billowed behind him, the burning sigil of his house all but obscured to eyes, left for the bats above to stare down at. His own house colors were not reflected in the guards who accompanied him now, these were men sworn to House Tyrell, their roses adorning their breast plates kept little secrets. It was only fortunate that Lord Gyles was who he was, otherwise the many guards of the Red Keep may find it odd, a man with such a swift gait tearing through the bloodstone halls of Aegon’s lasting legacy. Fortunate indeed, that not many others had a hook where their right hand should be. A single hard glance at intrepid maids or the brazen guard who sought to keep the peace of the Red Keep rendered them impotent, Hightower had no time for the expendable.

Many would no doubt wonder why the Hangman had such urgency.

Was he summoned personally by his grace, Maegor Targaryen?

Gyles would only so embrace such a summons. It would be a leisurely stroll to meet with his friend, take both their minds off the war and slip into happier times. The years spent at Oldtown and the countless feasts had, or perhaps the solace they spent in the quieter time. Hightower and Targaryen may not be able to call one another great friends, perhaps not exactly the truest, as were Arryn and Maegor, of which the greatest price was reaped. But Gyles thought fondly enough of his new king and had no envy for the burden now placed upon his shoulders.

Then, if not the king, who could it be? The Crone? The Septons working on behalf of the helpless High Septon, now prisoner many miles South?

If only. Gyles would not rush into the arms of either party either, Hightower would see to it that he collect both parties whenever he so wished. The Crone could wait and the Septons would pray in the meantime, as Hightower was busy else where, keeping the cities peace and settling some grudges underneath that mask of duty.

Of all conceivable entities that Gyles could be summoned by and demanded haste, few would immediately think of Argrave Tyrell. A kindly man by appearance, a mix between an ancient maester and the grandfather most children dreampt of when the word reached their ears. He was often friendly, generous and full of smiles or laughter. No doubt, Argrave Tyrell would forgive tardiness in the case of duty?

‘And mayhaps lecture me for this failure.’ To Argrave, there was no duty or loyalty owed higher than the Rose of Highgarden. The visage of that gentle man entering the last stages of his life were not but a mummers lie, Gyles had known for over half his life, the remainder of the realm were not yet woken to the fact. Punishment may not be physical, nor could direct harm come to his family. But Argrave Tyrell was a ruthless weed who knew precisely how to cause misery and leave no traces of damage, should the patriarch of the Tyrell family have any cause to.

‘And mayhaps I gave him cause.’ Hightower’s gloomy look deepened as he turned a corner. They weren’t far now, another few staircases and he’d be face to face with the man.. This private audience would either be admonishing Hightower or giving him new directives. ‘Likely for the Reach, when I am to return.’ It would be soon now, Gyles suspected. The war was finished, sans the Stormlords persistent refusal to bend their knees. But it would not take an army to crush them, just shrewd diplomacy. There wouldn’t be much need for Hightower in the capital. ‘Perhaps,’ He began to wander, ‘I will be called back to Sunspear. Finish the destruction of their forces.’ Gyles had heard rumors of soldiers running off into the deserts when he was occupying their capital. It wasn’t any worry at the time, even less now, but Hightower’s role in the invasion was paramount. Sending him to finish it wouldn’t be the oddest thing.

‘Then I’ll be home.’ It had been nine months since he had seen his city, kissed Talena Redwyne goodbye and promised to bring stories and souvenirs to his daughters. He made no such pledge to his mother, whom he regarded with little as a nod before riding off to Highgarden. ‘I’ll be in Oldtown. The Reach. And Argrave Tyrell will be here.’ It was an intoxicating thought. That man would never leave the side of his shrew of a daughter or his grandson, the opportunities at court would demand his attention. Hightower would slip under his notice. ‘Maybe he’ll even have me take care of the Reach in his absence.’ With the tragedy of Mern’s passing, it wasn’t inconceivable that Gyles would burden that responsibility. ‘And the most I’ll have to do is report to Lord Tyrell. May he die in this city, with rats eating his festering corpse.’

The thought brought a grim smile to his lips just as another man in armor paced down the steps to Gyles’ front. A ginger man with expensive plate and bells on his tunic regarded Gyles with passing interest, an equal grin on this strangers face. Gyles nodded to him - the Valeman he recognized moments later - and continued onwards. His mind continued to wander, both the best cases and worst dancing in his mind. Were he a stranger to such tense meetings, anxiety would overtake him and force Hightower’s body to betray his senses. Luckily, he wasn’t, and his feet continued to pound forward as another staircase was covered. His entourage of four suddenly paused at the appearance of similarly dressed guards.

“We’re here, Lord Hightower.” One spoke.

Gyles nodded. “Sers, you have my appreciation.” The Hangman’s voice struggled to retain its usual vigor. Seconds passed before he pressed onwards, slipping past Argrave’s house guards and halting at the wooden door, the last barrier between Tyrell and his minion. Forcing his worries away, or at the very least, behind his mask of comfort, Gyles shoved the door open.

He was nothing if not a talented mummer.

“My Lord,” Gyles bowed at his waist, seeing the room devoid of company, only the white rose of the garden awaiting him. As Gyles suspected. “Apologies for my absence before now. My duties in regards to ridding the city of our enemies is no small task.” Hightower managed a half smile as he entered further into the space, refusing to take any seat until it was offered to him. His body was still, though his smile beamed of comfort, he could not fully hide his uneasiness.

Braddington

TheFool

Lingua Frankly Not · Feb 4, 2019

The Red Keep,
King’s Landing
The Front Gate

Decked in the red and black of House Targaryen, the foremost guards at the Red Keep’s gates shifted following the ironborn’s heralding of himself. The flap of damp banners against the red stone of the keep, caused by the wind atop Aegon’s High Hill, served as auditory backdrop to the arrivals and their subsequent receival at the gate. T’was not, however, the men-at-arms who raised their voice in response.

“The Lord Hrothgar Greyjoy is expected, my Lady,” said a knight who looked to captain the gate, “ruckus or not.” The man’s armor differentiated him, and he moved forward with a sense of authority, looking over the ironborn accompaniment to the Greyjoy. “And yourself as well, my Lady of Driftmark.”

Past open gate, in the courtyard beyond, the movement of court life continued on in spite of the midday drizzle. A carriage that looked to be Lannister in coloration was being held at stables and unloaded by servants, its previous occupants long having departed to the interior of the keep. A messenger carrying a sack took to a saddle, exiting through the gate and past the gathering outside with some haste, and the splatter of hooves on wet stone. A noble lady darted into open doorways of the keep itself, flanked by her own men-at-arms, and drenched. It seemed the impending coronation of the new king had brought a liveliness upon the interior of the Red Keep’s walls the light rain could not dampen.

Hrothgar didn’t initially answer either of their words, instead preferring to half-turn and glance at the woman who spoke first, slightly taken aback. She was quite a beautiful woman, a sight even the famous pleasure gardens of Lys would have struggled to produce, blessed as she was with such pure Valyrian features. Long silver hair and stunning lilac eyes, seemingly emotionless, briefly struck him speechless. Almost unintentionally, he found his eyes run across the rest of her turquoise-covered form before flickering to her guard. Even if the man at the gate hadn’t announced who she was, from descriptions he heard, and the symbols on the caravan behind her, and her guardsmen as well, he would have surmised her identity. He felt himself straightening as he fully turned towards her.

“To be fair, if I was a gate guard and saw a dozen heavily armed Ironborn walking towards me, I’d want them to state their intentions fairly quickly.” He said as he felt his face split into a grin as he got over his speechlessness and fell back into normal patterns as he spoke to her. “Nevertheless, I find it is those who speak confidently and loudly who end being listened to, over others.” He remarked as he stepped towards her, coming to tower over the young woman as he continued to speak. “Nevertheless my ‘ruckus.’ ” He said amused with her choice of words, as if he had been a petulant child throwing a fit at the front of the gate. “Seems to have lead to something interesting either way if I got to meet you, Daenaera of House Velaryon. I’ve heard much about you.” He said mimicking her form of address as he inclined his head to her in a small nod of respect which caused several of his men to look at him in surprise. Hrothgar was not one to show respect on name alone and while some of them might have heard of his interest in her and her feats, they did not realize it went to this extent.

Lady Velaryon raised a brow at the audacity of the man before her. Her stomach nearly recoiled at the aura of this Ironborn being so close to her frame, practically hovering over her. Regardless, Daenaera kept her wits about her, not giving in to whatever it was this Hrothgar had wanted. Unpredictability was her strong suit, after all.

Ignoring the Ironborn for a moment, making him wait his turn for her attention while Ser Endrew kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, Daenaera faced away from the foreign stranger, turning her head towards the knight to acknowledge his words with a small nod.

"Is that the case, Ser?" She inquired. "We mustn't keep His Grace waiting then. I'm sure," Lady Velaryon paused for a moment, her eyes glancing towards Hrothgar, "there's plenty to discuss."

Once she finished speaking to the knight, Daenaera faced Hrothgar for a moment, keeping at eye-level with him - her chin up, proud and posture poised. "Well, it seems you are just one of many who's heard of me. Should I expect such rumors to be different than the rest?" Daenaera questioned before finishing her thought.

"It is bold of you to assume. I hope, in the future, you do not end up biting your own tongue for those notions."

The Captain of the Gate adjusted, looking between the pair with a hawkish gaze, and seemingly - for good reason - significantly more concerned regarding the actions of Hrothgar Greyjoy and his men than Lady Velaryon and hers.

Still, the knight, and the surrounding gold cloaks, and guards in Targaryen armor tended toward silence.

Hrothgar didn’t seem to be surprised or displeased as she initially ignored him to address the knight behind him, insulting as it could have been taken. Rather he seemed pleased, the grin on his face twitching an iota further wide as regarded her, giving her knight only a moments glance but despite his hand on his sword didn’t bother reacting. Even his guards only seemed to glance at the knight, their postures more curious on the interaction between the two nobles rather than anything he was doing.

“One shouldn’t regret what they say so there is little worry for that Lady Velaryon,” he said, taking a step back without turning away, allowing her a bit more space. “As far as the rumors go, can’t say what else you’ve heard but I heard of a woman who with her husband sailed into Blackwater Bay to hold off Aemons own fleet. Of many battles in the bay, an early one taking your husband's life leaving the lady of the Tides alone. But you did not despair and held the bay for the rest of the war, keeping the proud fleet rallied around yourself. An impressive accomplishment rivaling any of the great heros during the war. I was looking forward to meet someone who had such an impressive record.” He broke their eye contact and stood to the side, leaving the way forward open. “And it's always interesting to see a woman who can sail almost as well as myself.”

With that last confident, almost prodding comment he looked towards the Red Keep and made a light gesture towards it before turning his gaze back towards her. “Nevertheless as the captain said we are expected, and as you said we should not keep His Grace waiting. Shall we head on our way. I do not know the layout of the palace so I will have to follow you through.” He said his casual tone unwavering as he stood near her side, seeming content to wait for what she did next.

“An appropriate escort can be provided,” said the Captain, more to the noblewoman than the ironborn. His meaning, by both stance and tone was clear: she need not travel with Greyjoy and his men if she did not wish to, and certainly not outnumbered. Now, he turned to look upon Greyjoy. “And neither you, nor your men will be entering the Red Keep armed. You arrive accused to stand trial, my Lord. My orders are quite clear.”

Hrothgar turned his gaze to the guard captain seeming somewhat alert. “Ah right, Moreo told me about that.” Turning to his scattered men he spoke once more. “All you guys can hang out here or go find where were supposed to stay while im meeting the king. Seems like no one is gonna relax as long as we all move together.” He said taking his ax from his hip and tossed it to the nearest sailor who caught it deftly.

Hagen shifted before responding, seeming somewhat unsure. “Your father's orders still stand, not sure we should be leaving you even in the Red Keep.”

Hrothgar snorted in annoyance before replying sternly. “If anyone means to kill me through whatever escort is provided then their is little you all can do about it without your weapons. I’m going to meet the King. On paper there should be no where safer in the capital. I shouldn’t be long.”

Hagen seemed to think on that for a moment before sighing and nodding his asset. “Then watch yourself Hrothgar, I'll be securing our rooms. So try to keep from pissing off people who can probably order your execution.” He said near accusingly as he looked at the young Velaryon, which only made Hrothgar roll his eyes and wave him off before turning his focus back onto Velaryon.

A voice came from behind the group.

"Lady Velaryon! A pleasure to see you again, what is the hold up?"

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High Moon · Feb 4, 2019

Lord Alyn 'Blondraven' Blackwood
Stark Camp

The camp was, for one, much more organized any of the Camps he’d seen the Riverlords build, everything had a place to be, the Lord’s tents were properly organized with boundaries between them giving each Lord a considerable amount of space.

To say Stark’s nephew was annoying would be an understatement but Blackwood didn’t pay much atention to his monologues. It was unimportant.

When he saw Lord Stark, he was intidimated, perhaps even a bit scared about what he would do to him, his deep voice that would shame the real dire wolves didn't help either. While Alyn himself was, or rather used to be a man of intidimating size and stature he had became an husk of himself in the passing year, he was no different from a corpse, his once commanding voice had wittled out, all he could manage was tired whispers at best, even when he laughed, his chest felt hollow and tired.

“Indeed my Lord, when we last saw eachother I was merely the heir to Raventree Hall, a boy of ten and nine.” “I remember the time fondly though. Your lad, Alaric if I remember correct, had shown quite a bit of interest in my old friend Justman here.” He smirked while gently petting the said raven, his yellowing teeth and gaunt face giving a macabre image of happiness. “And Asher, we fooled him good with Lyonel, never got the names right.”

He took some bread off the table as he sat down. chewing it down with a bit of the hog’s meat “Thank you for the offer my Lord.” As he ate he continued. “Unfortunately not Lord Stark, our fair Lady isn’t aware of my presence here, nor does she even know I’m in King’s Landing, my twinbrother is acting as the Lord of Raventree Hall in my absence. None is the wiser my Lord, I bet we could even fool the kids if we tried hard enough. Especially now that he looks more like myself then I do” he noticed that he was going off topic. “Ah sorry I’m rabling aren’t I?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard of the masscare at Stone Hedge.” He took a bite off the piece of bread. “You see, I’ve been accused with being involved in it.” “I’d like to say these accusations were false, alas there is some truth to the story. I am the one who allowed Greyjoy into the Bracken lands, I to do it. They showed me omens of their treachery! Alas I couldn’t bring myself to do it, that’s when Greyjoy became involved. That monster was already raiding our lands, thought he’d do it for a price and I wasn’t mistaken.” He lowered his head, looking down at his boots, almost entirely covered in mud and grime. ‘If only I had known.’ ‘Poor girl’ he mumbled to himself.

When he noticed that Stark was uneasy he quickly started talking omce more. “I know my head belongs to a chopping block with Ice hoovering above my neck, before you judge me for my crimes listen will you?”his head stayed low, too ashamed to face the man. “You see my Lord. I awaited your arrival to the Riverlands for weeks yet you nor any of your vassals ever made it to the Blackwood vale, the word of Karstark’s host’s capture arrived weeks later and by then I had already sworn fealty to the usurper. Not because I like the man, far from it but resistance was futile…” and then he couldn’t find any words to speak. To explain his misdeeds.

After letting the silence draf gor a while Blackwood raised his head once more, facing Stark, his dark green eyes locking their gaze with the grey of the Lord before him. Words had failed him but maybe telling the one truth he knew would be his salvation. “Lord Stark. The Gods of the Forrest have spoken….”

deer · Feb 4, 2019

Lady Ayleen Frey
King's Landing - Red Keep

The voyage from Casterly Rock to King's Landing made Lady Ayleen Frey's heart race as she was both anxious and nervous to face her family. She yearned to see her brothers and sisters after being stuck at Casterly Rock for a year during the war. The chaos of her homeland proved to be heartbreaking and horrifying, especially, when she couldn't find comfort in those she loved and cared about. Ayleen heard whispers of the "Red Herring" and the men who chaotically destroyed her home. The young lady couldn't fathom the terror at Riverrun while she sat comfortably in another Lord's house. Was it wrong for her family to have gone through such hardships while she had not? Although the Lannisters didn't treat her badly, she was still a stranger to them.

At one point, Ayleen wondered if her Father could see the error of his ways - forcing her hand to attempt to court Lord Joffrey Lannister and much more. But, nothing would get through to the old crone unless it was topics about power and wealth. Nevertheless, when letters arrived for her during her stay, Ayleen greedily tore her letters out of Ser Jeor's hand, quickly wanting to read the words written on the paper. However, it was never enough. She longed to leave. Her feelings were chaotic as if someone was pulling her one way and then the other way. The few people who managed to not make her homesick were the friends she made during her stay and Ser Jeor. Ayleen didn't care if she mingled with servants or nobles alike, at the time. She wanted company and thrived in social settings than being by herself.

As time passed during the journey, Ayleen found herself becoming restless with each passing second. There was only so much wonder and excitement before all the trees blended in together. Unfortunately, it didn't help that Olira and Crann, the two people she befriended at Casterly Rock, were busy with their duties: serving the Queen Dowager.

A soft sigh escaped Ayleen's lips as she looked out the window of the carriage. Is the Dowager Queen happy? Ayleen can't fathom the pressure of wielding such magnanimous power and responsibility. Her half-brother Rowan always told her that their House was considered a formidable force. But, as much as Alyeen tried to understand politics and war, she couldn't. Although Ayleen wanted to learn and educate herself, she could only watch on the sidelines as Rowan filled in their father's vacant seat. Ayleen was just grateful to have been born into nobility and that her family were safe and alive. But, to her credit, she always wondered what was the point of having power if it didn't help others learn to love each other, or better yet, aid her House to be more familiar than just strangers sharing the same roof.

Most would call Ayleen a dreamer, an idealist, following her whims than logical sense. Although she's neither dumb nor deaf to those who look down upon her and her family, she is smart enough to know when to speak out and when to close her mouth. If Ayleen had her way, she would be quick to defend her brothers and sisters, despite knowing a slap would greet her. Instead, she would opt to wait until she couldn't handle someone's quip before giving them a piece of her mind.

“Ser Jeor?” She called out, almost an afterthought. “Do you remember when you first came to The Twins?” Ayleen asked softly, her mind wandering to the first time she met him.

Jeor smiled at her as she saw the trees slowly go by over time. The carriage was not quite exactly the most comfortable to ride in - while it was most certainly better than walking, Jeor much preferred to ride his own horse - perhaps because he had more control over the beast.

“I was unconscious when I first arrived, so no, I don’t. I just remember…”

He sighed.

“Being told I had nothing left.”

“Had it been that long?” She rhetorically questioned.

But, regardless, Ayleen smiled sadly, wanting to reach out to give Jeor a small pat to let him know he wasn’t alone. With Jeor by her side, Ayleen was grateful, but if Father saw her in her current state, he definitely would have scolded her for talking to herself and to have openly wanted to give “affections” to a man that wasn’t her betrothed. It was considered rude and scandalous, apparently, but, it was a habit she couldn’t contain. After yearning for her father’s love or even one of her siblings' attention for so long, she got used to the notion of doing whatever she wanted. Ayleen believed she was an independent woman but her actions said otherwise, especially when she felt lonely. Nevertheless, she was thankful for Ser Jeor and Elmo’s company most of the time. Her twin sister Cercillia and her would argue constantly about absolutely anything and everything, but, Ayleen felt as if it made the House feel more alive than deserted.

"Are we there yet?" Ayleen continued, another exasperated sigh escaped her lips. "I'm quite bored and I'd love the time to actually stretch my feet. Can you imagine? I could honestly die as some old maid in this carriage by the time we arrive!" Ayleen harshly whispered towards Ser Jeor, dramatically placing a hand on her heart as she gasped.

“Unfortunately, we aren’t,” he chuckled, squeezing her hand. “I certainly hope we are there soon. I had received a letter from Eddard several weeks ago to meet him there.”

"Did you two? That's great! Don't forget! You still have to teach me how to dance!" Ayleen pointedly reminded him.

“I certainly will - maybe Eddard too,” He chuckled.

Finally, their caravan was put to a stop for a moment and Ayleen couldn't wait to get out. However, as she was preparing to step out for a stretch, Ayleen's eyes wandered towards the front where they were greeted by none other than Lord Joffrey Lannister and Ser Vylarr Hill. Blonde locks and unreadable eyes drew her in but Ayleen couldn't help but feel a lump in her throat. She never got the chance to know Lord Joffrey yet she felt embarrassed to even think she could win his heart. Regardless, Ayleen shook her head of such thought as a a wide smile made way toward her lips when she heard the children's voices in the front, Lady Alysanne Baratheon, and of course, Dowager Queen Lynora Lannister. Ayleen took in the family gathering for a moment, her heart warmed by the picture perfect reunion. But, as quick as her feeling came, as quick as it left. Ayleen turned away from the happy moment, not wanting to intrude further in a moment she was not a part of.

Sitting back inside her carriage, Lady Ayleen Frey sat up straight, fixing her posture as she fidgeted with the hems of her dress for a moment. Taking a deep breath, Ayleen knew it could just be mere moments before she was reunited with her own family. She just had to be patient, but, patience is a virtue that Ayleen definitely does not encompass.

As trying as it was, Ayleen tried to not gape at the scene that greeted her. Scrunching up her nose as she placed a fan in front of her face, feigning innocence that no one should look upon her beautiful face without permission, Ayleen tried to not ingest in the disgusting smell of blood and iron as the carriage managed to trek though the area. Although the Lannisters' red and gold emblem coloured the landmarks, Ayleen found herself unconsciously looking for her own familiar colours and silhouettes. Finally, when it was time to remove herself from the carriage and step on the land, Ayleen could feel her legs give way for a bit as she held onto Ser Jeor's hand for support. Her eyes wandered around the Red Keep as her lips formed a small pout.

Turning to her trusted knight, Ayleen sighed, her brows furrowed.

"Jeor." She started, getting rid of any formalities, only to pause for a moment. At the corner of her eyes, Ayleen felt someone's stare. Looking behind her, Ayleen took in the all-too familiar silhouette. Crann. It had been at least forever - only few days - since she last spoke to him. Had he been eating? Was he doing well? Cocking her head to the side, seeing Crann’s signal for a split second, Ayleen shook her head. Was she seeing things or? Regardless, Ayleen decided not to overthink about what she saw and waved Jeor over.

Although she should greet the Lannisters and thank them for their hospitality, Ayleen decided to follow Crann first, feeling slightly fearful and she wasn't sure why. Once Ayleen found her way towards the stable, seeing Crann prepare to change his attire, Ayleen yelped, “Crann!” She squealed, believing he was beginning to change in front of her, a lady, no less!

Blushing madly, Ayleen quickly turned around, staring at Ser Jeor as she felt embarrassed. Clearing her throat, Ayleen decided to wait for Crann to finish as she spoke to one of her most trusted confidante. "I . . , “She started, taking a deep breath, “Jeor, can you find news of my family and see if they are here at King's Landing? I really want to see them soon."

Ayleen paused before finishing, "Oh, and of course, you are dismissed and are free to do as you need."

She grinned, knowingly.

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Braddington · Feb 4, 2019

Lord Asher Stark
Heir to Argilac Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North

As his sister squirmed through the ruffles and dropped her sword, he gave another quick and hearty laugh. If there was one thing he loved above all else about his sister it was her determination. She knew what she wanted and she wouldn’t stop until she had it. A quality every Stark should possess in his mind. Without it, how else would they keep half the continent peaceful and secure under their rule even after defeat? Regardless, he knew her answer even as she continued, playing coy as if he really had lost her, he would play the part nonetheless.

“Well, I say a whorehouse, its more a “bath house” apparently. I don’t have the slightest clue what that fucking means, but knowing the tastes of most of these southerners, it’s no doubt something unpleasant. But it would be oh so fun if you could lend a hand, after all, we get to see this reputed shithole first hand and best of all, flaunt our position about a bit. We’re Starks, why not mess with the so called victors for a change? Make a better time than the depression festering around this camp.”

He took a step back, folding his arms and listening as her interest piqued further. He had her. That was step one complete. All he had to do now was mention the one thing that would easily seal the deal. “Yes, uncles. And, dear sister, brothers. I will tell you more as we walk. Remember, stick close, no wandering off, no risks. Stay by my side, please.” His tone turned serious as he said it. The city was not just for fun, it was a place packed full of victorious soldiers with shit eating grins and defeated men with a bitter quality to them. It was no paradise.

Asher began the walk, making sure Rob was at his side. The soldiers and men of import continued to bow to them, make their respects known and generally put on the face one does for a Lord. “Now, to explain. I got a letter from Uncle Al’s Castellan, something to be given to me if he was captured. We have to go see this lass at a place called the “Smilin Sun” or something like that. We will know more there, but, it probably has something to do with getting Uncle Al and Alaric out. Something I am rather keen on doing, but not starting a war in the process.”

They approached a particularly grand tent, adorned in a grey and white pattern with a pointed top, upon which sat a metal direwolf. It’s entrance was flanked by two guards, gruff enough to be veterans as opposed to random farmers who had never held a sword in their lives. On the right, a one eyed man hailed the approaching pair, “This is the armory, my Lord. Perhaps you have the wrong place?” Asher waved his hand, dismissing his suggestion. “On the contrary, I want you to go in there and get me the biggest greatsword you can find. Need some protection for this little slice of evil.” He then leaned in, whispering in his ear, “Oh, and a short sword for my sister.” The guard hesitated, but with a bow retreated into the tent. He came again shortly after with a behemoth of a sword, a beast most men could not dream of welding but the type of weapon he was most used to. He thanked the man, before placing it on his back, making sure it was fully secured. Then he produced the smaller sword, which he took and handed to Rob.

“Now, listen. This is not a wooden toy, this is a real sword. I trust you to be safe with it, you hear? Only draw it as a last resort. No swinging it about, no practising in the streets.” He said this with a smile, a brotherly tone as opposed to a demanding one coming from his mouth. “I am trusting you with it, since you have been improving. Your form is getting good. Don’t tell father or mother though, don’t want that argument...again.” Another ruffle, something he was good at.

They continued for but a bit further, to the camp entrance. Yet more guards were in their path, but these ones didn’t bother stopping him. Enough Stark men had learnt to stop trying long ago to contain the wolf. He looked once more into the eyes of his sister and out of the camp. “Right, you ready? Ready to head into the largest city on the continent? Oh, and go on a little adventure to rescue family that might be treasonous? It’s a loaded question, I know.” His laugh was much more mischievous this time. The answer was obvious, but he wanted to be sure she wanted to go into the snakes lair that was the capital.

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TheFool · Feb 4, 2019

♚ King’s Landing ♚
The Crownlands

Leyla Tyrell
Queen

Her bath was hot. Like dragonfire. Her skin sweltered. The water kissing her bruises. The handmaidens poured buckets of cooler water on to her. As so it’d balance out. The girls did it in silence. Though Leyla would hear them when they were out of the room -
Whispering about her wounds.
“They’re getting worse and worse.”
“Is it still ‘im?”
“Who?”
“His grace.”
“How should I know?”
“I don’t know. You’re with ‘er the most.”
She smiled as she scraped the soap against herself. Digging into each crevice, each pore. Scrubbing. Scrubbing. The child kicked. She stopped. “Girls,”
The three rushed in, like ravenous hens. Clucking whilst awaiting an order. Leyla did not issue them one through use of word. She just simply laid out her hands so that they were hanging out of the wooden bath. It took a moment, but the girls figured it out. The two eldest took a hand each and helped Leyla Tyrell up.
The youngest briefly disappeared before reappearing with a black and red towel. She then wrapped The Queen in it.
“Did ya’ hear, your grace?” The tall one said. Her hair high in a bun. Her cheeks covered in pockmarks. Lord Caswell’s daughter, isn’t it?
“What is it?” Leyla spoke in return.
“Cerelle’s father is hangi-”
“Shut it.” The other one said. A girl with a round face and rounder eyes. Her lips were in a constant pucker. Jeyne Meadows.
“I will not.”
“You will too.”
“My father is what?” The young Cerelle Hightower said. A girl roughly the age of ten or so. Her hair was fair and her eyes a startling blue. Leyla observed the birds bicker. Silent.
“He’s hangin’ people. Lots an’ lots of people.” Lord Caswell’s daughter spat.
“W-What?” Cerelle looked a fright.
“You stupid girl.” Jeyne shook her head, “Why would you tell her that? She’s only a child.”
“She deserves t’ know the truth, I say.”
“She deserves some peace and quiet. Now shut it.”
“No, you shut it ya’ b-”
“Silence!” Leyla shouted. The three girls shook with surprise. She pointed at Jeyne Meadows and the monstrosity Caswell pushed out of his cock. She then moved her finger towards the door. They left. Leaving The Queen alone with the young girl.

“Do not pay them mind, little bird.” Leyla said. “Whatever it is your father’s doing in the city is… for good cause. And even still, it’s likely just rumour. I am the Queen and I’ve heard of no such hangings.” She smiled at the girl.
The girl smiled at her. A sweet one. Innocent.
Cerelle’s features were sharp.
Her hair so pale.
She reminded Leyla of -
Of no one.

The Queen Of The Seven Kingdoms walked down the hall. Her dress an expensive fabric that resembled the waters of The Jade Sea in colour. Though she had not seen the sea, so she could only go off on what her father had told her when he gifted her the garment. Entwined with the green were lines of golden silk. Her stomach stuck out, as did her bosom.
In honesty,
She hated the dress. Scare it was worn. She had to today though. She wanted to make her daddy happy. And for him to see her in the dress he had made for her…
What more could a father ask for?
At her side was Cerelle. The girl walked with her, head down. Leyla thought it was best for the girl to not be alone with Caswell. So when she needed someone to come with her to see her father -
The choice was clear.

She greeted the two guards at the entrance to her father’s quarters.
One smiled back in return.
Did I fuck him?
So hard to tell these days with everyone together in the one place.
They escorted her a little further and then opened the door for her. She thanked them and strut in. Her hips swaying softly. Cerelle at her back.
The room was bright and smelled of fresh roses. A scent that seemed to follow her father wherever he went. One her nostrils never tired of.
She saw him, standing there. He was a man. A true man. He was a kind hearted gentleman who protected his people, his country, and most importantly his family.
Her.
Another man stood to her left. Though this one was but a fraction of her father. Gyles Hightower. She knew he’d be here. Another reason why she didn’t leave his daughter alone with her other handmaidens. Leyla stopped.
She looked behind her at Cerelle and before the girl could greet her kin, Leyla dismissed her. “Wait outside, little bird.”
The girl’s face wore a look of disappointment, before it vanished behind the now closed wooden door.

“Good morning, dear father. Did you sleep well? How goes it since we last spoke yesterday?” Leyla said. Her voice a pitch higher than regularly. The widest smile a woman could smile upon her rosey lips. The smile deflated for but a second -
“Gyles.”
She said, plain.
Not giving him another glance.

Braddington Daddy

Yarrow · Feb 5, 2019

Tybolt Crakehall

Tybolt Crakehall looked behind him. In the carriage riding behind him were his four daughters, his only hope. Emory, his eldest daughter, was now twenty-two years old. Most considered her to be to old to marry, but Tybolt had still hopes. His wife Lysa had left him without any heirs. Lysa had died a few years before the war, when the little Myranda just had her tenth nameday. Tya looked at Tybolt from the carriage and the old man smiled back. She reminded him the most of Lysa. He did miss her really. Their relationship had never been one of love, but they cared about each other.

There was one purpose Tybolt was going to the capitol, finding a man he could trust for his daughter. Tybolt wasn’t going to find a wife for himself and try to get any sons. So there was one possibility left, a grandson who would continue the Crakehall line. A bastard was also unthinkable of. No, he had to find a man for his daughter somewhere. Tybolt wasn’t going to let the Crakehall bloodline end with himself.

He heard that Lady Reyne had taken residence in a house near the Red Keep. Lord Crakehall had sent out men to prepare also a house for him, in the same fashion as Lady Reyne did. Tybolt doesn’t care for the smallfolk, they are dirty and gross. As he and his daughters arrived at the house he smiled. It was of course nothing compared to Crakehall, but it was better than a dirty inn. There was no trace of the original owners of the house. They had probably left after his men had claimed the house. In a week or so they could return to their home and maybe find a gold coin somewhere hidden. Crakehall his daughters had to share a room, but the girls didn’t mind. The girls were everything Crakehall had left. He was no war hero, since he didn’t participate in any of the Lannisters attacks. Instead he was appointed commander of the defense of the Westerlands. An honourable job, but Crakehall didn’t do much except for patrolling at the borders. This reminded him of something, he should speak to Vylarr about the Westerlands politics. Tybolt didn’t really like the man, since he was controlling house Lannister in his eyes like he was Lannister, which he was not. Joffrey was the real Lord of the Westerlands, but he didn’t excel at anything, in the eyes of Tybolt. However, Joffrey was unmarried. He had already broken off two bethrotals to other girls, but Crakehall wasn’t going to give up. He was destined to find good matches for his girls.

After his servants unloaded most of his stuff Tybolt ordered for his servants to prepare food for his three eldest girls. He himself and Myranda were going to visit Lady Reyne. Myranda was around her age and maybe they could bond. After a short walk the pair arrived at the house Lady Reyne was staying in. Tybolt stepped inside and announced his presence “Lady Reyne, pleasure to see you again, how have you been?”

Hypnos

ailurophile · Feb 5, 2019

Valora Waters
Daughter of King Maegor

Drawing her travelling cloak around her slender frame, Valora stepped out onto the street. What had been intended as a brief visit, a courtesy really, had turned into an entire night spent in Ermesande's Birdcage. One of Valora's favourite brothels, if she were asked to name one. In all honesty, she should have predicted a longer stay: her first visit since the war had to be more substantial than a mere greeting, after all. For that, she could not be blamed. The establishment's refurbishment had been enough to pique her interest and draw her in for a closer look, but the people who dwelt within the buildings freshly adorned walls were enough to trap her there. Her night had passed in a haze of perfume, and kisses, and compliments. Many nights had done so since she'd first discovered that the touch of a woman could compete with, and beat, in some cases, that of a man. In her defense, the first time she'd ever visited such a place, she had done so in search of friendship and nothing more. But one's carnal desires are difficult to ignore,

Valora had struggled with gluttony all her life, self control was never her strong suit. Dresses, jewels, sweets, wine, sex. Her vices. Then again, what was life without such things?
Dull.

As fun as her vices were, however, they left her exhausted. The girl couldn't wait to retire to her own bed shortly. She began to walk.

King's Landing was never dull if you knew where to look, and Valora did. Long ago she had discovered there was more to life than preening and needlepoint, not that she had given either up. During the periods of time when her father was too preoccupied to visit, she had found ways of amusing herself, of broadening her knowledge, of learning far more than she would if she were to limit herself to books. From an early age, she'd been self sufficient. Not truly, admittedly, she'd have died long ago had it not been for her father's support, but... Valora felt she was emotionally independent. A lie she told herself. Daughters were supposed to love their fathers above any man in the world. Sometimes Valora feared she had never been given the chance to properly love her own.

She swept her hair over one shoulder, around the left side of her neck, concealing any tell-tale marks from her night of passion. Not that there was anybody to fret over them, or at least, anybody who would be bothered: it was more peculiar to see Valora with a clear neck than one littered with marks. Her fingers ran through the ends of her hair. Bright platinum, like her father's. Appearance wise, she really took after him: her hair, her bright eyes, that ethereal Valyrian look. For all intents and purposes, she looked a true Targaryen.

Except she wasn't one.

Perhaps that was why she so loved the common people. To the vast majority, her bastard status meant incredibly little. She helped women with their errands, laughed with craftsmen, busied herself with the children. Games, stories, jokes, songs. The children were her favourite. It was bittersweet, she sometimes mused, that she should have such a talent when it came to them: still unmarried at twenty four, the fear she would never have children of her own crept in more and more with each passing day. Having a child would be simple enough, but Valora couldn't bear the thought of a bastard. For the child's sake, not her pride.

From her pocket she produced a loaf of bread, tore off a small piece, and chewed thoughtfully as she walked. As usual, her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden tug on the back of her cloak.

"Princess, princess!" A boy of seven, no older, clamoured.

A smile spread across Valora's face as she turned. It was more of a nickname than a title, stemming from a game. There were other princesses, one being a freckle-faced girl who stood behind the boy, more reserved, but still warm. She gave a shy wave, which Valora returned.

"Ah, Ser! So good of you to find me. Walking around without your protection is simply terrifying." She reached out to ruffle the boy's feathery hair, the way he scrunched his face in response eliciting a chuckle from her. "Have you been searching long?"

"Forever," the child exclaimed, "because you promised you were going to finish your story today. And you said that friends keep promises."

"They do. But friends also trust one another. Are you implying you didn't believe I'd keep my word?" Valora raised an eyebrow coyly.

"N-No, I only meant--"

"I'm teasing you, Alyn. Come, you two. Let's find the others, and finish the story." Her rest would have to wait, it seemed.

She drew the remainder of the bread from her pocket and broke it in two for the children, with the strict instruction that they were to share with the others.
She smoothed down the girl's hair and promised to braid it for her when they reached their destination.
She licked her finger and wiped a smudge of dirt from the boy's cheek, despite his protests.

Maybe Valora didn't need to have her own children to feel like a mother.

Hypnos · Feb 6, 2019

The Wolf's Bane

‘Humble’ was how Edmure would describe the accommodation that had been provided for him within the Red Keep. Humility was not one of his favoured attributes.

For the greater part of the previous month, Edmure Waynwood had occupied the bed chambers of King Harren the Black, large enough to constitute the great hall of any lesser keep, and adorned in more finery than the Sealord’s Palace. By comparison, his new residence seemed quaint. It was to be expected he supposed, the Knights of the Vale had only arrived in the early hours of the morning, whereas the Tyrells and their ilk had grown onto King’s Landing like a foul mold ever since Maegor had first liberated the city from Aemon the Usurper, claiming for themselves everything that was not bolted to the ground, and half of the things that were. The thought did not make the prospect of residing here for any prolonged period of time very palatable.

The room was not small by any means, large enough in girth to happily sustain a dozen men standing abreast, and grand enough in height that even the tallest of men would not be forced to stoop. Perhaps had Edmure been a household knight, or even a lord of lesser standing, he might have been satisfied with the arrangement, but Edmure was not a household knight, He was the Wolf’s Bane, the Conqueror of Harrenhal, the Scourge of the Riverlands. He would not be satisfied.

His time in the capital had been thus far fairly uneventful. Soon after he had exited the Great Sept, he had received a messenger from his grace informing him that himself, Lord Royce, Lord Grafton and Lord Arryn were to be hosted in Maegor Holdfast by the King himself. At the time that had sounded like an appealing prospect.

Waynwood had yet to meet his new King in the flesh. He had hoped that he would be granted immediate audience after his arrival into the keep, however affairs of state had kept Maegor occupied for the time being. Argrave Tyrell, Joffrey Lannister, Gyles Hightower, it seemed that King’s Landing was not want for men vying for the King’s attention, Edmure just hoped that the Vale’s voice would ring as loud as those others. That his own voice would ring as loud.

He supposed that if he were to be kept waiting in this dreary place, he might as well make the most of his time.

A fire had been lit in the room’s small hearth, by one of Edmure’s servants, lightly illuminating its surroundings, and generating a gentle warmth that was greatly appreciated after the soft downpour outside, allowing Edmure to discard his cloak, along with his hat and the majority of his armour, which his squires had dutifully polished before locking it away. He had had one of the local Targaryen lads bring him in an inkwell and a quill from the rookery, and as Edmure sat down by the humble desk which had been carelessly stuffed into the right hand corner of the room, he began to compose a correspondence.

‘To my dearest Rhaenys’

Edmure scrawled onto the parchment, his lettering fanciful and elaborate in a way that could only be replicated by a man who had spent half of his life behind a quill.

‘It has been three moons since you last wrote to me, and I had hoped to make swift reply, though the toils of war have occupied much of my waking thoughts. I am sure I shall not be the first to inform you that we have achieved victory, though I think it prudent to mention, lest you waste any more time worrying on my behalf. King Maegor has emerged triumphant, and Aemon and Maegelle lie dead, in no small part due to the bravery and honour of those Vale knights you last saw depart from the Eyrie many moons ago. It is with a heavy heart that I contemplate that I cannot celebrate this great success with you by my side, though I can sleep easy knowing that we shall not be parted for much longer.’

Or so Edmure hoped, for despite his apprehension at staying within this place, he had no intentions of leaving, not whilst such succulent fruit hung low, and ready for the picking. He would need allies within this place, people he could trust, and there was no living creature upon the face of the earth that Edmure trusted more than his wife.

‘At the time of writing this, I have occupied the capital for only an afternoon, though I have already began to sniff the scent of opportunity. I have not yet been given leave to seek audience with the King, though I am sure he will prove open handed to those who have helped him climb so high. I would seek leave to summon yourself and the children to the capital, so that I might seek solace in the comfort of my family during these tense times, as the King’s peace is restored to the realm. Anya and Alayne would make fine handmaidens to her grace, if she would have them, and I am eager to find them husbands so that they might share a love like our own. I had hoped to find a Robar a knight for whom he could squire, his great uncle now commands the Kingsguard, and failing that, I am sure Lord Yorwyck would take him under his wing. I know that the boy has not the constitution for war, but I feel that he might excell during these times of peace.’

Robar Waynwood was not a strong boy. He had been a sickly youth, plagued by fits of coughing, and various other ailments. Any other lord might have been disappointed by such a lad, but he was Edmure’s only son, his legacy, and the Lord Waynwood knew that any child born of his loins would be destined for greatness.

‘I must now change the subject to graver news. I am sure that you have been informed of the passing of Lord Ormund and his sons, and the entire Vale grieves their loss greatly.’

Perhaps some more than others.

‘Ser Rylen has ascended to Paramountcy, and I must confess myself hesitant, given the boy’s youth and inexperience. The future brings uncertain tidings. I am aware that our Anya was quite smitten with the boy’s elder brother, Ser Hareth, and I had hoped that she might similarly acquaint herself with our new Lord. The boy is set to marry the daughter of the Lord of Greywater, though I have my reservations about the match, especially with the current status of her father, a traitor to the King’s peace.’

To say that Edmure had reservations about the match was an understatement. It was an insulting notion that the Warden of the East would be wed off to some whore from the swamplands of the North, and were he to have his own way, such arrangements would be called off with immediacy. Edmure could not have his own way. The Lord of Ironoaks may have been many things, but a traitor was not one of them. The Gods had placed Lord Rylen in his path, and Edmure would be loath to subvert their will.

‘I will not continue to bore you with such talk. I hope that you are faring well within these trying times, and I look forward to a time when I can once more lay my eyes upon your own. The Gods are beginning to smile upon our family, and I hope that such tiding continue into the future. I give you all of my love.’

‘Your Edmure.’

Edmure finished the letter with a flourish, sealing it with a waxen visage of the broken wheel of his family, before handing it to one of his servants so that it might be taken to the rookery and sent off back to his home in the Vale. He would await response eagerly, as he did for all correspondence with his dear wife, but for now he would rest.

DarkianMaker · Feb 7, 2019

Lord Duncan Stokeworth
Interim Commander of the City Watch
King's Landing

The rain was creating a miserable atmosphere for most people in King’s Landing, most people. Duncan enjoyed the early spring rain as it would wash away some of the filth in the streets of the city in multiple ways. Before him was one of the groups of a hundred recruits that he had acquired as replacements for the Gold cloaks who had abandoned their position after the city surrendered to Maegor. ‘Cowards and oath breakers, Hightower would love to find them.’ He chuckled as his thoughts were wandering whilst he kept an eye on the recruits and their task to do push ups in full gear and the pelting rain.

It felt like it was just yesterday when he entered the city with the rest of Maegor’s forces thanks to Connington surrendering the city. Plenty of the Gold cloaks had deserted shortly after and those who remained dared not do their jobs in fear of being executed. Their fear wasn’t unfounded, only fools would go against the ones who occupy the city so shortly after being spared. Lord Hightower surely had his hands, well, hand and claw full with hanging criminals and traitors. Duncan on the other hand also got his hands full pretty soon as within days Maegor asked him to act as an interim Commander of the Gold cloaks, a request he obliged gladly. First order of business was finding out who was still with the watch and who could still be found and 'persuaded' to return to their posts. Then he had taken care to instruct them that everyone but soldiers and nobles were fair game for them to straighten up as was to be expected of the city watch. He selected experienced members of the watch to split up the city in districts which would be assigned to each of his new officers and a number of Gold cloaks that would be assigned to them. He then assigned officers and men to each of the gates, multiple officers and men to the docks and the most capable men were assigned to guard the Red Keep alongside the guards the King and his allies had brought with them. He took the fat and the clearly unfit members of the watch and put them through a rough training regimen to get them back into shape. After all that he began recruiting fit young men that weren’t otherwise employed and just occupied space in the streets of the city. Even though he had a certain disdain for the inexperienced he did prefer training raw recruits over old men as the young and inexperienced were often more receptive to his training and drilling.

He woke himself from his thoughts and looked at his men who were starting to get fatigued. He grinned and waited another minute before he raised his hand. “Get up and pick up your poles!” He called out and watched as these young men got back to their feet and picked up weighed training spears from the racks with little sign of argument. ‘To think that a few weeks ago they were nothing more than a disorganized mob’ He mused to himself as he walked around the group. “And your shields lads!” He then ordered as well and the men proceeded to pick up their actual shields. They were mostly scavenged shields with their paint scraped off but they had to do with the gear they managed to scrape together for now. He inspected the men as they equipped their shields and awaited his further instructions. He knew they wouldn’t be using the shields that much, but they would come in handy in the case a riot were to break out or if a group of dissidents were to get violent at the coronation.

The coronation, the one that would see Maegor officially crowned King like he should’ve been almost a year ago if it wasn’t for the usurpers. He knew the nearing coronation would be one of the reasons for Maegor to choose him as the interim commander instead of a Lord from one of the principal regions that backed him, he was likely one of the few people skilled and trusted enough in Maegor’s eyes to put the city watch back on their feet and fighting shape before the coronation. Well, today would prove whether the training had borne fruit for this group. He pointed at one of the lads who was the most skittish and nervous when training began and took his training spear from him. “Lem, you’re the officer of this group.” He said in a taciturn manner before taking a few steps back. He had bribed a small mob of people with the promise of food to have a brawl at this location with the city watch without getting in trouble if they didn’t do anything too serious.

It didn’t take long for the mob to show up in the distance and even though he wanted to grin he refrained from doing so, he didn’t want the men to catch on something was up, yet. As the mob came closer they also started to get more rowdy and that prompted Lem to look at the mob nervously and then at Duncan. “Lord? What do we do?” The lad asked and Duncan raised an eyebrow at him before replying. “You’re the officer Lem, you’ll tell your men what to do because it looks like that’s an angry mob coming your way.” He wanted to chuckle but he couldn’t, the look of realization on Lem’s face was too good. The mob was a bit bigger than the one he bribed, probably some people joined in for the heck of it, no big deal.

He looked as Lem seemed to stress out for a moment but then seemed to find his resolve. ‘Good lad.’ Duncan muttered to himself. Although Lem’s voice hadn’t even become a man’s yet he could be heard clearly. “Shield wall! Two ranks!” The young man’s voice rang and a few seconds later the group started to shift. “Deyanna, water.” He said to his servant who obediently filled a cup with water and handed it to him. Duncan finished the cup in one go as he looked at his men quickly assembling a shield wall from side to side with about 9 men and Lem to spare behind the formation. Their formation was completely blocking the way through for the mob, but most importantly it was protecting their flanks. It looked a bit shoddy with the mishmash of different shields and the still lackluster experience of the men but if they stuck true to their training and didn’t panic they would beat down this mob with considerable ease. He didn’t show any emotions and just looked from his stand.

Moments later the mob ran into the shield wall, it budged slightly but the men regained their footing and held their ground. The mob spread out all along the line of men and seemed ready to try and push again but Lem called out his next command. “Spears!” His teenage voice called out over the noise of the mob and shortly after there were shouts of pain as the recruits thrust their training spears into the crowd at once and it pushed the crowd back a few steps, the people in the front looking the most pained. Another series of thrusts by the formation sent the crowd even further back. Then Lem called out the command for the formation to advance five steps and the men did so a bit disorderly but still solid enough to give the mob no opening. The combination of shields and spears made it hard for the mob to get hits in on the recruits and after a few more repeats of the formation thrusting with their spears and advancing a few paces every time the mob started to flee. This would be the most crucial part of the evaluation, would the men keep their formation and would Lem be able to keep the men in check?

As expected some of the men got too excited about the prospect of victory and broke formation to give chase to the mob. “Return to formation!” Lem called out with an unexpected fierceness and the wayward souls stopped in their tracks and looked back at Lem before returning to the formation as ordered. “Adequate performance lads, except for you lot.” Duncan said to the men as he pointed at those who had broken formation. “Breaking formation whilst not ordered to is about as bad as running from battle or turning on your comrades as you willingly put them at risk.” He preached to the guilty men. “So you will be flogged.” He then added in a neutral manner. “And consider that your first and final warning, the next time it could be the noose that awaits you, I will not abide disobedience and disloyalty among the men that I train.” The guilty men bowed their heads in defeat and took off their gear until only their bare chest remained. “Lem, they broke rank under your command, it is your task to discipline them.” He then said to Lem who looked a bit distraught about the order but didn’t hesitate and stepped forward. “I want you to pay attention to this Deyanna and afterwards you are to take four of my household guard with you, visit the Red Keep to inquire when King Maegor and Lord Hightower have time for a meeting concerning security and then return here.” Duncan said softly so only Deyanna could hear before Lem started flogging the wayward men. He wanted to laugh at the cries of pain of the punished, but he didn’t.

Interacting:

Fluffy-Kat
Honorable mentions:

Lingua Frankly Not

TheFool · Feb 7, 2019

♚ King’s Landing ♚
The Crownlands

Alaric Stark
Wolf

There he was.
In The Godswood - feet prancing through grass that was kissed with white frost. A shaped flake of snow sprinkled down and landed on his snout. He sneezed at its touch. There was a chill but his coat kept him warm. A coat of brown and orange fur. Alaric Stark realised…
He was a wolf.

His arm jerked and his right eye opened. His sight now set on ceiling. His left eye opened in a delayed slowness. It hurt as it did. His chest began thumping. His skin felt as if it’d been painted over with burning oil. “Help-”
He called out. His words muffled to his own hearing.
“Someone.”
Alaric could feel the sweat drip down the side of his forehead. His arm twitched once more. His fingers stretching - reaching out. For what he did not know. He wanted to find something to hold onto. Someone to hold onto.
There is no one...
He called out again, hoping for a response. His eyes closed and opened. His left one still stinging with soreness. “Someone.” He repeated. Am I even speaking? He could but bare hear the words he spoke. Then he saw it.
A figure approaching him.
Help me.

He woke. Sitting up in panic. The small of his back ached as he did. Alaric’s skin still boiled. He lifted up his arm and ran his hand through his hair - it was both wringing with sweat and caked in hard muck. His fingers fell down, caressing his face with carefulness. The area around his left eye was tender to touch. He traced around it a few times and then did the same with his cheek. His nail found a scar. Still raw. He followed the scar to his ear, that of which was covered in what he guessed was dried blood.
Fuck sake.
He tried to think, but the pain was too much.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
That’s all that came to mind. It was his attempt to block out the soreness. He shifted forward before stopping. His right leg panged. The pain there was worse than wherever else. He looked at it and saw a bloodied bandage wrapped around his whole thigh.
Like some curious child,
He poked it.
A jolt ran through him. He cringed in the agony of it. “Fuck.” He let out. His hearing had cleared at the least. Find the positives, Ric.
“Hello?” He did call.
The room he was in was large and dimly lit. There seemed to be some windows but they were covered. Black and red curtains drooping to the floor. He had been laying on a bed stripped of its linens. He moved himself so that his legs fell off the side.
He cringed again.
His top set of teeth biting down on his lower lip.
Fuck.
He put his arm out and found the wall. It was then that he used it as a crutch, so to get himself off of the bed.
It was a struggle.
But he found his two feet on the floor. Still biting his lip through the hurt, he shuffled along. Each step was stabbing but he powered through the pain. He found himself at a doorway. He stood in it for a moment or two - hands planted against the wall.
His ears perked.
Whispering?
Someone was with him. He pushed himself a little harder and took another step. Then another. Another. Then he looked down and saw that the bloodied bandage was even more soaked. A vomit of red moving down his trouser.
Fuck.
He stumbled and fell. His elbow breaking the fall.

“My lord?!”
A voice cried. Several others followed suit. Figures gathered around him and helped him up. In a blur, he found himself being laid back on the naked bed.
“Get a maester.”
One voice instructed. It was familiar.
“Oh I’ll walk right out. Have you forgotten we’re his captives?”
A man chimed in. His accent thick with The North.
Alaric grabbed the first man who had requested help. “Help me. I can’t… It hurts.” The figure was shrouded in the darkness. Alaric’s eyes adjusted, however. Uncle Al?
“Uncle,” Alaric began to say. “Where are we-”
His uncle shushed him and laid him back. His head resting against the headboard. “Quiet, my boy. We will get you help.”
“Did we win, uncle?” Alaric Stark said. His heart beating hard. His throat hoarse.
Al Karstark did not give a response.
“Did… we fight them off?”
Alaric asked.
His vision petered.
And he found himself back in The Godswood…

“Alaric.”
He woke. His uncle sat on the end of his bed with a maester beside him. Alaric sat up properly. One of the curtains was pulled up, allowing gloomy sunlight in.
“Ugh. My fuckin’ leg.” Alaric groaned. He looked down and saw a fresh bandage on it. He looked up at his uncle and the old maester - the latter of which fumbled together a faint smile.

“Uncle Al? Where are we?”
Alaric said.
His head twisted toward one of the windows. Bells rang from outside. No.

Braddington · Feb 7, 2019

Lady Helya Codd
Lady of Nagga’s Cradle

Helya saw the distant keep in the direction of which she had sailed for some time. It was monstrous, aye, it was even worthy of awe to most. But not to her. She had seen too many pretty baubles, too many acts of evil to even be bothered to care if the place had nine towers or the ten it so boldly proclaimed. What difference did it truly make? That was not the purpose of her visit, and she would have not cared to see it if it were not for the letter she received. Anything that got her out of the Cradle and onto her true home, the open seas, was worthy of her attention. Besides, it was about time she made the acquaintance in a true fashion with the Isles eminent leaders.

Daughter’s Defiance swayed with the tides, a newly crafted ship that had her banner adorned upon it, exactly the same as her forefathers except for one very important feature. The trident stabbing the fish. A symbol of her independence, of her new vigour and the death of a house known far and wide for it’s abhorrent evil. She would make an impression to be sure, but that was what she intended. Her father was dead, she wanted to piss on his ashes. And as her mother wept for her fallen brother, she was more than happy to toss her out of the keep as well. Helya almost hoped she would be there, to see the sigil, to see her new found purpose. But alas, she was most likely dead upon some rock. If there was any good left in the world.

The ship approached Lord Harlaw’s harbour at a brisk pace, Helya signalling to the helmsman to bring her in gently with her fingers as she clung to the ropes, taking in the salty sea air around her. A man approached her, one of the many soldiers that were sworn to her, one her father kept close. He was short and ugly with a boil that covered up half of his face. She had to wonder how the man could bare to wake up in the morning.

“My Lady, do you remember what I told you? About who is who? If Harlaw is there, then so is Goodbrother. Your Lord father was not on good terms with any. Just remember their faces as I described them, there is a good girl. You will not want to provoke them by mixing them up now, would you? I would suggest making a polite entry, one of civility, one that befits a woman. Like your dear moth-”

Helya struck the man, the sound echoing along the deck of the ship as she did so. She would not be spoken to like that by a weasel such as this. Those days were over. They were dead and would never return. Luckily for the bastard she didn’t throw him overboard then and there.

“Get the fuck out of my sight. I will decide how I make an entrance, not you. I am not some maiden who cowers behind her skirts whilst fucking the garrison of the keep like a common whore every night because a guard liked her smile. I am not my fucking mother, and you will start treating me like I deserve or I can find yourself another inept incestous bastard to serve instead. Maybe there is an opening at the Red Keep.”

The guard fumbled with his words, stuttering before bowing and making his way back to whatever pit the deceptive worm came from. If he was smart, he wouldn’t burrow up from his hole for some time. Then again, if he was smart, he would take her up on her offer and leave.

A loud and deep cacophony came from the ships horn, signalling that the ship was about to dock. Helya made her way to where she could jump off, not wishing to waste anytime and get to the business about why she was summoned. As her ship slid in, she made her way along the dock, spying the many other Lords with which she was to meet. The only woman that had attended, it seemed. She had no time for the men that tried to accost her and lead her as she walked, pushing past them with ease, her sword swaying at her side with her approach.

“Alright, what’s going on then? I hope I didn’t sail this way for fuck all.”

Hypnos

Yarrow

JPTheWarrior · Feb 8, 2019

Eric Drumm
Crimson Reaper

“Oy captain! I can see the towers up ahead. We’re almost there!” Young Sargon exclaimed while he got down from the crow’s nest, carelessly moving on the shrouds of Blood Mist’s main mast. Eric Drumm nodded “Prepare to dock, men!” the lord screamed his orders so anyone on the long ship’s main deck could hear him.

He put the crumpled letter he had received from old Erich Harlaw inside a pocket of his jacket and walked to the ship’s front before turning around to check how his ship looked. His sails had been colored crimson blazon with a pale white bone hand in the center, the sigil of House Drumm. The Lord of Old Wyk nodded proudly at the sight of his own long ship, who had become a legend during the bloodbath that occurred months ago in Riverlands, slaughtering countless riverlanders. It wasn’t only Blood Mist which had become a myth. Its captain, Eric himself, had learned the respect of all of his comrades of Iron Islands and earned the nickname ‘Crimson Reaper’.

The Reaper of Ten Towers had invited the Reaper of Old Wyk for a meeting with other ironborn lords. Eric, wanting to decline at first and set sail to King’s Landing to support his leader and long time friend, Hrothgar Greyjoy, crumpled the letter and almost threw it on the sand where it could be washed away. However, his quartermaster had advised him the opposite, telling Eric that he should at least check what that old warrior could want at times like these. Eric agreed to do as his quartermaster said, since even if he was one day late, he could still be there for Hrothgar’s trial that was sure to happen due to the ironborn actions during the Winter’s War.

“And so here we are” Eric mumbled to himself as he turned around to face the now much closer isle of Harlaw. It wasn’t only Eric Drumm who was arriving at the port. Other ships from many other Houses were also about to dock. Eric recognized the sigils of House Blacktyde, House Goodbrother and, strangely, House Codd, between others. After Blood Mist smoothly entered the port and docked, Eric and a crew of five of his most skilled men stepped onto land, leaving the quartermaster and the others on the ship. Eric was impatient, but he still maintained himself calm, waiting to be received by one of Erich Harlaw’s man or maybe, the Lord himself.

Fortunately, he did not have to wait for long, as a man, armored in full leather, the sigil of a silver scythe on black background adorned in his chest. "Lord Drumm, Lord Harlaw welcomes you and your crew to our island. If you would follow me, I'll bring you to him" Eric sighed, disappointed that Erich didn't have the hospitality to greet Eric in person. The captain of Blood Mist nodded in agreement to that man's proposal and he did as suggested, walking behind the sailor while the man guided him to meet the Lord of Ten Towers.

'I hope I didn’t sail this way for fuck all.' A woman said, making Eric involuntarily chuckle. He was surprised to see Helya Codd, who he met when she was but a girl in her adolescence years, but now a grown woman, Lady of House Codd, if Eric wasn't mistaken. "I make my words hers, Lord Erich. I have much to do and so little time, so this sudden invitation better have an excellent motive." Eric stated while he walked towards Erich and the other lords, putting himself next to Lady Codd while the two stared at old Harlaw, waiting for his explanation.

Mentions:

Braddington

JPTheWarrior · Feb 8, 2019

Ellaria Dayne
Jewel on the Morning

Ellaria followed Allyria's movements while she ordered the guards that stood behind her to give the two dornishwomen some space. Allyria, even with all her grace and beauty, still showed signs of exhaustion in her eyes. Ellaria even felt some regret for considering herself miserable, since while she had to mourn for Trystane and her father, she did it at home, safe between her people. Allyria had to do it all on her own, stuck in this cursed city. After that sudden moment of regret, came on of surprise, relieved that Allyria's sense of humor was still there. Ellaria's rose lips curved into a small but true felt smile when the Princess suggested that they went for a walk and held Lady Dayne's soft hand.

Before Ellaria gave an answer to Allyria's requested, she gently pulled Allyria and lead her through the Copperheads until the soldiers that had been ordered to follow Allyria were behind her House's bannermen. You would not have the indecency to say anything against this now would you, oh brave soldiers? Ellaria asked to herself, while inside she had a sly grin, imagining the awkward expressions the King's soldiers were doing. After this little, safe and successful move against the King's orders, the dornishmen really started their walk, begining with the women in front and Ellaria's knights walking in a formation where the guards could not pass through.

Ellaria shrugged her shoulders at Allyria's question. "Nothing much can be said, Princess Allyria. I haven't been away from Starfall, not even when the war was over, so I cannot really give you much information about Dorne, besides the lands serving under my House. My father and brother's deaths really took their tolls on our lands and I had to make sure we wouldn't scatter and fall apart. So I stayed home and delt with the consequences. If you let me have a moment of pride, I do think I did a good job considering my options and situation." she answered, her hazel eyes revealing sadness, but her voice steady. "Starfall now remains united, yes, but we suffered a huge strike. And, as you might already know, now I am the sole member of House Dayne's main branch, so I now am titled 'Lady of Starfall and House Dayne'."

"Even then it all seems surreal to me. Where we were and where we are now, just after a few months." she admitted "I can handle it, however. So you need not to concern about me, princess Allyria. I know you too have seen some grey days. If it's my place to ask... your son.. is he all right?" a question Ellaria was afraid to ask, but she was concerned for the boy's safety and wish to know about his whereabouts.

Mentions:

ailurophile

TheAncientCelt · Feb 9, 2019

Lord Argilac Stark

Stark Encampment - North of King's Landing

As fond of reminiscing as he was, Argilac Stark didn't agree to host Lord Blackwood solely for that purpose, nor was his brief relationship with his children all that important to Argilac. He appreciated the compliments hefted onto his family, what man wouldn't take pride in such praise, but Argilac's time was valuable. Alyn was an ally who shared several customs with the North, but Lord Stark's patience would not last forever. Silently, he decided he'd wait till he finished his meal, then either ask Blackwood to excuse his absence. The larger lord - both in height and mass - continued to bite down on his plate of pork, his manners not so refined as one might expect, although the company he kept likely contributed to Argilac's rather vulgar method of eating. Through the idle chatter, Argilac was surprised to hear that this wasn't a meeting contrived by the new lady of House Tully. An eyebrow rose in muted curiosity, which fell soon after when the mutterings of a twin continued.

'Perhaps,' Argilac leaned back in his chair, the creaking of the wood a minor concern for the Grey Wolf. 'I will send this one back to deliver a message to Tully.' His minor deceit of his niece-through-marriage was an affair the Riverlords could work through. Right now, Argilac saw an opportunity to form this coalition to remain relevant in the creation of a new Westeros. Slowly, Argilac pawed at the final strip of pork, chewing on the salted and hardy meat and swallowing once Alyn spoke of the true manner of his appearance.

'The Brackens.' The Wolf Lord thought, unable to mask his frown. Rumors were so vast, it reached even the Northerners. Of a ruse, that it was Alyn Blackwood who slaughtered his ancestral rivals, and not the Greyjoy bastards. How Stark wished it were just crude whispers, however, Alyn had revealed the truth. One that forced Argilac to shut his eyes. 'He led the Ironborn to Bracken's keep? Paid him off to remove the family?' These words swirled in the head of the Stark Patriarch as he struggled to keep up with the now loose lipped man. For a faint moment, Argilac worried a camp helper might overhear. His worries were relieved, surely Gregor or Lysara would've given their uncle privacy from prying ears.

'Doubtful Gregor would do much else but dropping his eaves, however.'

The confession did not come without guilt, the low hummings of sorrow in the voice of Blackwood impossible to mistake. Nor did the punishment he wished for himself, and the fact he kneeled before Maegor - a matter that Stark felt inconsequential for the time. Argilac's eyes were sealed shut once the man paused, the words of the gods at his tongue now, and he sighed. 'This man. . .' Lord Stark need not take another glance at Blackwood to understand what was happening. The context surrounding his appearance and disappearance at the side of his new lady making even more sense now. 'Tis guilt.' Argilac adjusted himself, leaning over the wooden table and listening to how it groaned in protest. 'This man did not make deals with the Greyjoy.' Argilac's grey eyes shone with sorrow and sympathy at the state of this man. 'He failed to defend them. A bitter foe till the end, yet his foe.' It was oft spoken that close enemies shared secrets and relationships that no other could comprehend. For Houses Blackwood and Bracken, they must've kept much from the eyes of the world. No one would truly understand the Blackwoods but the Brackens, and the same could be said in reverse. 'He has not been eating. He's half a skeleton. This twin of his is not secretly replacing Alyn, but representing House Blackwood in his stead.'

Argilac Stark had seen these signs before, in the Winters past. The snows always fell mightier in the North, the winds cutting down foes faster than any false southron knight could hope to. And always, those who outlived loved ones, parents or children, developed into self-loathing beasts. They accused themselves of undone crimes, that their continued survival was directly linked to the deaths of those around them. When Alyn spoke of the massacre of Stonehenge, Argilac's keen sight immediately picked up on these signals. 'It is not for crimes he wishes to be executed, but for being helpless. His only sin is that of survival when the Iron men descended.'

While he was not associated with raw emotions, few could declare the Wolf Lord a stoic. His heart ached for the sorry state of Alyn Blackwood. He was not likely to survive till next winter, despite his relatively young age, ghosts who he did no wrong to would tear him down. "And what did the Old Gods speak to you?" He responded, his voice low, without the boisterous enthusiasm it was often associated with.

Fluffy-Kat · Feb 9, 2019

Loyal Servant to his Lordship, Duncan Stokeworth

Water fell from the sky for what felt like forever. Droplets were heavy and unkind to the soldiers-in-training. The men were covered in mud from their knees down, their feet the most affected, as they performed their exercises. Many of them were so young, inexperienced babes that had just been ripped out of their mother's womb and thrown into a world where nothing else matters but your mettle and war. Men. Thats all they seemed to care about, but it was understandable, these were uncertain times, with a very significant coronation on its way, they needed to be ready for anything. Some of these soldiers are ready, with out a doubt, others still seem a little wet behind the ears, and it wasnt from the rain. Deyanna has been under Lord Stokeworth's service for years, she has become his shadow, always there if she is ever needed, quiet, invisible and keeping a low profile. She has watched numerous training sessions, and still isnt used to his Lordship's brutal, merciless hand with the young men. The Dornish girl has developed a keen eye in spotting who will most likely succeed in becoming a Gold Cloak and who will live out their days as a common guard, patroling the streets of King's Landing and diffusing simple brawls and sorting petty theft. Becoming a Gold Cloak was a lot more than physical prowess, it was having a strong will, utmost loyalty to the crown, and the readiness to lay down your life at any given time. Qualities not easily found in some.

Green eyes watched the men push through their routine in these conditions. Long, dark lashes blinked every once in a while, or when a rain drop landed on her eye or the bridge of her nose as an involuntary reflex. Her gaze appeared to be fixed on the lads but her mind was else where. Floating above the dripping clouds, where it was quiet, peaceful.

"Get up and pick up your poles!" Lord Strokeworth's command had abruptly pulled Deyanna back into the realm of reality.

For a brief moment her eyes looked to the back of his head, standing about five paces ahead of her. His shoulders were squared with confidence and his stance was grounded and sturdy as he watched and directed the group of tired men through their final exercise. Deyanna quietly shivered under the current weather, her Dornish blood was accustomed to a much warmer climate, dryer temperatures, but she suffered in silence, just as the trainees did. In the distance, the servant girl could see a small mob making their way, right for them. She looked to Duncan, searching for any reaction but he remained unmoved and urged them to hold their grown. And so they did. Soldiers and servants were very alike, with the only exceptions of soldiers waving a sword around and knowing the possibility they may die at any moment. Both did as they told with out question, and both had sworn loyalty to a higher power. And yet they both lived on opppsite sides of the spectrum, here she stood quietly and untouched, while the soldiers before her pushed forward with all their might, shoulder to shoulder, caked in mud and sweat. With Deyanna's dreamy tendencies, she wandered off into a ficticious world again. Wondering what would the world be like if women were the soldiers, and guards, fighting in wars, and men stood at home. She imagined herself as the Princess Nymeria, leading some 10,000 ships across the Narrow Sea. That was one of her favorite stories as a child. The story may have been twisted over the years of being passed on verbally. Everyone tells it differently, as does she, often adding impromtu foes and creatures.

"Deyanna, water."

The make-believe princess warrior's dream bubble popped from the awakening shake of his Lordships's thunderous voice. With haste, the servant moved to a small table that held a silver pitcher so chromed and shiny she could see her own reflection, down to the loose whisps of hair that she seemed to always have dangling in her face. Her eyes paused at the reflection for a moment, only nobles had the privilege of owning mirrors, so catching a glimpse of herself was quite rare but her modesty overcame vanity and she looked away with out another thought. Using both hands, the young woman lifted the pitcher and tipped the edge into a chalice of equal beauty. She set the pitcher down and picked up the cup to take to Duncan. Deyanna kept her head low in submission, and stuck her hands out with the water filled cup, "My Lord," her voice was soft and drowned from the shouts of the soldiers near by. Her accent was thick and exotic, along with her light olive skin, black hair, and colored eyes. She resembled a doll, lips as soft as rose petals, skin glowing and full of youth, a creature as precious as a newly born fawn. Duncan Stokeworth took the chalice, drank, and returned the cup to her. After a small curtsy, head still bowed, she replaced the cup on its table and returned to her previous position behind her master. The "impenetrable" wall the new recruits had worked so hard to keep had broken through when the testostrone of the men, no older than herself, had grabbed a hold of them by the balls and were suddenly compelled to chase after the mob...however it was against orders and Stokeworth made it known with his fearful barks. The young troops were to be punished, harshly. Deyanna gasped to herself when Lord Duncan Stokeworth announced their sentence was to be whipped. His Lordship was a stern man with an iron fist, and he was always glad to make it known.

"I want you to pay attention to this Deyanna," Duncan said with a firm, monotonous tone, his back still to her.

Deyanna's eyebrows furrowed with concern, her large eyes fluttered and looked off to the side for a split moment. Why would she want to pay attention? Her innocent face was enough to melt anyone's heart, with the exception of the unwavering Lord Stokeworth, of course. She cleared her throat and looked down at her twiddling fingers, moving a strand of black hair behind her ear anxiously, she stuttered, "Y-yes...my Lord." Dreadfully, she looked back up and watched as the soldiers recieved their consequence with out protest. Deyanna cringed, her head sank into her shoulders, wanting to disappear. Gently, she bit down on her lower lip and raised her arms to hug herself for comfort. It looked horribly painful, unbearable. "And afterwards," Duncan started again and Deyanna took two small steps forward to hear his hushed voice. Stokeworth continued, "You are to take four of my household guards with you, visit the Red Keep to inquire when King Maegor and Lord Hightower have time for a meeting concerning security and then return here.” Deyanna was a shy, timid little thing, but obligation overcame fear, and with a small nod she replied once again, "Yes, my Lord," it seemed to be her catchphrase most of the time. Much to her dismay, she returned her attention to the punishing display before them both, she wasnt sure what was worse, watching this or the thought of entering such the Red Keep alone? She did not feel it was her place, but if his Lordship commanded it, so it will be.

DarkianMaker

Yarrow · Feb 9, 2019

Nymor Allyrion

Nymor nearly vomited twice in the first hour he had been at King’s Landing. The smell of the city was nearly unbearable. He already missed Godsgrace, his castle. Godsgrace was located next to the Greeblood, water of the river filled many ponds in the castles garden. His ancestors had it designed that the green smug of the river wouldn’t get in the water, so the water was very clean there. Nymor loved working at one of the terraces with a soft breeze cooling him down. The gardens at the Red Keep was very different from what he was used to. He was here because Allyria Martell had asked him to. His daughter Melissa had stayed at Godsgrace to oversee his new plans. It was a perfect opportunity for his daughter to learn how to command people around. However, his sons, Nate and Trystane, were with him. They followed him like second shadows while being amazed by the grandness of the Red Keep. Nymor had learnt the boys about the main houses of Westeros during their ride to King’s Landing while also gathering ingredients for several poisons and antidotes along the way. Most Lords considered poison to be the weapon of a woman, but for Nymor it didn’t matter. Sometimes it was easier to fall in a deep sleep than having your throat slit.
Allyria had to be here somewhere. She and Nymor had been friends since childhood. For some time Nymor had stayed at the Water Gardens, where he was fostered with other lords and ladies to be. Nymor and the boys went inside because the rain was getting their clothes soaked. In the distance he noticed Allyria, together with some other lady, he couldn’t see it very clear. He stopped abruptly in his walking and Nate nearly bumped into him. Nymor turned around on his heels and looked to the two boys “Nate and Trystane, go adventure around the Red Keep, try to go unnoticeable. I have to talk to Princess Martell” The boys nodded and went their way. Then Nymor walked up to Allyria and the other women, which he now recognized as Lady Ellaria Dayne, “Greetings Princess Allyria and Lady Dayne” Nymor bowed for the Princess and then smiled at her.

--

Nate ran away from his father as soon as he was granted some free time. He was determined to discover the secrets of this majestic building. Trystane ran after his brother “Nate! Stop! We have to stay together otherwise we’ll get lost” Nate grinned and started to run even faster. “Catch me if you can brother” he shouted back at his younger brother. He looked behind him to see where his brother was and then bumped into someone. Nate stopped abruptly and looked the man in his eyes, Nate had no clue who this man was. “Where do you think you are going young boy?” The man asked. He wasn’t wearing armor so he couldn’t be knight, maybe he was a servant? Trystane watched his brother get himself in trouble from behind a pillar. One voice was saying that he should help his brother, but the other voice was telling him to stay there hidden, like his father had told him. Nate looked away from the man and mumbled something before skipping past the man “Hey! Stop! Guards!” Some knights looked in the direction the man was pointing, “Shit” Trystane mumbled, this was getting out of hand. He made a plan. He looked to the man his older brother had bumped into. Trystane and Nate looked very much alike, some not knowing the difference. He stepped into the hallway from behind the pillar “Here I am! Is there still something you want from me?” The man looked confused, he was sure he just saw the boy sprinting away in another direction “Hey.. hey? You were just there...” He looked over his shoulder, but Nate was already hidden. “.... how can this be? What is this?..” The simple mind of the man could not process this. The guard looked looked at the confused man and rolled his eyes “Petyr, are you sure you are not seeing ghosts?” Petyr looked at the guard and mumbled something like an excuse and went his way. He and the guard looked in the direction of Trystane, but he was already gone.
Trystane found his brother again in a niche in another hallway, eating a small pie “Hey! Was that necessary? Father didn’t want any trouble and within a minuted you caused one” Nate smiled, handing his brother a piece of the pie, which Trystane didn’t hesitate to accept. “Don’t worry, the guards wouldn’t have caught me and it was all solved right?” Nate replied with his mouth full with pie. Trystane rolled his eyes “No more stupid tricks, we should go outside, watch the other knights train” It always felt like Trystane was the older brother of the two, but he was a year younger than Nate. Trystane felt more responsibility, while his brother was more impulsive. Together they walked to the practice grounds, sat on a low wall and watched the knights train in their heavy armor. “I never get it why they want to fight with so much armor on” Nate said to his brother. Trystane nodded “It’s not very smart, lightweight armor gives you enough protection and you can move way more faster in it”. Nate nodded in agreement “I hope father will let us spar with some of these knights, we should show them how it’s done”. Trystane smiled “Yes, wait indeed until father gives permission, otherwise you are causing trouble again”. Nate laughed and poked his brother in his side “Not fair.. Not fair”

ailurophile

JPTheWarrior

Lingua Frankly Not · Feb 9, 2019

Lynora Lannister,
The Maidenvault

After completing entirely the most physical labor she had put her mind to in recent weeks – or was it years? – Lynora Lannister cradled her poor, cramped hand. Upon rich mahogany dining table sat a pile of sealed letters, flanked by inkpot and quill, addressed to each of the Westerlands lords she knew to be residing within the capital, and further down the table a boy of eight sat quietly, reading a book. She glanced to him. Not for an hour had she been settled into the Maidenvault's lavish wing of apartment rooms before Lynora had taken to delving into matters of state.

Whatever state she may have left, at least. She would make do.

“Your Grace,” a voice rang out.

Releasing her hand, Lynora stood and turned to take stock of the returned knights, Ser Terrence Lannett and Ser Philip of Fair Isle. These men, knights who had been in her service for some years past, looked little more pleased than they had whence she had bid them on their errand. The shorter, Ser Terrence, was a light brown-haired, hawk-eyed man of middling age, and the quicker of words of the pair; his companion, Ser Philip, sported a mane of russet greying with age, and morningstar in lieu of blade.

Ser Terrence dipped at the waist, making little effort to hide the disdain that leaked into his voice. “The Lord Greyjoy has accepted your proposal, my Queen. He will arrive shortly.”

“With no son above deck, or women neither, looked t’be,” added Ser Philip. “Another kraken at th’gates, though. Younger, louder. Passed him on th’way up. Yer Grace.”

“How charming,” she drawled. “The brute from Oldstones, was it?” Lynora inquired, though neither knight knew the truth of it. Her men, the small contingent that she’d kept to her person throughout this last year, had scarce seen a battle of late; not since her midnight flee from King’s Landing following the death of her husband and son. Lip curling with disdain, Lynora peered past the pair to open doorway as though expecting some lurking threat. A pit of vipers, this city. Vile, treacherous denizens plotting, and whispering, and gossiping. It had been her pit, until it hadn’t been… and this she would rectify.

This is your fault, Aerys, you simpering fool.

“Lancel, dear,” Lynora called, melodically. “Run along and tell your uncle my guest will be arriving soon. And–,” she continued, extending to him a sealed letter, “give him this as well. You’ll study in the other rooms, hmm?” Briefly, she ruffled the boy’s black hair once he had the letter in hand, smiled kindly at his ‘yes, Aunt Lynora’, for she refused to be referred to as Great-Aunt, as it made her feel terribly old, and sent the boy on his way. When she turned back to the knights, her smile had dispersed.

And yours, Loreon. Leaving me here alone, with debts unpaid. I’ve not forgiven you for that.

“I’ve another task for you, Sers. Deliver these letters to each Lord and Lady addressed, and with some haste.” Knowing it a bit of a mammoth task to track each down within the afternoon as a pair, she handed half of the remaining stack to each knight. “It wouldn’t do to have my guests late on your account, would it?”

“No, Your Grace.”
“Yer Grace.”

“Good men.” Sniffing, Lynora moved to massage at the palm of her hand, and paced closer to the doorway as the knights departed. “Olira! Send for my lunch. I’ll be taking it here.”

How long has it been since we’ve time to truly speak? Certainly, it can’t have been just an hour past? Has your day proceeded well, since? I do hope time remains in your evening to dine with me; and if it does not, do be so kind as to adjust your schedule, and make that time. I shall have dinner served at half past seven in the eve, promptly, within the Maidenvault’s dining hall.

Your loving, and proud aunt,
Lynora Lannister,
Dowager Queen

My dear, has it been years? I have just arrived to King’s Landing to settle in for the upcoming ceremony, and I’ve heard you reside still within the city walls, as well, and now a decorated hero of this difficult war. Isn’t this a marvelous chance to meet, and dine, and for you to regale me of tales of your children? How has your darling daughter been of late? I do hope your schedule this eve allows time for as much, and I cordially invite you to dinner at half past seven within the Maidenvault’s dining hall.

Should additional members of your family be present, I do cordially invite them, as well.

With my sincerest regards,
Lynora Lannister,
Dowager Queen

My good Ser, I admit becoming overjoyed to learn of your residence within the city of King's Landing, so close at hand; the presence of such men as yourself does much to put me at ease, now that I've returned following the horror of this past year. It has been quite some time, has it not? I would like to extend to you an invitation, and to your young charge as well – for whom I have enclosed an additional letter for her young ladyship – to join myself, and other present Westerlords for dinner. It shall be held this eve at half past seven, within the Maidenvault's dining hall. I do so look forward to seeing yourself, and the young Lady Ellyn.

Should additional members of your family be present, I do cordially invite them, as well.

With my sincerest regards,
Lynora Lannister,
Dowager Queen

I write to send a warm greetings to yourself, Lady Ellyn, and apology as I believe myself to have been lax in providing gift for your last nameday, consumed amidst the turmoil of this war as it so unfortunately was. As I've just arrived to King's Landing today from travel along the Gold Road, I should like to rectify this error. Tonight, I shall hold something of a dinner within the dining hall of the Maidenvault at half past seven in the eve; I have additionally sent invitation for your dear Lord Regent the infamous Ser Criston Reyne, and do wish to dine with you both. I hope you've the time to attend, and receive the present I've brought for you.

With my sincerest regards,
Lynora Lannister,
Dowager Queen

My good Lord, I admit becoming overjoyed to learn of your residence within the city of King's Landing, so close at hand; the presence of such men as yourself does much to put me at ease, now that I've returned following the horror of this past year. I would like to extend to you an invitation, one I do hope you shall accept, to join myself, and other present Westerlords for dinner. It shall be held this eve at half past seven, within the Maidenvault's dining hall. You need arrive with little but yourself, tales of your valor, and the family you may have in the capital.

I shall look forward to tonight.

With my sincerest regards,
Lynora Lannister,
Dowager Queen

Has it been nine months, dear Preston, since we've spoken? Has grief for my husband held your quill? Nonetheless, it seems time to meet once more; I've arrived to King's Landing from the Gold Road just today. A pleasant enough journey, though my destination feels largely without luster. Come and join me for dinner this eve at half past seven in the Maidenvault's dining hall, darling. I shan't take no for an answer. It will be a small enough engagement with a few present lords of the Westerlands, and certainly ones I hope you will not leave me to suffer alone.

Also, I should like to express my mourning here for your late brother. I do not know if I shall breech the subject tonight, as both your wound and my similar one are so fresh, and perhaps it is time to look forward.

Do come.

With my sincerest regards, though you’ve so rudely not written,
Lynora Lannister,
Dowager Queen

Yes, I know; it's only just been hours since we've spoken, and already I plan for dinner. Is this an affliction that comes of age? I believe my mother acquired the same. I dream you shall not. Your figure looks so lovely, as is.

Should you not otherwise be busy, do plan to attend, and with your darling Lancel, and husband as well. If you would be so kind, I ask accommodations be found for the younger children. I shall hold dinner at half past seven, promptly, within the Maidenvault's dining hall.

Your loving aunt,
Lynora Lannister,
Dowager Queen

My dear young Lord, I write to send greetings and invitation. Though we may not be quite personally acquainted, I wish to offer condolences for the loss of your father, and Ser Tybolt Reyne, both of whom my brother the Lord Loreon Lannister oft spoke well of. Should you be amenable, I wish to extend to you a dinner invitation. I do hope you shall accept, and join myself, and other present Westerlords for dinner. It shall be held this eve at half past seven, within the Maidenvault's dining hall. You need arrive with little but yourself and tales of your valor – your knighting was quite recent, was it not? I should like to hear of it. Any personal guests you may bring are welcome at my table.

I shall look forward to tonight.

With my sincerest regards,
Lynora Lannister,
Dowager Queen

Mentions:

ailurophile · Feb 10, 2019

Allyria Martell
Princess of Dorne

"Yes, I've been meaning to extend my condolences-- I'm so sorry about your family, my dear Ellaria. The war brought too many tragedies to our doorstep."

These tragedies did not need to be specified, both women knew all too well the effect the war had had, on themselves personally, on their families, on their home. It wasn't as if the war had brought Allyria's first experience of loss, but the losses she had suffered had been so significant to the woman that she hadn't quite been prepared to cope with them. Some didn't matter so much to her: she'd never truly wanted to be Queen, for example. Some weighed on her. Perhaps she'd never have another marriage like her one to Aemon. Perhaps it would be disrespectful to even consider. The thought caused a confusing conflict of rage and grief inside her. Why fight?

Why lose?
Oh, my love.

She could remember parting with him, the promises that they would not be saying their goodbyes for the last time. The war would be won easily, he'd told her. Full of familiar bravado. They'd never seen one another again. Subconsciously, her uninjured hand settled gingerly on her stomach as she continued to walk with Ellaria, fingers just slightly digging into the soft flesh beneath the fabric of her dress. Chances were, the stress had interrupted her blood. It occurred to Allyria then that she had company, yet had become lost in her thoughts.

"You've done marvelously. Certainly you should be proud." Before she could continue with her praise, she was interrupted by Ellaria mentioning the one topic she'd been struggling to push to the back of her mind. Visibly, her shoulders sagged for a moment, but then her jaw tightened as her sadness was replaced with a more bitter expression. "I've been assured he has not been harmed. Though I fear, even if that's true, he is living on borrowed time. I haven't seen him for days, Ellaria, for days. That boy needs his mother." Her statement had started firm, determined, but with the final part, her voice cracked. Stupid, stupid. Allyria had never thought of herself as having a weakness until she'd held Aemon's son for the first time. Again, she was interrupted before she could continue.

"Lord Allyrion, it's a pleasure. I hope your journey was pleasant?" In an apparently nonchalant gesture, Allyria swept her fingertips across her eyes, on the off chance there was a trace of a tear. "Lady Dayne and I were just discussing the poor weather outside."

JPTheWarrior