Fandom The Wolf and the Stag: A Game of Throne/A Song of Ice and Fire RP

[Mors]

399 AC: Summer​

 

[Mors]

King Loras IV Baratheon​

Darkened walls seared black by flames that had long been extinguished. Immense towers stretching higher than the eye could see, prevented from their mission of touching the stars only by the heat of an ancient blaze. A proud and arrogant keep, cut down in its prime by the unforgiving inferno of fire. Loras Baratheon saw himself within the charred ruins of what had once been Harren the Black’s greatest treasure. A display of decadence, left standing hundreds of years after its great failure as a warning against the hubris of men. Not that Loras was the type of man to appreciate such poetic similarity. His reasons for visiting the keep were of an entirely political nature, and the sooner that he could leave this crippled and disfigured castle behind him, the happier he would be.


Loras had slept his way through most of the initial journey through the Riverlands, neglecting the rough hardships of a saddled horse in favour of the easy luxury of a royal carriage, equipped with all of the comforts which which befit a man of his standing, with two of his kingsguard standing by to serve at his whim. In his stead, it was his brother Renly who rode at the head of the royal procession, adorned in the armour of the Royal House, and looking every bit the King that Loras should be. Renly would make a good king, Loras had often contemplated. He was younger than Loras by a few years, yet already had a few inches upon his brother, and he was charming and charismatic besides, a true man of the people. The thought made Loras scowl. Whispers were not uncommon within the Red Keep, and the idea that brother should replace brother was not foreign to Loras’ ears. He was reclusive, bitter, an absentee King. They would take his crown and leave him to die. Loras would not let them. He was King, no matter what they said, and he would endeavour to maintain that title, no matter the cost.


The rough trials of wheel against rock were enough to remove Loras from his musings, the pain of seared flesh cutting deeper than any paranoid anger. Pain was not something Loras liked to deal with. He gestured to one of his knights to give him relief, a movement very well known by any of those serving the King, and the knight procured a small vial of pure white liquid, crassly pulling off the stopper with a look of muted disappointment before handing it to his charge. Loras knew that look. It was a look echoed in the faces of all those close enough to know him well. They thought him weak, a coward who drowned out his pain with ungodly substance rather than facing it head on like a man. Perhaps they were right. But Loras didn’t care. Pain was pain, and he did not much like to think about it.


He raised the vile to his lips, allowing himself to feel the sensation of the thick liquid pouring down his throat before swallowing a large gulp. Milk of the Poppy. Ambrosia of the Gods. At one point in his life, this would have been enough to send him into a deep sleep, a few solid hours of blissful ignorance of the outside world, but repeated consumption had left the effects muted somewhat. Not that they were not still potent.


A smile formed upon Loras’ lips as the world started the fade away, a slight blur descending upon his mind, obscuring some of realities harsh truths. He was fine. Everything was going to be fine.


The rest of the journey was completed in muffled glee, the royal host of House Baratheon of King’s Landing arriving outside the gates of Harrenhal with all of the grandeur one would expect of a King. Drums beat, trumpets tooted, and the sound of wild hooves could be heard for many miles.


“All rise for his grace. Loras of the House Baratheon, Fourth of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. His excellency, the King!”


The Loras who emerged from the carriage was a far cry from the one whom had gloomily sat inside it only moments before. Whilst the previous man had been dour and angry, this one was seemed content, and at ease. He pulled himself from the carriage with the spry of a much more agile man, though it was obvious from the cane that he clutched between his fingers that he still had great trouble with mobility.


“Please, my Lord. I oversell me. Here in the Kingdom of our great neighbor I am King of but four Kingdoms, not seven.” A false sentiment from a false man. A mind clouded enough to cover the pride and vanity that usually occupied it. “I come here to wed a daughter of the North. To forge an alliance with our ancient friends.” His words were slurred slightly, though it was doubtful anyone would notice. Few knew much about the King in the south. Fewer still had heard him speak. This would mark one of his first public appearances since his great accident. And what an impression he would make? Better the jolly fool than the self pitying hermit.

 

[Braddington]

Lord Durran Baratheon
Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Lord of Storm’s End
​

Perhaps, once upon a time, the idea of such a journey across the Crownlands and into the fertile slaughter ground that was the Riverlands would have been of little interest to him. Nothing more than a waste of time he could of used practising a new parry, riding a brand new horse, reading a newly written book. Whatever the distraction was, such things no longer interested him as much as they once did. Sitting in judgement over every minor dispute in the Stormlands was now his role, discussing whether Lord Selmy is half an acre too deep into Lord Dondarrion’s land, whether he should take a squire from Lord Swann’s many sons. Tedious, monotonous simplicity. Yet, some part of him did enjoy it, some part of him basked in it. Savoured it. The role his father would have brought down armies to stop from passing to him, now lay in his hands. And it felt good. A role that befitted the descendant of tw- one King. Whether he was actually ready for it was another thing entirely, and he knew that all too well. So, little trips such as these, taking in the countryside and travelling to places unseen were now welcome bits of respite and relaxation. There was an odd complexity to the trees, to the roads and to the grass of the nearby fields. More complexity than he could assign his own vassals even.

Lord Durran rode on with his assembled knights, his procession speeding down the King’s Road like a company riding to war. A good test for the horses, and a bit of fun for the men after days of relatively boring travel. Was a race very Lordly? Probably not. But then again, who cared? Who was going to challenge it? How could he be Lord worthy of loyalty if he didn’t give in to the common instincts of men every once in a while? A good justification, he thought to himself as his horse overtook Estermonts youngest, a chuckle and a smirk escaping his lips as the lad charged forward once more as determined as every one of his line seemed to be over minor matters. Looking ahead towards the leader of the group, into the distance, the towers of Harrenhal stood grasping into the sky, a monstrous castle for a monstrous King. Then with his eyes angling down a bit more, the figure he truly cared to make out appeared. The head of his Household Guard, Ser Eldon Horpe, charging at the head of the pack. If he didn’t do something now, the man would have a clear shot to the castle and victory.

His pace increased, up until this point having allowed the horse to go at a steady pace, not pushing it too hard so he had enough energy for one last push such as this. With a grunt and a tap the figure approached slowly, but surely, the castle seeming to extend even higher the more he pushed his stallion on. Like something out of a nightmare being dragged into the real world. Horpe, clearly losing momentum, began to slow down, if he wanted it, victory would have been his. But he didn’t want it. As soon as he saw the other begin to falter, he allowed his own horse to bring itself back to it’s steady pace, right behind his captain. Feigning his own exhaustion to allow the fiery headed knight to win. It didn’t take long for the gate of the castle and human activity to be upon them, Eldon making it to the finish not a second before his Lord, practically falling off his horse. Durran sat atop his own, a smile wide as he looked behind him to the see the rest of them approaching quickly.

“Congratulations, Eldon! I thought I had you there, stupid horse must not have followed my direction. I will get you one day.” He spoke aloud, strongly, as if he wasn’t just as exhausted. The other riders having now arrived, clutching at their armour.

“Ay, my Lord. And when that happens I will be in my late seventies with nine children scrubbing my chamber pots.” Came the response, the man clearly knowing he was beaten, but also knowing when to project humour and strength among his subordinates. Whether it was truly his victory or not.

A man came rushing towards the riders, in finery that belonged on a Lord, but with a swagger that clearly showed he was not one. A crowd had gathered around them, staring in awe toward the Baratheon, the black stag on a yellow background adorning his armour as the banner carriers arrived.

“Are you...the King? Your Grace, I thought you had already arrived. Forgive my ignorance. I shall have arrangements made at once.” The man got on one knee, the smallfolk around them all noticing the banner, the jet black hair of the rider, the striking purple eyes, and each beginning to kneel as well.

One of the riders with him began to laugh, quickly being silenced by a back hand from Ser Eldon. Durran took a moment to take it all in, noticing the respect in all of their lowered eyes, the reverence they showed the man they thought was the King of the South. It was exhilarating, intoxicating and natural. He was not the King, however, no matter how hard he wanted to be at that moment. He looked down toward the man, “I am sure he already has. Durran Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, at your service.”

The man quickly rose, a gasp escaping his lips, as the peasants all rose in confusion, unsure but being waved away and dispersing back into their duties. “I apologise, my Lord. The banners you see, it can get most confusing. Forgive my ignorance, I beg of you.”

Durran nodded toward him, almost grateful the servant had allowed him his moment, even if he could not show such gratitude, “Think nothing of it. I see no other camps set up, does that mean we are the second to have arrived? We Baratheons are most speedy indeed.”

The man nodded, gesturing his hand towards an open field in the distance next to the castle, “That is where your Lordship has been assigned. Your retainers can set up there.” It was a ridiculous amount of space for the twenty or so men he had brought with him, perhaps space there for another hundred and eighty at a minimum. He wasn’t about to complain about too much space, however, and looked over towards his men, “Best go set up camp then. Estermont, Wensington, make sure it’s done right. Don’t want a repeat of the Tourney at Tumbleton.” A bit of theater that was sure to haunt him for years to come. Who knew fires could get out of hand so quickly? He looked towards the man once more, a thankful if dismissive tone to his voice, “Thank you, ser. I am sure we can manage from here on out. If any Stormlords arrive, do send them my way. Oh, that goes doubly for the Lord Lannister, I have business to discuss with him.” The servant quickly hurried off with a bow, Durran making his way towards where his men were already assembling their tents, lending a hand as he waited for company he hoped would arrive soon.

TYPE

(If it looks janky, just know I do all this on dark mode. See if that fixes it!)​

​

 

[wachook]

Alyn Baelish, Acting Lord of Harrenhal

Alyn had been up before dawn; or rather, had stayed up throughout the night. Only the exceptionally foolish would sleep on a day where they were to play host to not just one, but two kings. Not that they were all of his worries—just the biggest of them. They would not travel alone—each monarch would undoubtedly bring dozens of cohorts with them: soldiers, bards, cooks, hunters, friends, and family. Perhaps even a rare specimen from across the seas to show off in court. They’d even attract a trail of camp followers on their way to Harrenhal… then came the lords.

There were few who would miss the hundredth year of peace between the Kingdom of the North and the Iron Throne and Alyn’s household was expected to house and feed and entertain them all—all without a major incident erupting within the castle. He had spent weeks researching even the most lowest of lords and by now, had devised a seating plan that would minimize contact with old wounds. For the truly bitter, Alyn had made sure to stock the larder with strong drink. He knew why they had chosen Harrenhal for the royal wedding. The keep could house an entire army inside her walls and it was an army that marched for her ruined gates, albeit armed with curiosity and healthy appetites instead of spears. For years, they’d all scoffed at her melted walls. And now they were clamouring to get inside.

“Alyn. Are you awake?”

He turned to see his younger sister at the door.

“What do you think?” She twirled, showing off the feathers embedded in her dress. “Look! Mother said it took months for them to get it right.”

“You look very pretty.”

“Do you really think so?” She laughed. “Should I wear the golden necklace or the one from last year?”

“Ask Rowena. She’ll know better than I.” He stood up stiffly and stretched. It would soon be morning. “What are you doing up so early?”

“I had to! Everyone’s coming to our castle, you know. It’s all so exciting—how could anyone sleep?”

“I don’t know. I expect he’ll be asleep.” Alyn shrugged on a fur cloak. It had once belonged to his great-grandmother, Sansa Stark. Although the thought had occurred to him that he’d appear to be favouring the Kingdom of the North, he was after all, a subject of his king—Ander Stark. They’d chosen Harrenhal because of her size, not her neutrality…

“Are you still angry with him?”

“No.” Try as he might, his limp was still visible in his stride. He left for the courtyard, his sister’s voice babbling in his ear. “Do you know,” he said, “I believe Rowena would appreciate your help.”

“Oh, she’s just getting a bath! I told her to hurry up but she wouldn’t listen.”

“She must be done by now.” Alyn panted. He felt stupid for leaving his cane behind in his room. The problem with Harrenhal was her stairs. He brushed off her concerned and outstretched arm and leant on the stone wall.

“Alyn?”

“I’m fine.”

“… Do you need me to speak for you tod—”

“No.” His tone was rougher than intended. “Today’s an important ceremony, Bethany. I must be the one to do this. Father left me in charge of Harrenhal. I have to.”

“Okay.”

“Just go and wake the others. The sun’s almost up. They’ll be here soon.” He started down the stairs again, swallowing down a curse as he walked. “Oh, and Bethany?”

“I know, I know! Their sigils are the wolf and stag and their names are—”

“Ach, go on then if you’re so clever. I’ll meet you all at the main gate—do not be late.”

Alyn’s face was flushed when he arrived at the courtyard. He called for a chair to sooth his aching leg and while he was at it, a cloth and water to wipe off his sweat. The reflection in the bucket looked little like a lord—at best, a little lord. At worst… well, there was no time to dwell on it. He dashed the water with his hand. He could hear a distant clamour, a swell of cheers and chatter beyond the gates. He struggled to his feet as his siblings gathered before him—just in time too, otherwise his brother would never let him hear the end of it.

“You know your places.” His throat suddenly felt very dry. “Do as I’ve said and our House will come out of this for the better. Open the gates.”

There was silence and then his brother shouted, “Open the gates!”

They opened. Harrenhal received the king of the Iron Throne; a Baratheon had come before her again.

“Your Grace.” Alyn was painfully aware of how high-pitched his voice was compared to the southron king. In the courtyard, his voice echoed against the walls and bounced back at him in a mocking whisper. “I am Alyn of the house Baelish, Acting Lord of Harrenhal. My father sends you his deepest regards and regrets that he could not be present but for his illness, as does my lady mother. These are my siblings: Oswin, Rowena, and Bethany. We welcome you to our castle and plead that you treat it as home.”

He looked around; his scouts gave no signal of the Northern King’s arrival.

“There is no need to wait in the courtyard for King Stark to come. Please, come inside away from the sun. Your chambers have been set up in the Kingspyre. Or, if you are hungry from the road—the great hall is just ahead.”

 

[TYPE]

Lord Lucien Lannister
- o -​

The makeshift camp they were in seemed more that of a layabout troupe of Braavosi mummers than the Lannister Host. Lounging languidly against a tree stump set aside the River Road, heading east towards Harrenhall - Lord Lucien felt his face forgo his normally impassive facade, a bright smile gracing his lips as he heard his party fight among themselves. His own attention, currently on a piece of wood in his hands - his eyes following the dealthy sharp blade as it cut away at the wood, moved towards them.

Two of them, bright blonde heads seemed to be swimming naked in the river - trying to get their shared paramour who lay on the sandy bank, watching them. They had been fighting over her for years now, the one on the left with the scar over his right shoulder a master flautist, the other, and his brother two years his senior, a master on the hand drum. The woman, with her dark skin so very different than theirs, her long black hair splayed around her - was perhaps one of the most celebrated voices of the age. As the two boys begged her to come into the water, he smirked as she sighed, dramatically, loudly, before getting up, letting her dress fall the ground around her, before walking into the water - where the two almost immediately started to attend to her needs.

Lucien rolled his eyes, as a bard who had been strumming a lute for the party whistled loudly at the scene, walking over to indulge his own perversions. If the man had not been an orator bar none, capable of wooing a crowd whichever way he wished - Lucien may have had very little patience with his own particular eccentricities. Sitting not far from where the man had been, was a man with long grey hair and a short, unkempt beard. He had been the reason for the stop, having insisted that he needed to do a still life of the river. Now, he was in his own world, sitting with a small easel, his adoring wife sitting next to him, kissing his cheek every few moments - pointing out things which he immediately added to his painting.

She had been a spy, sent from the south - something Lucius knew of the moment she arrived. She had been told to get close to him, and the only man that had been with Lucius since his youth was the painter. And so she, without ever having seen his work pretended to be utterly infatuated. Her first, and really... only mistake. No one found him interesting. His work was the only redeeming quality the man had. And what quality it was... Lucien felt himself smile, closing his eyes, peace settling within his shoulders. To Lucien, the man was worth the collective lords from all the Northern houses on that alone. It was appropriate that when she saw it, she fell in love, admitted her task - expecting exile, only to get a spot in Lucien's clique. It was a very interesting time indeed.

"You making another stag again? Should I be worried?" Lucien looked up, the warm sun suddenly cut off as a tall woman stood next to him. Her dark hair and broad shoulders giving her a grave look as she peered at him.

"No, I am not going to kill a Baratheon. We don't do that anymore." Even as Lucien said it, the blade seemed to slip, cutting a gash across the stag's neck. Rolling his eyes, he gripped the thing, before throwing it into the river. Unfinished. Ruined.

"That's the... sixth? Right? Sixth one you made? Five stags. One burnt. Second crushed. Third looked more like a dog anyway, and was tossed in the river two days ago. Fourth seemed okay, but was left at the previous camp because five replaced it. And now you slit and drowned six." Her eyes narrowed. "I hope you kept five. I kinda liked that one."

Lucien smiled, nodding towards the cart. "Yes. It's there. I will be keeping that one. What have you been up to?" He reached out towards her, as she pulled him up, dusting off his back for him as he did the same with the seat of his pants.

"Just contemplating some hunting to be done. I am hungry." She peered at him, looking around - spotting the Lannister Guards - standing a good way away - knowing not to interfere or interrupt anything the clique were up to.

"These are not our lands. We could not possibly." Even as he said it, he felt his fingers twitch for his bow. It would be fun. He had not had a good hunt in a while. He had not shot and killed something in months. He had just been so busy... perhaps they could indulge. He looked up at her, smirking as he saw her own smirk gracing her face. She knew she had him.

"Come on, I know you wish it, my Lord. No one will know. Which means it could not possibly be wrong... right?" She stepped forward before they both heard a throat clear behind them. Sitting on the opposite side of the tree sat a man in loose, foreign-looking robes. His eyes closed. Meditating. Without opening his eyes he continued. "Right and wrong are not determined by those who would seek to police them, but by those whom would be policed. An evil act done with the ignorance of the law remains evil. A good act done anonymously remains good." Lucius smiled as she rolled her eyes, walking over towards him, growling at the man, his bald head glinting in the sunlight.

"None of that crap. I don't want you policing my fun! You know well enough that while a lord may claim ownership of all in his land, he does not have first-hand knowledge of all the assets within it. He has assumed ownership over supposed assets. Which is a fundamentally flawed position! you cannot claim that which may be!" The man on the ground raised a non-existent brow, a small smile, before firing back a retort. Lucien ignored them as he walked away from their debate, knowing it could take hours to get nowhere.

As he neared the painter, a horse arrived. Its hooves heavy, as a short man with fuzzy black curls and dark hair, jumped off, rushing over, kneeling before Lucien. "My lord. The Baratheon horde was seen charging towards Harrenhall. They will have arrived by now." Lucien raised a brow, before looking up, squaring his shoulders, clearing his throat.

"Assemble the party. We move out in five. Get out of the river you lot." He looked over towards the painter, with a small smile of regret."I am sorry my friend, but we will have to leave now. I have a meeting." The man looked up, before nodding, getting his things, getting in the carriage, before simply continuing his work, his wife helping him - now reminding him of details he may have forgotten, her own nearly perfect memory easily recalling every bit of detail he wished to capture.

"Rila, get the horses ready and move out. I will go ahead with Dorran." The large woman nodded, moving away from her debating partner, who also got up and moved towards a few horses which had been drinking at the riverside. Dorran, the frizzy-haired scout got back onto his horse, as Lucien did the same, casting a large grey cloak over his shoulders and blonde hair. "We meet at Harrenhall." His voice, loud and strong rushed over the camp, before with thunder of hooves he was gone. Intense speed pushing him after Dorran who was only a few paces ahead of him.

Soon the tree line thinned, the road became wider and before long - Lucien could spot the distant fortress. Had they not stopped, they may have beaten the Baratheons to the Keep. Even from the distance, Lucien could appreciate the ruin that it was. Surely on the brink of the repair, most of it was still very much... disturbingly macabre. As they reached the edge of the forest itself, both stopped, Dorran looking back.

"There my Lord. To the side. The tents. They are setting up there." Lucien nodded, before turning his horse. "Thank you, my friend. I will see you soon. Have the party set up camp. I will find you. Jallen speaks for me. Keep him in line." The scout frowned, hearing the name of the bard, but nodded regardless. "Safe travels, my Lord. Oh, before I forget." He reached into his pocket, taking out a small carving of a stag. Imperfect. Kind of ugly, holding it out gently towards Lucien. "You have improved a lot, my Lord." Taking the stag with no words, he nodded.

With that, Lucien was away, his own horse - a sleek thing with almost no needless weight on her, carrying a rider with no significant armour - almost flew across the grass, the long grey cloak in the wind behind Lucien. Before long he could see the camp being set up, the large tent he knew well already. Slowing her down somewhat, he pulled to the side, moving her across the soft grass - keeping her behind low hills and the general brush. Before long he could see the men, which prompted him to stop her and get off. Taking a wide detour around the camp, he approached from the side, as if doing so from the Keep itself. Striding past the men setting up the tents, he made his way towards the largest.

He almost thought he would make it, but before he could enter, a large man with black hair and a scowl had him stop. "Who goes there? What is your purpose here?" His eyes narrowed at the blonde hair, as Lucien put on a smile, easing into his normal charming self. "Hail! I come with gifts to be. Tis my duty, as is the duty of your host - to ensure not only the comfort of the Lords at our guest! But also their men!" With a general flourish, he waved his hand over the camp. "While the master of ceremonies will be ensuring food and music... I deal with those urges and needs most primal men to desire - yet frown on in..." He leaned forward. "polite conversation."

The man frowned, clearly taken aback. Not giving him a chance. "I am here to speak to your leader as to the procurement of some of the Riverland's most favoured wenches and wines for the honourable guard of the house Baratheon. I had wished to keep this a surprise for the men, a worthy reward for a successful campaign from the south. But alas, now... they will all know. And the sweet pleasure of surprise will be lost on them." Making sure to seem extra down, he looked at the man as if helpless.

The guard's eyes widened, before stepping forward. "No! It is good. Lord Baratheon is in his tent. There. And we, the company would be most appreciative of such considerations!" The man mumbled the long words, clearly not used to them, as Lucien smiled. "Then I am away. Till tonight! Where I shall send the best, for the tall, strong and most dashing of the Baratheon guardsmen!" He gestured to the guard, before walking past - stopping again. "It would not do to have me present myself with a horse to a lord. Mind keeping her for me, in the meander?" The man nodded, taking her reigns, as Lucien turned, and walked toward the tent - looking around quickly, winking at the guard, before entering.

"Damn... that was exhausting," Lucien smirked, before turning around towards Lord Durran Baratheon. "Now... I brought you a gift." As he spoke, he took out the stag, looking up into the man's purple eyes, a smile replacing his smirk.

- Braddington

 

[LadyOfStars]

Lord Clovis Tyrell
Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of The Reach, Warden of The South

Such a wedding was a special occasion. Harrenhal isn’t too far. Those were just a few of the excuses the Lord of Highgarden gave to his siblings when they attempted to persuade him from attending the wedding. The wedding was a rare chance to be in the presence of his peers without bad news being the cause for their gathering so he didn’t want to miss this opportunity. On top of that if he stayed behind he risked being compared to those elderly lords that were unable to attend because of their age. House Tyrell was very much still in the great game and Clovis wanted to prove that.

Weeks had been dedicated to preparation for his trip to ensure that things would go smoothly should his illness decide to flare up. A new carriage was crafted to fit at least eight people, outfitted with cushioned seats to offer maximum comfort, double-paned glass windows to keep the cold air out, and the House Tyrell flower emblazoned on all four doors of the carriage. A second, smaller carriage was also obtained for the sole purpose of transporting luggage and belongings. With weeks to the event Clovis had the cartographers plot the fastest route to their destination and then had the roads tended to and constantly surveyed. The preparations themselves were becoming an expense, but they were a planned expense, along with the gift that he intended to deliver.

The day of his departure was hectic, despite all of the planning that he had done to ensure it wasn’t so. Several times he had to remind his sister that she was in charge and reassure her that the advisors would help her take care of The Reach should anything come up. As Clovis bid his siblings fairwell a party of two physicians, four nurses, and a single servant climbed into the custom carriage. The seven of them were tasked with the endless job of tending to their lord’s health while they were away.

As they departed early that morning Clovis had to be wrapped in two fur cloaks, neither one made from wolf or stag. The party was accompanied on the road by three dozen of the best fighters under his jurisdiction. It was excessive in his opinion, but his chosen heir insisted that so many attend Clovis. Luckily they had restored and maintained the roads so travel was much easier than it would have been for the large group. Like thunder the sound of hooves destroyed the scenic serenity of the villages and forests that the road took them through, all through the day and through the night. Oddly enough it wasn’t until they stopped during the night that Clovis woke up. The sound of stampeding horses had long been a common ambient noise to him with his father having attempted to improve upon Wilas’ trade. He was updated on their position and with a dismissive wave they set off again towards their destination.

That morning the young Lord awoke feeling sick and the carriage of medical personnel were all too eager to assist him. The servant that accompanied them had a good laugh at the sight of four nurses checking Clovis’ condition and two physicians trying to determine what they should do. It took nearly an hour to convince them all it was just nausea and nothing to worry about.

“M’Lord! Harrenhal is just ahead!” The announcement came as a blessing to Clovis’ ears and even excited him a bit. The other seven occupants of the carriage were starting to wear his patience thin and he needed to escape from them all. As the road joined with Harrenhal’s main road, Clovis inhaled deeply and stared out the window. Already he could see tents raised and elaborate suits of armor. The servant seated across from him was the only person to notice the pale color of their Lord’s hands, suggesting that he was cold. It wasn’t her place to diagnose him though so she remained quiet.

When the carriage finally came to a stop and his soldiers neatly lined up nearby, Clovis’ door opened and the dark haired woman helped him out. His cold hands sent chills up her arm, but she didn’t say anything still. “Thank you, Sara.” He patted her shoulder and gazed up at the lingering beauty of Harrenhal. The castle that refused to fall, it would be here long after any of them if it had a say in anything. From the tallest tower his eyes darted downward to the troops situated about the base of the grand structure. Lannister, Baratheon, and now Tyrell soldiers were present.

“Captain.” Clovis called faintly. A man clad in golden armor quickly approached and bowed to his Lord. “Begin setting up your camp, but please spare us some men to help move our things into the castle.” He pointed to the second carriage which had just arrived behind the last of the soldiers.

“Right away, Lord Tyrell.” The older man sharply replied before he started to hand out orders to the men, ten of which were told to deliver the luggage to the castle. Clovis sighed and looked around the grounds, observing their surroundings and all that was going on.

“Lord Tyrell, we need to get you inside and adjust your attire for the weather.” One of the nurses spoke up, which made Sara feel more at ease. Now she wouldn’t have to be the one to bring it up.

“I suppose so.” He replied with hushed voice. “Sara. Please stick with the men, be their eyes when they go to move the gift.” Clovis glanced over at the large gift that stood on the back of the second carriage, covered by a thick blanket. “We can’t gift something that’s broken so be careful with it.” When she nodded to show she understood his worries, Clovis called for his nurses and physicians and the group started towards the castle. He could feel the cold creeping closer to the center of his body and knew he had put on enough of a show for those present.​

 

[Mors]

King Loras IV Baratheon​

A ghastly smile was retained upon Loras’ lips as the acting Lord of Harrenhal introduced himself to the royal procession, more worrisome than inviting, though in his current state, the King would be loathe to tell the difference. On a normal day, Loras would be eager to be done with the formalities that came with displaying himself to the court, preferring instead the comfort of solitude where there was no one to judge him for his inadequacies, and no one to plot his demise, however presently, he was appropriately inebriated to forgo his usually prickly nature. He was the most powerful man on the continent, and the people expected him to put on a show, he supposed he should oblige them.


“The Lords of the South thank you for your hospitality, Lord Baelish. I do hope that we do not intrude upon your home.” Baelish hadn’t knelt. It was a small thing, but it did no go unnoticed by the Baratheon King. Back in King’s Landing he was used to everyone from the most humble peasant to the highest lord tripping over themselves to offer him praise and fealty, at least that is what they claimed to his face, but here he received nothing. It was to be expected, he supposed, his domains did not stretch across the River Trident as had been the case in the days of King Robert I, though that did not make the change any more palatable. “I am sorry to hear about the illness of your Lord father. I would wish him swift recovery.”


As he spoke, Loras hobbled over to Baelish, a purposeful hobble, but a hobble nonetheless, his hands clasped firmly around a finely carved oaken cane, the only thing standing between the King and the woes of gravity. “It is pleasant to be greeted by such a model Northern family.” He bowed his head in respect to the Baelish girls, offering Alyn himself a solid pat upon the shoulder, two heavily armoured Kingsguard knights flanking him all the while.


In the time that it took the King to acquaint himself with the ruling family of Harrenhal, the rest of the royal Baratheon host had began to trail behind, hurrying to unload the various packages and assorted goods they had brought with them. The first to arrive was Crown Prince Renly, still ahorse as he trotted calmly through the gates, armed and armoured in such a fashion that it looked as if he had arrived to a battle rather than a wedding.


The next guest of honour was Loras’ sister, Cass, who was helped delicately out of her carriage by one of her many favourites, the young Princess offering her brother a smirk as some burley knight whose name Loras didn’t know took her by the hand and escorted her to her brother’s side. She was adorned in an array of furs, fox-fur mostly, but there was the unmistakable shades of wolf in her billowing shawl. Loras had advised her against it, of course, so too had the Lord Hand, and half of the court, but Cassana Baratheon was a difficult woman to control, and she cared little for causing offence.


“Dear brother. Sweet sister.” Loras gave his siblings a cursory nod as they formed up behind him, ready to enter the keep. The progeny of King Orys I Baratheon. At least, the ones who remained. It was rare for them to be gathered together like this. Loras was always recluse. Renly had some duty or other to attend to, and spent most his days within his own fortress of Dragonstone. Cass kept herself occupied by entertaining the men of the court. A sorry sight, Loras thought, the remnants of House Baratheon of King’s Landing.


Loras’ elder siblings had died young, cut down before they could truly grow into their own men, but Loras imagined them often. They were like him, tall, dark haired, royal, but somehow, they were… better. Rob wouldn’t have allowed such an injury ruin his life. Ory wouldn’t be pushed around by his court. They were strong. Stronger than Loras would ever be, and they were twice the man he was.


Loras frowned, fumbling with his doublet for a moment before he procured the same white vial as before, bringing it to his lips to bring out the last few drops. The last drops of relief.


His mind was once again clear.


“I shall have my men allocate my possessions to the appropriate chambers.” He gestured to some servants to begin hauling his things up to Harrenhal’s towers. “But I must take you up on your offer of refreshment. I have not eaten much upon the road, and I would gladly sup with the noble men of Harrenhal. Now is a time of merriment.” He once again offered Baelish a the cursory courtesy, before following the man’s directions towards the Great Hall, his own host, half of King’s Landing’s great court, following behind him.

wachook

 

[Kassandra Rose]

Princess Aliana Stark
​

It was, at best, an abraded bridleway and an enervating journey for the men of House Stark. Yet, to Aliana, the ride to Harrenhal was a path of thorough reflection. In less fettered days, the young princess would have swept her eyes along the mossy mounds, which trailed the path, and envisioned a great escapade. Such fabrication seemed an impossibility now, for she lacked both the clarity of mind and heart to pursue her imaginations. Indeed, fantasy had succumbed to the cruel realities of life, of her imposed destiny being both woman and princess: marriage. As a naive child, the world had once been but a map awaiting the ink of her quill and the feat of her exploration. The future was but a story awaiting to be written, like the greatest histories that graced the shelves of The Citadel itself. Now — oh, now — she had resigned the narration of her life from her own hand into the supposed wisdom of her superiors, men.

She supposed this was how it felt to have sold one’s soul. Perchance such an ordeal would actually be less painful. For, then, she would not be subject to the torments of unfulfilled hopes and petty daydreams. That was her biggest flaw — her greed — or so her mother had oft told her so. Yet, she failed to comprehend how the desire to see oneself as an emotional being with aspirations and needs was comparable to the disregard of those within proximity. Was it so ridiculous to compare oneself to a man? Did they not both have eyes to see with? A heart that beat, that hurt, that broke? Did they not both bleed when cut? Lash out when provoked? Were they not killed by the same poisons, the same blades, the same weapons? Propelled by the same riches and fortunes?

For certain, there were some very clear anatomical differences between man and woman. Even with her virtue, Aliana knew this. A woman bore babes, of course. Yet, did not the gift of giving life make these creatures all the more special? Veritably, the only thing that differentiated the value of both... species, if you must, was the law of man. And, it did not take a Maester to understand where unobjectivity came into play there. Nonetheless, laws were viciously protected with violent physicalities — another anatomical difference, she supposed. Men were built in such manner that they could outstand brute force, and exert their own wrath. They could dispute the law, in form of battle, often. Women could not.

Perhaps, she was greedy after all, but she was not maliciously so. The laws of men had been in place for a time that earned it a wisdom which she had no right to dispute. It kept food in the mouths of children, shelter over the heads of families, and order where there would otherwise be anarchy and chaos. Who was she to dispute something that worked for a great deal of people — lords, ladies, and servants alike — for a time that she could not even begin to fathom. It were these laws that had gifted her the most cherished moments of youth — the jousts, the luxurious celebrations, and bountiful feasts. She had been showered in a life of splendour, and now it would be that the laws required she pay her debts for such: submission.

So, she would comply, for the good of Westeros and all those who inhabited it — or, at least, for the good of The North. Nonetheless, Ander did not help, when it came to such formalities. As her king, he would inform her that this union was what was best. As her brother, unfortunately, he would lavishly jest at her expense, like how he had enduldged in ravaging meats less cooked and burnt than her betrothed. She supposed, frankly, there was no cure for being an ass — Kingship or not.

Steadying her horse, with a nudge to the side, Aliana picked up the pace to reach the side of her brother, who led their party as he ought. “I hope you’re not disinclined to company, dear brother. I had to navigate a little further forth. Frankly, I couldn’t see much further than your head. You know how it can be... eclipsing,” the Princess jested, knocking her horse a little into his own, an attempt to unsettle him. “I heard the wedding was grand,” she continued to taunt, licking her lips with mischievous anticipation. “It only happened two and twenty years formerly. ‘Twas a shame we couldn’t make it in time. You hit a personal best at speed and everything! Ah, well... better luck next time, I suppose”.

Rusty of Shackleford​

 

[Rusty of Shackleford]

King Bryce Stark
The Black Wolf, The Shaggy King

Bryce wasn't very happy about this arrangement either. For his entire life, he had been carefully groomed and trained to be the greatest ruler he could be. From day one, his father had egged him constantly that he was to do as his ancestors did. Govern the North like his father's before him, to marry the sister of Lord Karstark, and that his sister was to marry King Loras. The first two were okay with Ander. He had always intended to do his best to be a good ruler, and he had accepted that marriage was not for love a long time ago. But his sister...marrying that broken, burnt excuse of a man disgusted him. To think that she would belong to that blackened slab of meat until either he died, or she did made him want to vomit. Despite their differences, Ander loved his sister. He couldn't imagine a world without her. And now she would be gone, only seen once every few months at best. Just thinking about it made him tighten the grip on his reigns. He despised King Loras will every ounce of his being. But, he was King, and he didn't want another war with the South. So, he did nothing, even if he hated himself for it.

Ander was flung out of his intense bit of brooding by his sister, the man chuckling as he said, "Well, you were quite slow. Any slower, and it would have been winter by the time Mother had a break." He rode beside her, his grip loosening, his muscles unclenching. He was obviously happy now. As twins, they could easily tell how the other was feeling just by how they acted and carried themselves. Despite their constant bickering, there was a deep respect and affection between them, despite their mother's wishes. He still remembered the day he broke that damned sword...He cursed his mother for separating them. Same for his father for trying to "toughen him up." Regardless, he smirked, saying, "Hey, Sister...want to race? It's been too long since I've properly thrashed you in competition." He couldn't keep a straight face, the fond memories of their childhood all coming back to him. Even if he didn't win, it would still alleviate the tension a bit.

Kassandra Rose​

 

[Kassandra Rose]

Princess Aliana Stark
​

The corners of her rose petal lips tugged almost immediately upwards, in a smile that met her cerulean eyes. Call it a twin thing but, her brother never failed to understand her, or to bring the light back to where it felt there could only be abysmal darkness.

“Are you sure you don’t wish to save yourself the embarrassment, brother?” Alia retorted, raising a bemused eyebrow at Ander, with a quick glance to the procession behind them. “I’ll give you a head start, if you so wish. Perhaps, that may be enough to preserve your dignity?” Though rather mouthy, the young princess’s words were little but that, words. Her brother, in her experience, was a mettlesome horseman. All the same, having been deprived of the luxuries, such as riding lessons — one of their mother’s desperate attempts to salvage the lady within her daughter — Aliana had taken to lessons with her older brother. This meant everything that she knew, it all came from him. There were very few tricks he had up his sleeve against her.

Excitement growled in the depths of her stomach, a small beast that could not be qualmed. Oh, their mother would be turning where she rested at the sight of her daughter — a lady — thrashing about at unearthly speeds on horseback in an attempt to defeat her brother, the King. Forsooth, even Ander himself, whose very ass was praised as though it were the sun which sustained all forms of life, would be merrily disappointing their father — who, perhaps, had a rather more stern and traditional stance on how a King ought to act. Clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, Aliana urged her horse to “giddyap” pulling the reigns against it’s side in an effort to prompt.

“If I win, Ander-“ the crazed lady leant over her shoulder, to steal a glance at the King, whom was already growing small in distance. Cupping the side of her face with her spare hand, she attempted to levy her volume. “If I win, Ander,” she repeated, “you must forfeit your rights to dub me Slowpoke ever again!” An airy laugh engulfed the air, like the warmth of a honey bee buzzing against the sweetness of a mid-summer’s day breeze. The young princess, closed her eyes, sucking in the freshness of the outdoors, and what could be her last moments as a free woman, not yet known to the shackles and tyranny of men.

Harrenhal had begun to introduce itself to the procession, or at least to Alia. The bridleway began to shift form into something that resembled civilised cobblestone, and from the mounds stone had begun to rise. It was hard, indeed, to not lose all of her wits at once as the mere colossal size of the castle. Allured, she leant forth into the horse, in an effort to get a better glimpse at the prominent beauty that appeared to scratch the skies themselves, her grip loosened upon her reigns. The prompting of the horse lessened until there was little but silence lingering amongst the air. In a moment of what can only be considered childish excitement, or a grave and foolish mistake, the Princess attempted to turn in such a manner that appeared to startle the noble creature, which let out a deafening screech as it fell back upon its hind legs.

Aliana, who had been as foolish as to release the beast, battled to regain control, promptly grasping for the reigns, which slipped through her hands with a burning speed. Fearing her life, the Stark gave a final tug, redeeming enough hold to lessen her fall, but not enough to conquer the beast. She was, inevitably, flung back. It happened all at once, and yet almost felt as though it had lasted for an eternity. The time she flew threw the air before sharply impacting the ground must’ve been but mere milliseconds — and yet, when strewn upon the ground, she’d almost felt as though she’d forgotten what it felt like to be there. By the old gods, this wasn’t supposed to happen!

At least she hadn’t let out a girlish shriek — or, if she had, she could not recall doing so. There was no alarming, instantaneous, pain, though she knew better than to presume none was done. People had lost the ability to walk by lesser means. Goodness, if we’re to lose the ability to walk and that of her freedom all in one go... why, she scarcely felt she could cope, nor live a single day longer. As she scrambled to regain her dignity, however, grasping at the stone walls of the mustering bridge to mount herself up, Alia found that the Gods had gifted her mercy. Her legs were fine, and both her arms, if not a little bruised and sore. If anything, all she had to fear for, it would appear, was her ego... and a whole lot of taunting from her ass of a brother.

Rusty of Shackleford ​

 

[BELIAL.]

Lady Ciona Arryn

Defender of the Vale

​

Two years hadn't been enough to grieve her mother and brother. It hadn't been long enough to transition her into ruling, either, despite the ravens of reassurance she sent to her cousins and uncle. It wasn't a total lie that things were allegedly going swimmingly. But it was a lie that Ciona wasn't slowly cracking under the pressure. Maester Cerwiden had been her calm in the storm, helping her to balance all the duties of ruling the Vale. There was a significant amount of stress coming from her father's side of the family. They wanted Ciona to marry; they wanted Ciona to fill the large shoes that her brother and her father had carved for the Lord (now, Lady) of the Eyrie. The double edged sword that they sent her weekly was leaning heavily on the idea that she let a cousin rule in her stead ("Temporarily, until Lady Ciona be of a suitable candidate to run the realm"). It was a brutal reality that her family would so quickly stick their swords in her, rather than grieve with their cousin.

But no, men with power just out of their grasp would often fight for that power, and drag anyone down who got in the way. Lest their genitals by slain by the sheer prospect of not being wholly in control.

Were it anyone else, she would concede. If her brother were alive, she would have done anything for him. But the festering resentment in her heart clouded her grief. Two years and she still hated that Lys had been so foolish as to fight recklessly. So foolish as to nearly kill his squire, and so foolish as to kill himself. She resented that he had left her, and she was even more angry that her mother had jumped ship so quickly after Lysander's death. Lady Edaline and Ciona had been close in her youth, but upon growing older and noticing how driven and interested in politics Ciona had been, her mother grew weary of her presence. Ciona knew it, and she knew it was why her mother had died. A harsh thought, but the girl could not muster up any more sadness. Her very essence and sense of living had been drained following the funeral. She could not be sad anymore.

The carriage she rode in now she rode alone, and they were not far off from Harrenhal. Despite the proximity that Harrenhal was to the Vale, the journey had taken much longer. Were the Vale as flat and unassuming as other parts of Westeros, the journey would take mere hours. But coming from the Eyrie and descending had been several days of riding horseback until reaching the Bloody Gate, at least. Maester Cerwiden had been kind enough to escort Lady Ciona as far as there, mostly on account of her clinging to him like a babe to its mother.

She floundered, still, at the prospect of interacting with other nobles and making connections. It was on her, and her alone to represent her house. Her presence at Harrenhal was the same as the other noble houses-- to show their respect and loyalty. Yet, the prospect of going alone without Maester Ceridwen at her side made her stomach roll in knots. She felt nausea after departing from the Border, and it had persisted all the way to Harrenhal. Her fingers knitted knots in her dress and she tugged mercilessly at her heavy cloak. Sky blue, as one from House Arryn would. She looked over at her handmaid, quiet in the corner of the carriage and then quickly looked back out the window.

"Maester, is there anyway you could come with me? I know that someone has to watch the Eyrie but...Gods, I don't know if I can do this," Ciona had said, wringing her gloves in her palms. The Maester was an older man, who carried himself yet with the presence of a man half his age. He rose, chains clinking around his neck as he embraced the young lady.

"You know I cannot, but I know you are smart enough and brilliant enough to hold yourself against the other Lords and Ladies. My lady, you aren't uniting the Seven Realms... you are attending a wedding." He chuckled at her, eventually forcing a smile to crack Ciona's pale visage. They had hugged again, and Ciona had relished in the closeness of her pseudo-parent.

"We are approaching soon," Ciona said without looking at her handmaiden. "I believe Lord Baelish mentioned we would be able to stay in Harrenhal, thank the Gods for that. I'll need you at my side Anya," she took a moment to look back over at the waifish girl. It was a statement within itself, as she knew how prone to disappearing the girl was. "Someone to speak to, at the very least. If we're very lucky, we'll run into Ethamira... Forrester, you know? Were you around when she and Lysander were betrothed? Forgive me, my brain misplaces you at times-- quiet mouse that you are." The blonde often unnerved Ciona, but she stomached most of her feelings in favor of other more pressing matters. Once they arrived at Harrenhal, there would be a plethora of things to do in order to settle in. She hadn't been to Harrenhal in years, nor had she seen Lord Baelish in a while either. They'd have to catch up, as the families were friendly enough with each other.

She took a final look out the window, surveying their party and the Arryn banners that flicked gracefully in the wind. Summer was beautiful, and while Ciona enjoyed the Vale and its sights, she did oft miss the other parts of Westeros. Her fingers stopped doing nervous dances in her skirts, and she took a moment to intake the fresh air.

PolikShadowbliss

 

[PolikShadowbliss]

Anya Redfort​

They had been traversing the Aerie for a week now and Anya had long since become dreadfully bored. What started out as a welcome departure from the dreaded loneliness of the Vale has long since devolved into a monotonous trek across the mountains. She found herself falling asleep on more than one occasion, lulled to sleep by the mountain. Even the high view made her jaded, gone was the fear that she would suddenly fall off, gone was the tension. She found herself fingering her hair absentmindedly as she looked around at the now boring view at the innocuous passage. She looked upon Lady Arryn, taking in her red hair and nearly perfect features, and her heart leapt a bit in her chest, lounging itself in her throat. She breathed, pushing those abominable feelings aside as she stared down the mountain road.

"We are approaching soon," Mistress Ciona said without looking at her "I believe Lord Baelish mentioned we would be able to stay in Harrenhal, thank the Gods for that. I'll need you at my side Anya," Her mistress took that moment to actually look upon her, causing her stomach to twist. "Someone to speak to, at the very least. If we're very lucky, we'll run into Ethamira... Forrester, you know? Were you around when she and Lysander were betorthed? Forgive me, my brain misplaces you at times-- quiet mouse that you are."

That's because I'm intentionally that way. Being invisible is what I am good at. Anya gave no indications of her inner feelings, but instead kept her voice demure and quiet as she replied, "yes, I was there madam." I'm always there. You just keep forgetting I exist. I'm fine with that. No one pays attention to a ghost. She had been pressed into the Lady of the Vale's service by her bastardly father as a thinly veiled way to get rid of her as soon as her grandmother passed. So thinly veiled that her older sibling made no attempt to hide the fact that they were not going to miss her when she was gone. Fine, I'm not going to miss you either. She has since been her handmaiden for three years, and even still they were as distant as strangers and her Mistress didn't bother to hide her feelings toward her. In such sharp contrast to herself, who hides everything. In truth, she had misgivings about this wedding, but she didn't dare voice them, preferring instead to keep quiet. As for Lady Forrester, she found her to be friendly at the very least, though either it was genuine or not remains to be seen.

 

[idalie]

Lady Selyse Karstark & Lady Alysanne Karstark
​

“Mam, Ma, Ma,” The tugging on Selyse’s sleeve became impatient until she glanced down to her youngest. Edwyn had settled in her lap with his little carved horses, riding them up and down her arm until he began to wiggle about again. She sighed, parting his hair back to neaten up where it flicked and curled.
“Edwyn, you know you shan’t get an answer if you keep repeating yourself.” Came the exasperated scold, not quite forceful enough to hold any real weight, but one could easily detect her taxation from being thrown into a carriage with three children and a simmering sister-in-law.
The boy, swinging his legs out and throwing his head back into Selyse’s chest only whined, “I’m hungry,” as his mother let her eyes drift on to the passing of Kingsroad. As much as she adored the lot of them, Sel at that current exhausting point of being so close to their destination only wanted to have an hour alone. To drink some wine, sit back with a fire of warm embers -- “Ma, I’m hungry.”
She gazed down into the little, scowling face. Features scrunched up and pouty in his tiny rage. “We’re almost at Harrenhal, you’ll forget about being hungry as soon as you have something to do. Your cousins will be there! Hm? You can play with them. Show them what your father gave you.”

Alys, the eldest of the brood half hung herself out the side of the carriage window. A soft breeze on her face whilst rocking her heels back and forth, Alaric etching his name with a crude knife into the side of a wooden blade. Every so often, wood-chippings falling to the floor. Perhaps Selyse would’ve been more inclined to have them sit down and read, Alys to finish her embroidery if it wasn’t for the sudden and overwhelming silence of the carriage. At long last, save for Ed who had whined until he realised no one was listening, eventually slumping as he further examined the whittled animal grasped tight between his hands.

Alysanne lay across the unused side of the carriage, resigned to her fate whilst the children potted about with runny noses and neverending questions. Why the sky was blue, why the trees seemed to run with them, why the wheels creaked, and why in the world they were heading to Harrenhal? Alysanne let the latter question hang heavy on her mind. There were many reasons as to why, marriage, betrothals, politics. All usually bundled up in a decaying rats nest of feigned honour, pompous Southerners, and parents throwing their children to secure alliances. Did Selyse know? Walton had his intentions and the young Alys, a namesake, sweet as her mother would soon be sold off to a man they barely knew but a family they respected. The boys as much pawns as their sister, but it was they who would be awarded titles for bravery and they, who would win the wars to come.
If Selyse had almost died in childbirth, Alysanne had little hope in her own capabilities. May as well forfeit her life there and then than produce another Stark for Winterfell. Heirs were not forgiving things, not when it came to mother or child.

Sel began to speak up at long last, “How are you holding on, Alysanne?” The rumble of the carriage punctuated between words. The in-law tilted her head to the window her niece peered from.
“Well enough, you may say.” The conversation was cold and had no attempt to revive it.

The Lady of Karhold initially had thought Alysanne would’ve been happier on horseback, but no amount of persuading Walt had changed his mind. He already found himself leading the entourage beside the cousins, other Karstarks to her knowledge that Walton kept company with. She’d become friendly with the wives and exchanged knowledge of various things to help the children flourish in their studies or new disciplinary tactics. Something which didn’t involve Walt’s traditions which oft proved a little cruel to the tastes of Selyse.

Eventually, Harrenhal loomed, much to the relief of everyone who had been stuck on the road for weeks now. Its dark silhouette of fallen towers and grand walls causing a light chill on such a nice day. Once the children glimpsed it the excitement became palpable. They’d be setting their camp with the other line of Karstarks, which as soon as the carriage door opened the children had dashed off to either pull on the maids or their father’s hand. Edwyn, trailing behind with a furious short paced sprint. Selyse gathered her skirts, aided out the carriage before Alysanne.
Not that Alysanne wanted to be anywhere near the horrendous half-melted stone giant of a castle. If anything, running away to be with a sailor was starting to sound better and better.

Fanning herself, the Fair Maiden of Condon began to suss out where her husband had gotten to. All the business with Kings and politics was an easy way to fluster her. Especially now Alys and the boys had run off to ruin their clothes more or less, Selyse eventually spotted Walton still on horseback and waved him down. “Love, how was it? Because I dread the journey home with bated breath.”

Glancing about further at the banners, Selyse self-consciously brushed back unruly strands, raising her skirts to begin tracking down the trio of troublemakers. It wouldn’t do good to have them wild in a place like this and not merely because she was afraid of the bad language picked up from the lowly guards. Alaric was badmouthed enough thanks to all his hanging about Walt and Walt’s unsavoury friends. Not that she had a hand in choosing his allies; just in raising well-mannered Karstarks.

High Moon (get ur chara up i begg)

 

[RayPurchase]

Lord Ormond Hightower​

Lord of the Hightower, Lord of the Port, Voice of Oldtown, Defender of the Citadel, Beacon of the South​

​

The three galleys had left Oldtown a week prior. Each galley bristling with some 100 oars, and on the mast above, the sigil of house Hightower flapping in the morning air as they set sale in a south easterly direction, around the coast of Dorne. Many of the other Lords of the Reach who were attending the wedding would most likely be travelling by road, along the Rose Road to Kings Landing, and then along the King’s Road to Harrenhal. Ormond has chosen differently. More at home on the deck of a ship with the wind in his hair, and the expanse of the sea before him, that and he did not wish to be the second HighTower killed unceremoniously on the Rose Road in a generation.

If it was up to Ormond, he would rather have stayed in Oldtown, amongst his ships and his thoughts, since the death of his sweet Lynesse his thoughts had more often than not been his most regular companion, shunning most others. But Lord Tyrell was attending, and where his Lord went the Lord of Hightower would be not far behind. For a week the ships navigated their way around the coast of Dorne, encountering fair conditions and much in the way of naval traffic, traders hugging the coast to and from Oldtown from all over the known world, from the Free Cities to the Summer Islands and beyond. This traffic soon dried up however as they rounded Dorne, entering the vicinity of the stepstones. The 3 ships bunching together as they entered this perilous stretch of water, a veritable hive of scum and villainy. However the pirates, were by nature, an opportunistic bunch, not willing to take on 3 mighty galleys, when instead they could prey upon a single merchant ship, alone and with her belly full of exotic goods.

Aside from being hit by several storms past Shipbreaker Bay and Cape Wrath, during which thankfully no men were lost, a testament to both their skill and some healthy luck, they entered the Bay of Crabs, and eased into the port of Maidenpool as the sun rose on the 7th day of their voyage, mooring at the dock, her sailors swarming over the sails, stowing them away, readying gang planks and cargo for disembarking. Lord Ormond was the first to disembark, wearing a simple salt stained leather jerkin, the blazing tower of Hightower emblazoned on the left side of the chest. He was accompanied by 30 similarly dressed Knights and Men at Arms, looking more like pirates than a Lord’s entourage. They immediately made their way to the tavern closest to the docks, accompanied by a stream of sailors and baggage. They emerged fed and watered a few hours, bedecked in armour. Ormond himself was clad in grey plate mail, a grey cloak fastened with tower shaped clasps around his neck. Mounting up on fresh horses purchased from the Inn they began the journey westwards towards Harrenhal.



Ormond lead the party as they made their way along the minor roads towards Harrenhal, his standard bearer beside him and his companions. Along with them were two carts, ladened with tents, supplies and a small selection of wedding gifts, a selection of rare books from the Citadel and the Library of the Hightower itself. They journeyed mostly in silence, aside from the occasional barked order to slow down or speed up, Ormond’s eyes kept on the horizon and his destination. After about 4 hours of riding the towers of Harrenhal emerged, blackened and twisted, spiralling towards the sky, a permanent legacy of the folly of men. Ormond turned towards the Man at Arms next to him.



“Tighten up, unfurl the banner and sound the horn Captain, let them know that House Hightower has arrived,”



The Captain of the guard turned towards the standard bearer and gave him a nod, he proceeded to unfurl the banner, the standard of High Garden unfurling and glinting in the sunlight. The good Captain proceeded to raise the horn slung over his shoulder to his lips, letting out a single deep blast, signalling to any sentries of their imminent arrival. Lord Ormond remained silent, staring ahead at the numerous banners and tents that were already appearing.



“It appears that our Liege has beaten us here. We shall have to make better time on the way back. A silver stag to every man if we cut a day off the journey,”



There is some laughter amongst the group and a smile tugs at the corner of Ormond’s lips as they ride into the throngs of people outside of Harrenhal.

 

[LadyOfStars]

Clovis Tyrell
Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of The Reach, Warden of The South


Even in its current state, the ruined Harrenhal was a masterpiece and Clovis found himself distracted by the heights of the regular buildings. The towers were a different matter and he couldn’t hope to be able to look up at them. As his pace started to slow down he felt. A feminine hand press against his back as another one took his right arm. “I do not need assistance walking.” He quickly clarified to the worried nurse. Immediately she apologized and stepped back to afford Clovis the personal space befitting a Lord. “Thank you.”

As the group passed through the massive doors of the castle Clovis sighed. It was no warmer in here than it was outside, and if there was a difference in temperature that he hadn’t picked up on, it meant he would be sick soon. “Let’s go see the Hall of One-Hundred Hearths.” The smirk on his face suggested that he was mocking the name and while he was Clovis did genuinely have an interest in the famed hall. So as the Tyrell soldiers and Sara passed by with luggage Clovis and his medical personnel headed the opposite way. One of his physicians managed to find a story to tell about every brick that they came across and although it was annoying to hear the stories, they served as a good distraction for the rest of the party. Their days would consist of waiting on Clovis day and night, so a bit of entertainment was well deserved.

“Is this it?” He turned into a large room with with a ceiling so high the room seemed almost endless. Right away one of his nurses pointed out that the King was present within the room. All eyes went to the man and on instinct the older physician started toward the Baratheon man.

“My King!” The elderly man got down on his knees and put his head on the floor. “Please accept my kneeling in the place off Lord Tyrell. His illness makes such acts draining.”

Clovis approached and wore a warm smile. “My King.” He lowered his head and bent his knees just a bit. A nurse held on to him as a precaution to prevent him from falling. Clovis kept his head lowered just as his physician remained on the floor. In his mind he ran the King’s lineage all the way back to Margery Tyrell. “Please forgive me and my party. I hope we are not pestering you after such a long journey.”

Mors​

 

[RayPurchase]

Lord Ormond Hightower​

Lord of the Hightower, Lord of the Port, Voice of Oldtown, Defender of the Citadel, Beacon of the South​

​

The Hightower party approaches a stretch of grass, next to the Tyrell encampment that is taking shape. Ormond dismounts his horse and places his hands on his hips looking over this empty patch. He kneels down prodding the soil with his fingers, and breaking a bit off, crumbling it between his gauntleted hands. Dry and solid enough for tent pegs. He stands up brushing his hands clean and looking over the stretch, flat enough to, it may not compare to a feathered bed in the castle itself, but as camping goes its towards the higher end of luxury, especially compared to some of the places he had found himself sleeping over the years.


“This’ll do. 3 rows of tents, mine in the centre, I want the gifts in there and two sentries at all times, rotating every 2 hours,”


Given the state of Harrenhal, as well as the fact that there are two Kings and all the Lords Paramount were in attendance, he assumed that space in the castle was at a premium, best to get a good spot for tenting now. He looks over his shoulder away from the castle, a wry grin flashes across his features.


“And I want a latrine dug 100m that way. Allun, Paxter, by my calculation its your turn to do the digging, make them nice and deep you hear me?”


A groan rises from two of the men at arms, as the others break into laughter, very much unsympathetic to their colleagues’ plight. He begins striding towards the castle entrance. The shadows of the blackened and twisted walls loom over him long before he arrives at the entrance proper. He pauses as he passes through the mighty gate, tracing his fingers along the stones. The sheer expanse of the gate was like no other, dozens of murder holes studding the walls above him. It would take hundreds of men to just make through here, with arrows, oil and rocks raining down upon then, not even including the casualties it would take to even make it to the gate.


“And yet you fell in a single night…”


He quietly mused to himself. He remained there for a few more moments before literally shaking himself out of his thoughts. Far too many ghosts in this place. He continues through the gateway into the courtyard. The streams of courtiers, servants and soldiers swiftly making way for him with mumbled m’lords. He manages to corner one a Man at Arms, his chest emblazoned with the sigil of House Baelish.


“Guardsman, I see from the banners that Lord Tyrell and the King have arrived… the Baratheon one anyway. Where are they currently?”

The guardsman begins mumbling a reply about the great hall, then followed by several niceties. Halfway through the subsequent pleasantries Ormond turns towards the hall, leaving the guardsman with just a nod of his head in thanks. He'd rather get the greetings out of the way quickly, that and make sure that Clovis had arrived safely, travelling for him was difficult, and the trip to Harrenhal from Highgarden was no short distance. Entering the great hall he spied his liege lord, and judging by the size of hit retinue taking up a healthy portion of the hall, King Loras himself. Seeing the pair of them greeting each other, for now Ormond, stands by one of the hearths (There may not quite be a hundred of them, but there is still an impressive amount none the less), and simply admires the sheer vast nature of the great hall of Harrenhall.

 

[Mors]

King Loras IV Baratheon
​

His eyes darting from face to face, Loras Baratheon was uncharacteristically cheery as he took position at the very head of hall, occupying the seat that he imagined was usually reserved for the head of House Baelish, and their predecessors as Lords of Harrenhal, an honour that went all the way back to the days of King Harren the Black, when the first great stones were hauled on to the castle’s foundations. From this position, Loras could see everything, from his own retinue who had began to fill up the hall, laughing and making merry as several bards and entertainers stummed and banged upon their instruments, attempting to drown out the sounds of their rivals, to the slew of lesser lords who had come to reaffirm their fealty, and offer their congratulations regarding his upcoming wedding. Snakes, all of them, attracted to the crown upon his head like moths to a flame.


Their words were empty and flat, and for every nice thing they said, or pleasant comment they made, there was some hidden desire concealed upon their tongues. Lord Rosby thought his King was a strong and noble man, but he also desired to see one of his sons squire for a Kingsguard Knight. Lord Buckwell reminded Loras that he had been good friends with the King’s father, but also requested the King’s intervention on a matter of disputed succession. Lord Velaryon even had the audacity to openly ask for his grace’s permission to begin courting his sister, though Loras simply shook off all of their requests with the wave of his hand. “This is my wedding.” He had replied, displaying a great amount of restraint by not simply dismissing these presumptuous fools out of hand, “I shall look into such matters upon my return to the capital. For now I must ask we simply appreciate the great hospitality of the House of Baelish.” A lie. Perhaps someone else might examine the matter further, but Loras’ interest in these men faded as soon as they left his eyeline.


“You are to be married soon, brother, you should not be so dour.” His brother Renly had laughed through a mouthful of venison upon examining Loras’ reaction to the many social encounters. “I hope to get half as much attention as you upon my wedding day.” His words did little to help Loras’s mood. Renly was like to marry some pretty young maid from the south, with flowers in her hair, and a hefty dowry from her rich father. Loras was to wed some northern whore whom he had never met, who would give him cubs with wispy tails and faces covered in fur. Not a prospect that appealed to him greatly. A sham wedding to maintain a fragile peace. Sometime Loras wondered what it was all for. The South could field almost twice the military strength of their northern neighbor, and surely if it came to bloodshed, the Iron Throne would once again be able to bend the Starks of the Winterfell to their will. But that had been the same thought process of Loras’ great, great grandfather King Renly I, and Renly had seen first hand the fangs of the dire wolf. There was no appetite for war in this day and age, and Loras would not go down in the history books as the King whose body was strung from the walls of Winterfell.


As Loras watched his royal food taster pick and jab at a well roasted piece of goose, his eyes were drawn to the visage of an older man, spluttering some nonsense as he pushed himself down upon the floor in adoration. It seemed as if some houses still knew how to show respect for their King.


Clovis Tyrell was a name which Loras had heard before, though he had never had a chance to meet with the patriarch of of the second most powerful family within the South. They were distant kin, related through the wife of King Renly I, and it had been with Tyrell swords that House Baratheon had ascended to the Iron Throne. A ‘Special Relationship’ Loras’ father had called the bond between the Crown and the Reach, one forged in marriage and upon the field, though Loras still had a hard time trusting anyone whose power could rival his own. Westeros was a fragile structure, and the collapse of a single pillar could topple the whole thing. Could topple Loras.


“Do not fear, Lord Tyrell, I could not be pestered by such loyal friends. Your company is welcome, and I would invite you to sup with me and my kin. I fear your journey must have been longer than ours, and you must wish for refreshment, Lord Baelish has laid out a delightful selection of game hunted from his own lands. I must be the first southern King in a hundred years to taste northern shadowcat.” The smile he returned was no a genuine one, though it tried to be, and Loras did his best to come off as warm and inviting despite his ragged exterior. His mother had always taught him that the richer the man, the more pride he could afford, and Clovis Tyrell certainly wasn’t a poor man.

LadyOfStars

 

[Rusty of Shackleford]

Ander is Stark
The Black Wolf

Ander chuckled as he raced beside his sister, saying, "Come on, Lia! Is that all? I've seen a Dornish whore ride better than you!" Ander was really enjoying this, as he rarely said such vile things aloud. He always enjoyed racing his sister, more for the time they spent together than anything else. He was hot on her heels the entire time, a devilish grin on his face the entire time. He felt young again, like they were children. For a few fleeting moments, all the regret, all the pressure, was gone, and it was just them. And then Alia fell flat on her ass like a drunkard. Ander couldn't contain his laughter, nearly crying from what had transpired. It took the Lord a few minutes the collect himself, before dismounting to help his twin up. He extended his hand, saying, "Superb riding, Sister. You have a future in jousting, I must say."


He pulled the woman up, patting her on the shoulder as he said, "Alright. Let's be off, lest they get worried of us. Whatever you do, do not tell mother. She'd kill us if she found out. I don't want to have us return to an angry woman brandishing a sp-" And then it hit him. She wouldn't be returning with him. The only way she would leave this crumbling pile of rubble was with the King. She may never see Winterfell again, forever trapped in the gilded cage that was the Red Palace. The mere thought of that pathetic excuse of a King touching his sister made Ander furious. It made his skin crawl, and his hands tighten on his reigns. He pulled himself onto his horse, saying, "Come. Let's be off." He went dead silent after that, his brooding commencing once again. They talked on the way to meet up with Lord Karstark, as Ander intended to ride with his bannermen to show a united North, and that they were not to be trifled with. But he was quiet, solemn, his answers short and concise. All he could think about was wrapping his hands around that..."King's" neck, and wringing it like an animal. In the end, his father had created the man he wanted as a son. A bitter, angry man. It wouldn't be long until they met up with their kinsman, and the twins would depart...

Kassandra Rose​

 

[LadyOfStars]

Clovis Tyrell
Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of The Reach, Warden of The South

Rumors came with status, the two went hand in hand like a newly married couple. As a Lord there were plenty of rumors about Clovis within The Reach and outside of it. But as a King there were rumors about Loras IV in every nook and cranny of Westeros, maybe even outside of Westeros. Clovis had heard some things about the Tyrell descendant, mainly that he was not such a joyous person to be around. As Clovis looked up to finally lay eyes upon his King, the elderly physician backed away with his head kept at an angle to show his respect and loyalty.

The invitation to dine with the royal retinue came as a surprise to Clovis, as did the smile that Loras presented him with. “I would be honored, My King.” The nurse stepped away now that he was standing on his own and she went to a nearby seat that was empty and drew it from the table for her Lord. While he wasn’t familiar with many of the people at the table, some warm food would be a blessing with his body so chilled.

“My trip was not as arduous as my siblings had expected it to be.” Clovis chimed as he leaned back into his chair and a wave of ease and comfort washed over him. He tried not to relax too much, but was so tempted to slouch in the seat. “My sister, my heir, wished for me to send you her regards. Indeed all of House Tyrell wishes you a happy marriage.” He wanted to ask about the King’s journey to Harrenhal, but if that happened to bring up the man’s injury then it was a topic that was best left untouched.

“”How are you King Loras and the rest of King’s Landing?” One of his nurses placed down a plate of food before Clovis, steaming rising from the prepared meal along with the aroma of different seasonings. Northern food was unknown territory for him, but he couldn’t afford to be picky with his meals. M​

 

[BELIAL.]

Lady Ciona Arryn

Defender of the Vale

​

She nodded along with whatever her handmaiden was saying, her ears only perking at the wrong label that the girl gave her. Ciona sighed, and while in private she wouldn't have minded so much, they would be in the presence of haughtier and more traditional nobles. She turned quickly, pursing her lips in minute dissatisfaction.

"Anya, it's 'my lady'. Milady, my lady, whatever you please. When you address a lord or a lady, you must call them that. I say this only to remind you, since we will no longer be safe in the halls of the Eyrie. There are bears, wolves and beasts out there-- not all of which walk on four legs," She sighed and bristled at the sight of the giant castle. The Eyrie was massive, but Harrenhal was something else entirely. Her eyes drank in the sight; the way the sun wiggled her fingers of light through the collapsed sections of the castle, the growing banners and tents being erected outside on the plush grass, or the way that the architecture itself blended history and now within mere feet of itself. She remembered from her lessons as to why Harrenhal had been brutally destroyed, all those years ago. She knew the legends, and the reputation that the castle had... and she hoped that any misfortune in the past wouldn't repeat itself at this wedding.

They rode through, Ciona peeking past at the tents and the bannermen. So many houses, it was a test within itself to name each and every crest she saw. Baratheon. Tyrell. Karstark. Ciona counted each and every one, and by the time they had slowed to a stop, there were more than she could count on her fingers.

The door was opened and she quickly rushed out, glad to be rid of the confining space. Ciona stretched as small as she could, retaining her dignity when so many other nobles would be watching. The last thing she wanted to do was develop some sort of name for herself before she had stepped foot in the castle. Besides, it was not her get-together. It was not life or death. It was a wedding, just as Maester Ceridwen had said. There was still a reputation to be had, and a presence to be made. That is what it was to be the head of a house and the ruler of a realm; a representative for all that your estate and your people represented. It was what her brother had said, at any rate.

Her steward was on the other side of the door, bowing to his lady. "My lady, I'll settle your things where Lord Baelish has instructed, as well as taking care of the wedding gift. Do enjoy yourself, and don't worry so hard. Maester Ceridwen's orders," the steward said. He was fairly young, probably only a few years older than her or so compared to the last steward. Gregoir Royce had been her father's best friend and steward, having passed a few months before Lysander and Lady Edaline. This one was his son, or so she believed.

"Right. Thank you," Ciona nodded to Steward and took a deep breath, looking back over her shoulder at Anya. She felt protective of the girl, projecting her own fears onto the handmaiden. "Feel free to explore, as you do best. But do keep things on the quiet, and don't get into any business that isn't yours to begin with. Do you hear? Find me later." She gave another nod to Steward and Anya, and then took the plunge as she entered the castle.

Her eyes widened, taking in the high ceilings and the immaculate presentation and lighting. You could only do so well in a half repaired castle, but Lord Baelish had outdone himself. Ciona took an idle moment to remove her glove and tuck them away, letting her hand touch the stone lightly. You could feel the age within the walls. She was sure that Harrenhal hadn't been this populated in a long time.

Striding forward, she continued to take in the sights and was led into the main hall by a guardsman. The high ceilings only got taller and the energy consumed every space in the hall. Music pooled from corners, mingling and mixing with the voices with in the hall. What had she expected? Silence? It was much better that life existed here, in this space, lest her entire head pop off and roll to the King's feet. It was a bit overwhelming to the maiden, and she took to wringing her hands tightly together. She made a bee-line away from most of the activity, opting to approach and congratulate the king and his bride (where she was) when there wasn't a flurry of other lords and ladies at his feet. It would be bold and brash to present herself without any restraint or tact. Ciona knew that much, even if her tongue was not adept enough to engage in the game with other venomous lords and ladies that would no doubt approach. They'd want any excuse to humiliate her, she knew this deep in her anxious heart, as she was certainly the youngest person in this hall.

Focus, Ciona. Steel yourself and keep moving forward. Talk up a lord. Make allies, do what Lys what do. Do what mother would do.

She noticed a man, and she swore she recognized the face. Her mother would have had her by her ear if she didn't place names to faces. At the time, though she hadn't been exactly sizing up the role of leading house Arryn, she had trained and schooled the girl in recognizing her fellow lords, ladies and vassals. It would be impossible to forget the King.

Hightower, the name suddenly came at her like a brick wall. He brooded by a hearth, taking in the sights of the hall-- which was something that Ciona could relate to. She stomached her nerves and strode forward, displacing the grimace on her face with a nondescript smile. "Lord Hightower? It's a pleasure... to meet you. I," she had gotten so far and now her breath was gone. Ciona swallowed quickly, keeping her smile tight. "...I don't believe I've had the honor to meet many Lords of the Reach. You may have known my Lord father, Carlyle Arryn," she said and applauded herself from within for succeeding in a coherent enough conversation starter. Gods was it a challenge she was doomed to fumble with every time? Oh, how she wished she had someone with her.

"The place is beautiful, isn't it? Harrenhal holds much history, even today." Small-talk, it was bland but it was necessary. Ciona didn't want to rock any boats. She prayed to the Gods that Lord Hightower would take pity on the girl and entertain her for the moment, lest her face bleed into embarrassment and she leap quickly into the hearth they now stood in front of.

PolikShadowbliss RayPurchase

 

[RayPurchase]

Lord Ormond Hightower​

​

Lord of the Hightower, Lord of the Port, Voice of Oldtown, Defender of the Citadel, Beacon of the South​

​

Ormond was wrenched from his musings by the interjection of the new arrival, admittedly they were none too interesting most of what he knew of Harrenhal he had gleaned from the dusty tomes of the library at Hightower or from half listened to lessons by Maesters when he was a child, he was sure that if had brought Maester Marcus with him he would have quite happily talked his ear off for several hours on the importance of the hearth structure and the distinct architectural design elements that could be found in the hall.



By the gods she was young, if the Arryns were Falcons this one was a recent fledgling. Admittedly to Ormond it appeared to increasingly be the case that the lords and ladies of the land appeared to be getting younger and younger, he himself had a good decade on both kings of Westeros and Lord Tyrell. It was bound to get worse as well, an ageing relic of a previous generation left to suffer amongst the folly of youth. Still he supposed that with age there is the argument of wisdom, and he could still put them through their paces in a contest of steel, probably even stick them on their arse a few times. The thought helps put a smile on his face, his scowl melting away, as he focuses properly on the lady. Well she’s an Arryn, he could recognise that much, and thankfully it was shortly confirmed by her. But her given name, his mind raced pouring through names and dates. One of the benefits of Hightower was that with the Citadel and heaving trading port news quickly filtered its way from around the Seven Kingdoms, and as such he was quite privy to the comings and goings of Lords not to mention jostlings of successors and… Ciona. The name popped into his head, a raven from the North a few years ago reporting on the untimely death of the Lord of the Vale from wounds sustained in some Skirmish, an infected wound, not a way to go for anyone, Lord or Peasant if it could be avoided, better to die cleanly without a prolonged suffering. A tragedy by all accounts.



And this must be his younger sister, thrust into the seat of one of the most powerful, and oldest Lordships of the realm. No wonder she looked nervous, a royal wedding, houses from every corner of the realms descending on Harrenhal, and here a young Lady expected to represent her House, and not just any House but one of the greatest in the realm. It would do no good scaring the poor girl anymore, afterall he had once been in the same situation a second son who at the time wanted nothing to do with the rigours of ruling, but was far happier on the deck of a ship with the wind in his hair, but alas that was the situation pushed onto that lad’s shoulders.



Placing his left hand on his chest, he dips his head in a bow, the warm smile still on his face causing his face to crease, showing up the scowl lines on his forehead, and the beginnings of crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes. He allows the flustered Arryn to finish and catch her breath before replying, despite his quite rugged appearance, his voice soft yet with a hint of roughness, most likely from the cumulative years of barking orders.



“The pleasure it mine Lady Arryn, and I must say I have not had the honour of meeting enough Lords of Vale, if there is one thing we have of abundance in the Reach, it is Lords, I’m sure you’ll be meeting many more before the festivities are over. I’m afraid I never managed to meet your father personally, however his reputation spread far beyond the confines of the Vale, a fine warrior by all accounts, and I once had the opportunity to watch him joust at a tourney, I was just a lowly squire about yay high,” He places his hand against his hip. “But even now I remember he was a devil in the saddle, perhaps you inherited some of the talent?”



He looks about hall, its mighty rafters and the hustle and bustle of lords, knights, servants and everything in-between.



“Oh these old walls have seen a lot, been through a lot as well. And once again here at Harrenhall history is being made.” He scoffs and looks back at her. “If you had a poet on hand I’m sure they would be able to come up with some inspiring words about the like, but alas you are stuck with me,”

 

[Mors]

King Loras IV Baratheon​

It was an ironic fate, that the two men in the Southern Kingdom who held the most influence and power would both be damned to physical weakness. Loras was a cripple, burned and charred all over his body, unable to walk without a cane, and unable to think without heavy inebriation. Clovis Tyrell was cut from a similar cloth it seemed, ushered and escorted by more maesters and physicians than Loras had even seen, and greatly restricted in his own mobility. Kindred spirits, brought together to fulfill some divine purpose? Or was this simply some cruel jape at Loras’ expense from the Seven Gods above? The King was inclined towards the latter. For it was only fitting that a crippled King should attract crippled subjects. The blind leading the blind.


As the Lord of Highgarden sat alongside the royal party to feast, Loras was forced to continue his act of gregariousness, nodding his head and smiling at Clovis’ words. It was not an original piece, but rather a character he had seen performed many times before by his elder brothers, and his father before them. Loras may have had the social aptitude of a dry rag, but he had been raised at court, and he knew how to give the impression of interest. “I am glad to hear that your journey was not worrisome, it is a long way from Highgarden to Harrenhal, and I hear these Northerners are unable to keep bandits away from their roads. I would hate to hear that you have greatly inconvenienced yourself on account of my wedding.” The King’s laugh was hollow and husky, lacking in much warmth, and perforated by a small fit of coughing that was characteristic of ash-filled lungs.


“I would return your sisters warm regards, and wish thanks upon your kin for their kind words.” Were that he could wed a Tyrell, Loras contemplated, he would currently be enjoying the warm climates of the Reach, sipping goblets of Arbor Gold inside of a keep whose walls did not shriek with the sounds of a hundred burned souls. The North was a dreary place, and if the women he had seen around Harrenhal were of any indication, Loras’ future bride may well have greater facial hair than himself.


“But I have been lapse in my duties, and not introduced you to mine own kin. My brother, the Crown Prince Renly.” Loras gestured to his right, where his brother was making light work of a honeyed duck, Renly Baratheon offering a cursory nod towards the Lord of the Reach, before averting his gaze back towards his food. “And my sister, Princess Cassana.”


Cass eyed the Lord Tyrell with a look of interest, reaching over the table so that she might offer her hand to the Lord of Highgarden. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Clovis, I have heard many tales of the gallant men of the Reach, but I must admit I am taken aback by your charm.”


Loras smiled through gritted teeth. It was obvious that his sister intended to make a scene, and her previous favourite, the same burly Westerman whom had earlier rode with her in her carriage, had seemingly been forgotten to her side.


“I find myself quite happy.” Loras lied. “I could not be more pleased that I am to consummate this great alliance between the peoples of the South and our Northern friends. King’s Landing is a beautiful city. You must visit us at some point, and come to court, the Red Keep is home to some of the most interesting characters in all of the Seven Kingdoms, and I am sure that you would find yourself most at home.” Loras prayed that the man did not take him up on that offer, he did not know if he could stand maintaining this facade of politeness for the weeks the Tyrell host might occupy his castle. “I would ask similar questions about yourself, my Lord, and the state of my loyal subjects in the Reach.” Even as the words left his mouth, Loras could feel himself losing interest. Dealing with matters of the Reach was of more interest to the Lord Hand than himself, and as long as the tax continued to flow, and the banners still rose when they were called, Loras was content to allow his Kingdoms to manage their own affairs.

LadyOfStars

 

[BELIAL.]

Lady Ciona Arryn

Defender of the Vale

​

Her forced smile melted into a genuine one of gratitude when Lord Hightower bent at the hip, a respectful and proper address. She curtsied back to him, and felt her hands relax a bit at her sides. She tuned in to the age on the smiling man's face, and found comfort in it. Were it someone young, she would have worried more... but she found the company of older nobles a bit less concerning. Younger people were bold, emotional and held grudges. Ciona knew all about that, being a victim of that affliction herself.

“The pleasure it mine Lady Arryn, and I must say I have not had the honour of meeting enough Lords of Vale, if there is one thing we have of abundance in the Reach, it is Lords, I’m sure you’ll be meeting many more before the festivities are over. I’m afraid I never managed to meet your father personally, however his reputation spread far beyond the confines of the Vale, a fine warrior by all accounts, and I once had the opportunity to watch him joust at a tourney, I was just a lowly squire about yay high,” Ciona beamed when Lord Hightower spoke of her father. She had some memories of her late lord father, but she had been fairly young when he passed. She was only about five or so years old, and hadn't seen the man much aside from dinners together or running about the courtyard and watching him train his squires and her brother. Her mind momentarily lapsed to a particular memory of Lys striking sword sticks with a young, dark haired boy. His name... he had been her father's squire and then Lys's, and one of his closest. Gal... Her heart leapt into her chest and she focused back on Lord Hightower, her grin never faltering.

“But even now I remember he was a devil in the saddle, perhaps you inherited some of the talent?” She laughed at this, and hid her mouth politely to how strong the outburst had been.

"Oh forgive me. I'm just hardly anything worth my father's weight in a saddle. Had you seen my late brother, you would have thought that the talent may be at least a bit hereditary. Aye, that must have been something to see my father in the jousts... From what I can tell now, my lord, he would have liked you. Thank you for your kindness." she figured being honest would be best. House Hightower didn't seem to be the type were outward compliments and starkness was seen as an against, or an insult. The court of King's Landing may be another story, from what Ciona had gathered from the rumors her mother spoke of.

She joined his gaze to the banners and the decorations in the hall.

"Oh these old walls have seen a lot, been through a lot as well. And once again here at Harrenhall history is being made. If you had a poet on hand I’m sure they would be able to come up with some inspiring words about the like, but alas you are stuck with me,” he said and that made Ciona smile again. She shook her head, gesturing to the minstrels and entertainers about.

"I took the chance, Lord Hightower, because if I wanted a poem I'd throw a coin at any one of the entertainers here. No, I think that some quiet conversation is much better. All of this is quite a lot, if I may be so frank with you, my lord," she said and sighed outwardly before letting her smile return. "I'll listen to any stories you may have. Until our King is freed from the throws of conversation, and blessings and congratulations may be gifted to him and his bride. Yet, if I'm to be any kind of honorable Lady of my house, I should be acquainted with the other nobles of our fair realm."

Any kind of pleasant company that Ciona could keep would be beneficial. Maester Ceridwen would be proud of her for strengthening any ties, as would her eager cousins that harped and poked her for the seat in the Eyrie. Should she prove to herself she was just as powerful and worth her own namesake without a hand holding her through it all or a husband to strip her of her powers, then she wouldn't ever listen to the hungry dogs at her heels again.

RayPurchase

 

[LadyOfStars]

Clovis Tyrell
Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of The Reach, Warden of The South

It wasn’t his tone or the expression on his face that gave it away, but the the words and the way in which Loras replied to the conversation. Clovis had experienced the same guise when his own father ruled Highgarden and had to endure countless meetings with other Lords or listen to the complaints of the common folk. In short, the King was not enthused to be having this conversation. With that decided Clovis allowed his eyes to wander around the table as the other members of the King’s party were introduced.

The brother, the sister. Clovis bowed his head to both members of the royal family, silently rejecting the offered hand. The Princess had a way of saying things that warranted a bit of hesitation. Although he didn’t know much about personally, women in the south often used their beauty to get things and he was not willing to play the sucker. “It is lovely to meet you both.” As the King started to speak again Clovis took a few small cuts of his once feathered meal and consumed the bird with a bit of hesitation. This was something he’d never had before, prepared by chefs he didn’t know.

It was the first time he had ever heard someone call King’s a Landing beautiful and keep a straight face. While his teeth tore apart the food he watched the King with his own a false expression. He generally enjoyed conversing with others, but not when the other party felt the need to lie. It showed just how distant and unwilling to trust the other party was. “I am well and that I am grateful for.” Clovis put his fork and knife down, then called for his nurses. “The Reach is prosperous and while I do not believe my health will permit me to travel to your splendid castle, The King and his family is always welcome in Highgarden.”

Clovis pushed his chair back from the table and smiled a bright, joyous grin at his sovereign. He had only ever heard how King’s Landing smelled of shit and how cluttered with filth the streets were. Not even the Iron Throne could get Clovis to travel there of all places. Two nurses helped him to his feet and Lord Tyrell turned to face the King once more. “Thank you for your kindness, My King. I hope you enjoy the company of your many friends.” With that Clovis turned away and started towards the exit, his own party following closely behind.

In the hall near the stairs the Tyrell soldiers carried in the large gift that Clovis had brought all this way for Loras. The servant girl Sara was helping to direct them to one of the empty main floor rooms where the gift would be stored.

Mors​

 

[RayPurchase]

Lord Ormond Hightower​

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Lord of the Hightower, Lord of the Port, Voice of Oldtown, Defender of the Citadel, Beacon of the South​

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Ormond’s smile broadens a little as she visibly relaxes, truly nothing worse than someone mumbling and panicking their way through a conversation, not worth the time or effort.



"Oh forgive me. I'm just hardly anything worth my father's weight in a saddle. Had you seen my late brother, you would have thought that the talent may be at least a bit hereditary. Aye, that must have been something to see my father in the jousts... From what I can tell now, my lord, he would have liked you. Thank you for your kindness."



He chuckles heartily and shakes his head. At least she was honest about it, and capable of having a laugh at her own expense, clearly coming into her own a bit now. To be honest he wouldn’t have pegged himself as the person to gravitate to. Ever since Lynesse’s passing he had avoided most social events, feasts and tournaments went unattended save for a hurriedly drafted letter of apology relating to some invented crisis that required his presence. The only ones that he had attended were those hosted by either the King or Lord Tyrell, and more out of a sense of duty than anything else, best to keep up appearances. And yet here he found himself relaxing a little in this young Arryn’s company, was there perhaps a slight reminder of Lynesse when they had first met, the smile and youthful innocence maybe? Regardless he knew for a fact that Maester Rogic, the closest thing to a confident in his court, would be happy to seem him actually talking to people, constant lectures on the affects and dangers of maintaining the facial features and demeanour of a slapped arse. If anyone else had gone on he would have had them thrown out, but Rogic had been with the family for so long that he pretty much said whatever came to his mind with no fear of retribution.



“If he met me now perhaps, but back then I was a petulant thing, constantly running my mouth off and looking to start a fight, he probably would have given a clip round the ear and sent me on my way,”



He pauses for a moment, the smile slipping from his face at the mention of her brother. His blue bordering grey eyes focusing on hers, as grey as a storm rolling into shipbreaker bay, and as deep as the bay itself, a hint of sadness within them.



“My sincere condolences about your brother as well my Lady. I know how hard it is to lose a sibling, especially one that you find you constantly found yourself looking up to,”



He smiles sympathetically, the smile retaining some of the warmth as before, but not quite reaching all the way up to his eyes. A lifetime filled with loss, to dwell on such things would leave a man on his knees, wounds both still raw, and yet even as the years passed still susceptible to open. He grunts and shakes his head of such ill thoughts.



"I took the chance, Lord Hightower, because if I wanted a poem I'd throw a coin at any one of the entertainers here. No, I think that some quiet conversation is much better. All of this is quite a lot, if I may be so frank with you, my lord,"



“I must agree you Lady Arryn, there is nothing more mind-numbing that courtly conversation. Countless pleasantries wrapped around barbed and poisoned words, a whirlwind of words and yet not a lot actually said at the end of it… but I’m sure we’ll be able to enjoy more of that when the feast begins,”



"I'll listen to any stories you may have. Until our King is freed from the throws of conversation, and blessings and congratulations may be gifted to him and his bride. Yet, if I'm to be any kind of honourable Lady of my house, I should be acquainted with the other nobles of our fair realm."

He looks towards the King’s table, and Lord Tyrell making his way to the exit. A truly pitiful sight seeing the young Lord hobble his way towards the exit. His liege and his king, each half a man. He dips his head in a bow as Lord Tyrell goes by if he was to look his way. Best to leave such a catch up once the young Lord was rested, the journey from Highgarden for one in his condition would surely have put some strain on him.

“Oh I have far too many stories, you say you'll listen but give it an hour and you'll be running for the door. Still one king to go I think, I did not see any sign of the Starks having arrived. Are you by any means acquainted with them? Southern rumours are quite varied, from that these Northmen are half naked savage creatures who run with wolves, to the streets of Winterfell being paved with gold. I assume the truth is somewhere inbetween.”