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

[PolikShadowbliss]

Anya Redford
Anya was busy admiring the rugged towers of Harrendel coming into view that she was a little shellshocked when the carriage suddenly come to a halt and her mistress made her way quickly out of the carriage as if it smelled of vivid rancor and she longed to be rid of it. Anya had long since learned not to take offence when she did that. After a moment of letting her Mistress prep herself up, Anya followed after her, her legs screaming in delight as they finally were allowed to move outside of that cramped space. The place was packed with many banners and bannermen making camp outside the Harrendel castle where the weddings were soon to take place. The weddings that she still had grave misgivings for, but she had long learned not to trust her feelings. Like her feelings right now when she stood beside her Mistress, watching her in all her glory, her red hair glistening in the sun - she didn't trust those feelings either. She exchanged a few words to her steward before looking over her shoulder at her and saying

"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."

"Yes, milady." She replied back dutifully though she wasn't sure Cionia heard as she was already off. When her lady took her leave, Anya grew listless and a little paranoid. She looked around the bannermen and was suddenly made aware of the lack of protection she suddenly had, but then reassured herself that she was safe and she started gallivanting off in the grand castle. And indeed it was grand and a little terrifying to behold. Anya heard the legends and found herself repeating them to herself as she walked around. She felt almost like a real ghost prowling the halls of Harrendel, passing through crowds and people without them so much as giving her a single glance, all too well. She was clearly just a handmaiden after all, her clothes dictated as such. And the Lords and Ladies travelling here had no use talking to a mere handmaiden. That suited her just fine. It was better from her experience not to get noticed. You get noticed, you get punished. A fact that she had learnt from the many abuses of her own father and brothers. Speaking of which, her father, Lord Robert Redford was surely here, entertaining the King, alongside her Mistress. So she made the choice to avoid the Grand Hall, where most of the Lords and Ladies were awaiting, and instead focused primarily on the outskirts. If there were any plots, they would surely be happening away from the Grand Hall, amid whispered conversations. Not that she suspected to actually hear anything worthwhile.​

 

[El Duderino]

Alone​

Aruku watched as the next ship arrived into the harbor of Oldtown , its flags carrying another symbol he never seen before in his life. And that ship has the flag of house Florent on it, there kind of known for their big ears and shit, Old man Samuel said as he took another swig from his bottle of cheap wine. They they auh have blood from that king guy before the other kings came, Samuel looked a bit confused after and then shook his head a bit. This god damn place has to many kings changing hands, no wonder those soft idiots couldn't handle me, he takes another swig. While Samuel works his aging old throat muscles in order to down the last of the already half empty wine bottle Aruku watches on as the ship docks and unloads its passengers, most where sailors but some where dawning colored garb that resembles the colors of the flag. A chuckle escaped Arukus mouth as he noticed the nobles do in fact have big ears, when ever I get suspicious of your info it always turns out right , aruku calmly says. What did I tell you kid, the old man said in between sips, I am not a former man of knowledge for no reason, I was trained to serve lords and ladies. But nooo Samuel said mockingly, just because I make a few mistakes its all out you go bfff they probably miss me right now. I hope so my friend Aruku responded, I however am not so lucky.

Aruku walked with the old man behind him making their way through one of the cities market to their home, sundown had started to set and the last wave of costumers are starting to disperse while others talk about the day or the week. Aruku walked by them without any worry, his tall stater and frame made him look more like the avoidable than talk able kind of person. Samuel however was a short, hunched old man, who was starting to get swallowed by the crowd, by the time Aruku looked back he was gone. Samuel? Aruku said worrying, that worry turned to panic in an instant as Aruku went around the crowd calling for his friend. He was his only teacher in the westerosie language and history, if he lost him Aruku would need to learn from someone else of these strange lands. Looking though the crowd Aruku saw many different people, Lysani, Myr, Bravosi, and even some Summer Islander, all foreigners like him in this strange land. But right now they where just blockades to find his guide, his key to live a somewhat normal life from the one before. A few seconds later he heard a sound that made his heart skip a beat, the sound being that of crys of fear.

Aruku ran over and there Samuel laid on the floor, crawling away from the man who pushed him down. The man looked to be a hefty dornish man with two guards behind him watching the crowd, Where is my wine! I dont have it right now Al plea please, just give me a few more days and ill. Al started to walk over but Aruku stooped in front of the bald fat dornish man. Move out of the way Yi Ti, this does not concern you. Sadly this does, replayed Aruku, what ever this man owes you I can help repay it, just give him a few more days. Pfft Al spat at the ground, I not a man of patience, like i said Yi Ti move aside or you and the old fool will get the same amount of a beating. Aruku stood firm and let silence answer for him. Fine Al said as he backed up, you two take care of him, just bloody though I dont want to deal with the law right now. The two guards walked over to Aruku both wore sell sword armor and had swords on their waists. Before Aruku had the chance to talk to them the one on the left swung at him with a left hook to the face, metal glove and all. Aruku stepped to the side and grabbed his arm, twisting it till the guard started grunting in discomfort, Aruku than gave him a boot to the back while letting go at the same time sending the guard tumbling forward. Some of the crowd watching this chuckled as if this was a show. The other guard meanwhile pulled out a blunt rod and started swinging it at Aruku at a fast rate. Like a cat striking its prey, Aruku sweeps the guards left leg after a swing sending him to the floor as well, causing the crowd to once again laugh. The two guards get up and start to swing at Aruku with anger in their grunts. Aruku responded with a lunge forward avoiding their overhead swings and giving each of them a palm to the chest, sending them to the ground once again. While one guard stays on the floor having seemed losing his breath from the force, the other guard gets right back up and draws his sword. You think your fucking funny!?!? The guard roared, ill show you funny! The guard runs at him sword over head and runs at Aruku. Aruku with in a few seconds grabs the metal rod that was let go from the palm strike and uses it to parry the sword strike, immediately discarding it after and using his hands to make a grab at the arm and forcing his other hand into where the guards elbow is. CRACK was the only thing heard as the hand made contact popping the bone out of its socket. Before the guard can even scream Aruku kicks him in the face for good measure sending him falling to the ground like a bag of flour. The other guard got up and started to walk backwards in fear. Where are you going Al said, I do not pay you to run..... fight him! But before Al could say another thing Aruku tossed the iron rod to him. Then you do something Aruku said, unless your more of a coward than he is? Al just gave him a look of surprise and horror, no no I cant, em so about a few more day thing.... you ah still down for that right? Aruku with a sigh walks over and helps Samuel up. So what does he owe you?

 

[Joytex]

Those red eyes made him uneasy. Arnolf's usual quick smile had faded into a grim set while the smile facing him was filled with mirth, but seemed a touch maniacal, hungry almost. It's just a tree he reminded himself. But those leaves were suspiciously like hands and the trunk whiter even than the snow that surrounded it. Arnolf had jested all the way from the wall at how men once worshiped trees, it didn't seem so funny now. He shivered, not from the cold.

“Burn it.” At his command three brothers stepped past him, each held a lit torch, the black of their cloaks stark against the snowy wood. It seemed at first the ancient weirwood wouldn't take, the men had surrounded it and lay the flame but stubbornly it refused to catch. Arnolf wondered how many had sworn their oaths in at this grove, over hundreds, if not thousands of years, did that give it power? The tree lit at last.

“Lord of Light.” Arnolf boomed out, raising his arms reverently. “Great Rhollor, we humbly offer you the sacrifice of a false god, an ingraven image.” Flames licked their way up the trunk. “Give unto us the strength to do what must be done.”

There was a jangling of chains and Arnolf turned to see the familiar sight of Maester Gladyn amble up hastily to him.

“This is too far Florent!” He stammered. “Lord Commander will have a fit, a show is one thing, gods but this...” He gestured wildly as smoke begin to rise up through the haunted forest, before falling into exasperation, he had gone as pale almost as the weirwood bark, though that was now turning black. Arnolf ignored him.

“Prepare to move.” The fox called out. “I plan to torch three more groves before the day is through.”

“This will enrage the wildlings!” The Maester cried in desperation. “It will unite them against us! Don't you see man!!!” Arnolf Florent didn't reply for a moment only stared into the face of the tree.

“Exactly.” He said quietly. And as he gazed into the red eyes of the tree, flickering now in the light of the fire that worked its way up and trailed into the sky, to his horror he saw the eyes begin to widen. And then the mouth started to crease at the sides and spread out. Then all of a sudden the ancient weirwood tree laughed. A booming mirthless laugh that filled the forest. And Arnolf was laughing with it, louder and louder the two of them went into a screeching unearthy crescendo and-


Arnolf woke in a cold sweat. He struggled for a moment, finding his place, breaths sharp, his whole body was shaking. There was a hand on his shoulder.

“S-sorry to wake you Arnolf.” Edwyn, his fellow watchmen was at his side, a mixture of fear and reproachfulness written on his face. “We need to move on, you slept in Ser, it's nearly noon, we don't move quickly we'll miss the initial feast.” Arnolf nodded absentmindedly and waved the man away. With an effort he rose to his feet. It had been three months now since the burning of the weirwoods, but still the nightmares kept returning.

Arnolf shook himself, tried to get a hold, there were important matters he had to face today. All the lords that mattered had gathered into one place, the Watch needed their support, needed their gold and their men, he brought news that the wildlings had begun to unite...

 

[Colorless Spectrum]

Ethamira Forrester

It has been days since they first left Ironrath for the wedding. It was a tiring journey, even when one is just sitting inside, waiting to arrive at the destination. She wanted to stay in Ironrath, with her son but her father had insisted that Elys had to be kept secret and that she had to find a husband. She didn't want to, Lysander was still in her heart, in her fondest of memories. How could she just accept to be wed to another man? Ethamira let out a deep sigh, as if she possessed all the trouble in the world.

"Etha, my child." The voice was warm, filled with sorrow and love. Her mother's eyes were full of worry. "I know that you still love him. I know your heart breaks for him everytime you see your son." Nothing could be more true than her mother's words as the older woman spoke in a whisper. And she felt herself feeling a weight in her chest.

Her eyes flickered toward her father. "But I have to be married for the good of the house. I know." She said forlornly, touching the sleeves of her dress, rubbing it between her thumb and index finger. She's a bit angry at her situation, but she could do nothing about it. She wasn't the best at seducing men, something that adds to the nervousness that she hides from everyone around her. A wedding was the perfect event to make connections, that is true, but can she do it is the question.

They were just mere hours away from Harrenhal, and she's always at awe at the scenery of land and green grass around them. Her brother was at her side, sleeping with his head resting on her. "Ethamira," her father's voice was cold to to her ear. "I don't plan on giving Alricht the seat of Ironrath."

Her mouth formed a thin line, her eyes confused. "What do you mean?" He looked away and didn't answer further while her mother looked down. "You don't trust him enough? Not even with me by his side?"

"Yes." The Lord of Ironmount said simply, detaching himself from any fatherly personality that he has.

Nothing made sense to Ethamira. Nothing. If not Alricht, who would replace her father as lord? She knows that he wouldn't let her rule Ironrath no matter how knowledgeable she is in ruling. He wants her to be a bridge of connection to another house that can one day support their house if needed be. She racked her brain for answers but only one came into mind. Elys, her son. She doesn't know how that would happen but she has a bad feeling that Edderwin will name Elys as his heir. Anger swelled in her chest, she wanted her son to take up Lysander's name. She wanted her son to be legalized as an Arryn, claim his birthright as the Lord of Vale. She didn't show her anger. It won't do her any good to do so, what she needed to do was talk to the King of the North first about her son before her father does.

She was lost in thought that she didn't even realized that her brother had been calling out to her. "Etha, we're here." He said excitedly but the young lady was quite nervous to show herself once again to so many people. She was pretty nervous of the possibility of a few eyes being on her. She had been isolated from the world for a year just to keep her pregnancy and the baby a secret from everyone but their family, their people and a few others from noble houses has asked as to her absence from events that their family attended, claiming that she had been grieving due to the death of Lysander. Her son had been left with her aunt while her uncle was left to rule for the moment as they were away from the wedding. She shifted in her seat as her father and mother stepped out of the carriage before her. She quickly took her brother's wheeled chair, as their father had carried Alricht to it. Their gift, a hand made statue of a Stag and a wolf looking at each other made of ironwood, following right behind them.

"You ready for your first royal wedding, squirt?" Her brother smiled sheepishly, he never liked the nickname but tolerated it because Etha had always treated him the way he wanted to. She pushed the chair, walking side by side with their parents. She never liked mingling with other people she doesn't know but she does so out of duty.

The young Forrester woman couldn't help but be in awe at the ruins of Harrenhal. No, it wasn't a ruins anymore. Although it took time and will take time, it was in the process of restoration. And so far, the restored sections of the place was looking good. She always marveled at the story of how the castle had become the way it is, dragons. The place wasn't built for an attack from the sky, and that was it's weakness as the dragons flew over it and sent the castle melting.

There were already several banners, houses that have arrived before them. She quickly took notice of House Arryn's crest. Her heart leapt with joy, excited to see her good friend, but also a pang of regret filled her chest. They were close in age and had bonded greatly with all the visits to each other's home. They hadn't spoken for so long, but it's not like their friendship had gone sour. She thinks. "Excited to see Ciona?" Her mother spoke, knowing how close the two were and how Ethamira had treated Ciona and the others just as much as of a younger sibling as Lys. She didn't know what to say, unsure if she should go find the Lady of Vale or just simply walk with her family and go wherever they go. "Go, I'll handle your brother and father."

She gave her mother a weak smile, walking, searching for a blue-eyed lady near her age. Wondering how much Ciona has changed over two years just as how she has changed. She quickly find her with a Lord who it was she cannot pinpoint as her family does not come much to the south when they were way north than even Winterfell, getting bits of their conversation. She frowned at the Lord's last statement. She took careful, graceful steps towards the two. A smile garnered her lips, greeting the two nobles. "I'm sorry to interrupt the conversation but I have been looking for you, Lady Ciona, since I laid eyes on House Arryn's crest. How have you been?" She'd give the Lady a crushing hug if they weren't in public, but a smile would suffice for now. She turned towards the man, giving a smile that exudes openness and warmth. "A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, I am Ethamira, daughter of Lord Edderwin Forrester."

 

[BELIAL.]

Lady Ciona Arryn

Defender of the Vale

​

“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,” Lord Hightower said, eliciting another laugh from Ciona. It was a gentle one, as she didn’t want to outwardly humiliate the Lord and the type of youth he was. It reminded her of her little sister Alys, most of all. She also had a tongue sharper than her older brother’s blade had been.

The topic had turned to her brother, and Lord Hightower locked eyes with her. She found her spirit reeling in his eyes, and the swallowing eye contact. Her stomach fluttered a moment, and her face flushed a shade brighter than the flames would dare glow.

“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 said, and Ciona nodded absolutely, again. She bit the inside of her cheek and nodded, pulling her hands together and casting her eyes aside quickly when the heat of the glance would only make her burst.

“Thank you, Lord Hightower. I did look up to him, the entire realm did… and he left an enormous pair of shoes for me as well, as it happens. I can only hope to be half the ruler he would have been were he here right now.”

She was grateful for the eye contact. It meant he cared, truly, and hadn’t just extended his courtesies for the sake of being proper. The thought was puzzling, but she didn’t often look gift horses in their mouths.

“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.” She snorted quietly, pressing two fingers against her lips as she hid the smile again.

“We’re close enough to the North, my lord, that if they hear you they may go rabid at your throat. Alas, I have not seen any savages or Winterfell spouting golden roads these days. I haven’t been acquainted with the Starks, unfortunately, but I imagine the bride should be arriving shortly; it would be rude to be late to one’s wedding,” Ciona chirped, smiling cleverly with a wandering gaze around the hall.

Already she enjoyed Lord Hightower’s company more than she figured she would any other Lord at this wedding. Their conversation had been brief, still, but she would rather hear the stories of Oldtown and the South than the droning of frozen lords and ladies.

"I'm sorry to interrupt the conversation but I have been looking for you, Lady Ciona, since I laid eyes on House Arryn's crest. How have you been?" She jumped, recognizing the voice almost immediately. Ciona’s gaze brightened to its tenth shade, a mixture of excitement and embarrassment from the interruption. She smiled wide, and restrained herself from gripping the other girl tightly. When was the last time she had seen Ethamira? Before Lysander died, and maybe once after but shortly after his death to extend condolences to the family. The woman had changed a bit in the two years. She still seemed her ever youthful self, full of the glow that drew Lysander to her aura in the first place. Ciona, caught up in the winds of past, shook her head to clear her mind.

"A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, I am Ethamira, daughter of Lord Edderwin Forrester."

“My apologies, Lord Hightower. Ethamira was my late brother’s betrothed, as it happened. It’s been… we haven’t seen each other since. She’s like a sister to me,” Ciona said with a small laugh, squeezing her own hand to try and hold back from giving her an entire, crushing hug. She had been grateful that Lord Hightower were so kind to her in keeping conversation and remaining so chivalrous, pleasing the young Lady that she hadn’t been so relaxed with someone outside of the family in a long time. He was in her good graces, that was for sure. He hopefully wouldn’t be dissuaded for the entire wedding to avoid her from an interruption such as this. While Etha was a friend to Ciona, she would do her best to restrain from remaining glued at the girl’s hip the entire time. She had a job to do, and a seat as the head of her house to cement with the promise of an engagement.

Her gaze flickered to Lord Hightower, and then back to Ethamira. It was too soon to think of such things.

RayPurchase Colorless Spectrum

 

[RayPurchase]

“We’re close enough to the North, my lord, that if they hear you they may go rabid at your throat. Alas, I have not seen any savages or Winterfell spouting golden roads these days. I haven’t been acquainted with the Starks, unfortunately, but I imagine the bride should be arriving shortly; it would be rude to be late to one’s wedding,”



Ormond laughs and glances about the hall. The northerners were indeed a blunt and , very much a product of their surroundings he supposed. Honeyed words would do you little use in the wild country with literal wolves at your door and the biting cold. In the Reach on the other hand, wolves were rare, and snow hadn’t been seen in years, time was no longer precious, and many chose to fill it with pointless words and prose.



“Thankfully it appears that the Northern wolves are not within earshot at this moment in time. And I’m sure they’ll save the rabid attacks until after the vows, nothing like a pre ceremony murder to ruin the upcoming events,”



Ormond's smile slips a little hearing the light footsteps approaching and catching the young woman making a beeline for the pair of them. However he visibly relaxes as she introduces herself and Lady Arryn makes the necessary introductions. His smile slips back into place, the first Northerner he had encountered so far. Thankfully she didn’t appear to rabid, in fact she seemed rather polite, perhaps this should be more worrying, encountering a smiling wolf. He dips his head in a bow.



“No need for apologies, I would not put myself between a reunion. Ormond Hightower, Lord Oldtown, and once again the pleasure is mine Lady Ethamira, my first encounter with a member of the North on this great occasion. I'm glad to say you have put the spurious rumours of Northern savagery to bed by your mere presence,”



Forester… the name rang a bell but given the multitude of Northern Houses he could not recall this particular one. The North was by far the largest of the Seven Kingdoms, and its houses could trace their lineage back to the First Men. The problem was the sheer multitude of them, it was about know he wished for the presence of Maester Marcus and his near perfect recall abilities of the various houses across the length and breadth of the land.



“In fact, you have arrived at the most opportune time, Lady Ciona here was without acquaintances until your timely arrival, and I was filling in as a handy and willing stop gap,”



He pauses for a second, his grin widening, jesting of course. The conversation had flowed easily enough, and Ciona herself had been quite pleasant company.



“Alas I spy an opening in the King’s direction, and I should really take full advantage and pay my dues. I beg your leave Lady Ciona, Lady Ethamira. I’m sure we will see each other over the course of the festivities, and if you require anything in the meantime, myself and my party are camped just outside of the walls. Simply look for the banner of flaming towers,”

 

[Kassandra Rose]

Princess Aliana Stark​

Within her childhood days of tormenting isolation, Aliana’s mother would oft attend her rooms to provide some company. Here, she would sit — with her nimble fingers weaving the infant’s soft, raven locks — and tell her daughter stories. These tales were a time beyond immature comprehension. Nonetheless, Alia sincerely appreciated each ebullient word and syllable; for they brought to life a world of wonder and vivaciousness, were there had only been tiresome obligations.

The story, or rather account, that stuck with her most — even to this self same day — was that of Lyanna Stark. Throughout the North, very few women are ever described with as much awe and reverence as Lyanna. She was a woman of “wild beauty”, never downcast or woebegone. At least, that was the picture that her mother painted, as she placed an infinitesimal crown of winter roses upon the young lady’s head, which she’d had plucked from the glass gardens of Winterfell. The beautiful Lyanna Stark had once, also, been betrothed to a Baratheon — a drunkard whose very own demise had been evoked by his intoxicating abuses.

Fortunately for Lyanna — or perchance unfortunately, depending on how one wished to perceive such circumstances — the Stark-Baratheon marriage alliance was cut with her untimely death. Yet, her memory lived on through the hearts and lips of those whom still held her near. Each of them painting a picture of the woman they desired to remember. For her mother, this tale was of a victim, a dutiful and compassion bound lady whom was torn prematurely from her family. She was a woman prepared to do what was right. Upon reflection, at a later age, clarity did reveal to Aliana that her mother sought to bend this story to indoctrinate the young lady’s mind into acceptance and submission of the forthcoming Stark-Baratheon marriage alliance.

However, the truth was far from that which was displayed. Her mother’s tales were just that.... tales. Had she had sought the books to check her facts, Lady Stark would’ve found that a Maester, Yandel, had once described Lyanna as "a wild and boyish young thing with none of the Princess Elia’s delicate beauty”. No, by no means was this woman delicate, but a fierce lover and fighter — whose very own brother compared her to his tomboyish daughter, Arya, in personality.

Indeed, the more young Alia bent over the history books and filled her mind with the accounts and tales of Westerosian history, the more she was persuaded by the very defiant nature that her mother wished to suppress. When her mother placed a crown of roses upon her head, the woman thought that she were hailing the delicacy and sweetness of the flowers, encouraging her daughter to such ideology. Yet, each time those flowers wilted, each time they decayed, the young Stark would remind herself of the dangers of such fragility. No, her mother’s attempts grew stale with the flowers themselves, whilst Lyanna lived on through the words of the books that lay forever fresh in Aliana’s mind.

The suggestion to bear that very same crown upon her head today had been Aliana’s idea. She’d perchance decieved her brother — for which she admittedly felt a little bit guilty for — by informing him that by portraying such accessory, she honoured Lyanna’s memory, a figure whom for many was a symbol of the Stark-Baratheon alliance. She, herself, had much deeper intentions. To her, it portrayed strength against pressure, will against force, and love over necessity. Many were quick to forget that the crown had been gifted to Lyanna by Rhaegar Targaryen in a controversial act of affection (be it love or lust).

Guilt sat heavy within her chest, as Ander helped her upon his horse and led them further towards Harrenhal, which only appeared to grow more and more as the seconds passed. “Oh, brother, you fear our old lady far too much for a man that is King, with many far greater enemies,” Lia couldn’t refrain from laughing softly at his anxiety. Although, she did find herself reaching forth and squeezing his hand quickly with her own, daintier one. “Do not fret so, especially with the castle approaching. They cannot see this as weakening you in anyway. Do you understand?” Having grown living every second at each other’s side, the two had acquired the skill to make an educated guess at the other’s feelings by mere body language and minimal wording alone. This, she understood, would be as hard for him as it was for her.

In the growing silence, Lia began to wonder if this castle were forged as a challenge to The Smith. Though charred and beaten, it still upheld so much of the allure that she supposed it had originally contended. Perchance, it could say that such a history — of extinct mystical beasts and pivotal events — made it all the more beautiful.

She didn’t dare air these thoughts aloud, as they rode on. Though her mind was busy, her lips remained pursed, still. For, Lia already knew her brother’s retort to such a matter before the thought had even finished settling in her own mind. “Not too dissimilar to your betrothed,” he would jest, or something similar at least, like “here’s to hoping you can see beyond that with your beloved King too”.

How was it fair that, on top of receiving all that their House had to offer, Ander got to wed a beautiful Karstark? Whilst, she, on the other hand, was forced to the south — amongst the incestuous and kinslaying southroners — to decay for the rest of her melancholy life. Some, she supposed, would rather die. Would she? No, not yet, at least. Although dire, this was not the end, but perhaps the start of something grander.

Indeed, it was. Moving South introduced a whole new range of political figures to acquaint oneself with, a new chance to grow in prominence and influence. When she takes Loras’ hand in marriage, for better or for worse, she will become his Queen. Better yet, her children will be the heirs to the Iron Throne itself, and their minds Alia’s for the sculpting. Besides, who was she to be so negative? In spite of her brother’s jesting, there was but a slither of hope that love could still grow from nought, between her and her betrothed. Wasn’t there?

A nervous gulp struggled to surpass her throat as they came to a halt. Her mind had scarcely finished analysing the intricacies of all the beautiful banners, when alas they reached House Karstark. Allowing Ander to clamber down first, she awaited him to firmly reach the ground before taking his hand and barrelling downwards herself . The high spirited laughter of the Karstark children was the first to be received of their union, and Lia found her eyes hurtling in their direction. The lights within their eyes and smiles perched on their lips warmed the heart that nervously twitched within her chest. Without further ado, but a nod to Ander, she found herself approaching the troublesome trio, and the affable looking woman who trailed near behind them.

Hitching her skirt a little, to trudge through the grounds towards Selyse, Aliana offered her friendliest of smiles. “Good evening,” she tested the words upon her tongue, though immediately finding herself with regret for them. Here, in the eyes of everyone, friend and foe, nothing felt as though it were the right thing to say. “I do hope that I am not wrong in presuming that you are the lovely Lady Karstark, and these your charming little cherubs?” With a foot placed behind the other, Aliana bent delicately in a polite courtesy. “I’m glad to see you are well, after such a tiresome journey on my behalf. My sincerest of gratitude, I must emphasise, and apologies for the delay of my introduction... Princess Aliana, of House Stark”.

Rusty of Shackleford idalie​

{pls forgive my petty mistakes, I’ll correct tomorrow when I awaken}

 

[idalie]

Lady Selyse Karstark​

“Edwyn! Alaric! Slow down, Alys, your dress!” She fretted, finally seeking them out as they watched the camp being raised and more carriages pulling through with lords and ladies alike. Dressed in fine clothes, shoulders propped back and restless in their chatter. When Selyse caught up to the sheepish grins of her children, lady Karstark began to straighten out wrinkles in tunics; smooth down wild hair, and scold them for the umpteenth time that day. Trying to keep them on their best behaviour was hard enough, Walton could easily keep the boys in check at a glare and Alys? Oh, the poor thing could be persuaded at the best of times with some simple reward.

Selyse saw herself in her daughter, more so Al or Ed. Alys was carefree, adventurous and stubborn enough to stand up to the bullying of more than just her brothers. Sel still read with all of them, usually gathered in a single bed; Edwyn nodding off first, comedic in his war against the slow fluttering of his eyelashes until the slumber caught on. It always choked her up to think they’d be off one day. Welcoming new daughters-in-law and waving goodbye to her own. When the talk of betrothal came up, she hated the discussion and equally had pleaded with Walton to try and find Alys a match close to home. There were still some years yet to ride out, Condon hoped they’d be the best yet for her little one.

Still, there would be years left yet of children. It was Alysanne her heart went out for, sulking now in the shade by herself to cool off. Sel had known pain, she had foreseen her own death with Edwyn, lying exhausted and bloody with her fingertips clutching Walt’s sleeve. Her forehead drenched in sweat and her legs shaking, lips cracked and begging for the Gods to save her son if nothing more. Mercy was plentiful that day and Selyse pulled through by a miracle and the skilled hands of Maester Archibald.

She remembered even further back when she’d first fallen pregnant after Walt and herself had gotten comfortable. One could joke she was permanently frozen more or less in terror to appreciate what joy it had to offer. Between violent morning sickness, constant migraines, and some insatiable craving for omelettes - Selyse had to say that Alaric had been the easiest of all three. Easy to carry, easy birth, easy sleeper. If she had to give any woman a take on the experience, it would be a sympathetic look and a tight hug before handing them a wild card.

The way Alysanne still acted as if she were fifteen wasn’t going to help that upcoming marriage, Selyse could only send up a prayer that Ander would survive the flung pottery and sobbing. Whether or not the man could break through between now and then was left up to chance. A chance he knew what he was doing and how to handle someone more volatile than wildfire.

The Lady of Karhold turned when one of the Stark twins approached, putting a quick hand to her chest with mirrored courtesy at the fine introduction. “Lady Stark! It’s good to see you here and in such health,” Selyse then turned back to the gaggle of staring sons and daughter, “Unfortunately, they’re all mine. You’re quite correct--” Ducking in, Karstark continued to pull Edwyn’s hands from his face where he’d decided to now gnaw on his wooden horse. Alys and Alaric, on the other hand, had better sense to show respect for the woman who by all means would be Queen of Westeros by the time the summer was out.

Selyse put a delicate hand on Aliana’s arm, light enough not to intrude but equally reassuring. “I have to say, you’re looking beautiful … and I know by all means it's not my place to comment, but if you should ever need help or advice, I’d be glad to help.” Sel’s eyes softened for a moment, from the fatigue of chasing little ones and weeks on rattling wheels to empathy. “But you’ll be the prettiest bride the South has ever seen, mark my words,” She wagged her finger, Edwyn clutching a fistful of his mother’s skirt as he stared blankly up at the female Stark; beginning to lean forward with the intent of scrunching her dress into his grubby hands only to be caught by Selyse and lifted up with a slight groan.

“Heavier and heavier,” She huffed, Alys now taking her turn to eye the princess.
“Is it true?” The child questioned in a high pitch, tugging on one of her plaits, “Are you going to marry that old man?” Sel petted her daughter’s head and gave a stern look.
“Alys, just because he has a cane doesn’t mean he's old.”

The young Karstark glanced upward, “Archibald said he has a cane because his knees hurt,”

Alaric, both front teeth having recently fallen out decided to give his input, squinting as he tapped his wooden sword into the grass. “My dad’th say’th King Loras’th isn’t our King. An’ that he’s’th a fucki--”
“ALARIC,” Lady Karstark exclaimed, cuffing the boy around the ear. “Do not repeat those words in front of a lady, especially not a lady such as Lady Stark. Am I going to have to talk to your father? Would you prefer that?”

Al scowled, Karstark lifted her head and began to rub at her temple with what spare hand she had. “Please, accept my apology. They’re young. King Loras is a very good King, I’m sure of it. I hope everything goes well and as I’ve said before, I am an open book. Done everything worth talking about in the circles of married women.”

Kassandra Rose High Moon

 

[Big Chungus]

Rajendra Chola III, fifth son of King Rajendra Chola II, could not hide his excitement upon stepping into his captains chambers.

strung over the goose feather mattress a pale angel breathed. chest rising each half second, blond hairs at end with the cold air rushing past the open door behind Rajendra. the prince couldnt contain his smile, lips firmly pressed upwards. in a moment, he was upon his captain, resting on both knees, the hardness of the cold stone not enough of a detraction to stop Rajendra. Quellion Greyjoy's face shifted when Rajendra's hot breath rolled over his neck. Minor annoyance than acceptance, the captain remained adrift in his sea of dreams.

daringly, Rajendra's finger poked at his captains exposed nipple, stiffening further in response. wanton lust shone in his eyes, finger trailing further south, where sternum met soft, concealing blanket. fluttering eyelids went unnoticed by the prince as he lifted the covering, heart pounding with each barest touch of flesh. the man licked his lips, nerves now failing as he neared the item of his obsession. consigning himself to his task, Rajendra prepared to grasp his destiny, but found himself paused.

an ivory hand grasped Rajendra's wrist, only then did the prince take notice of pain as blood dribbled on the blanket and body below. brown eyes met ocean blue, Rajendra's lust only momentarily dispersed by surprise. 'captain.' said the man of no shame.

'my pet.' greyjoy spoke, voice gruff with injury. 'what do you believe yourself to be doing?' inquired with raised brow and tired eyes.

Rajendra Chola shuddered with need. 'embracing you.' he muttered as his eyes fogged up, unable to look away from his captain.

'without permission.' as Quellion sat up, his hold on the older man tightened. Rajendra relished the sensation, nails of iron protruding into him. 'that demands a punishment, would you not say?'

each click of his captains teeth made Rajendra weak. 'yes.' he might have whispered it, or thought it, he not know. finally feeling his hand be freed, Rajendra barely moved.

'gather me my clothing.' the demand was given with lazy gestures of his now crimson hand. Rajendra complied, the task simple as the Western styled clothing were loose and easy to find. loyally, Rajendra waited for his punishment, eagerly eyeing his captain as Quellion stood, naked to the world, and covered such perfection with linen fitted for him by the Yi Tians. disappointment flashed tho concealed quickly.

'my captain?' he pondered aloud.

a gentle smile fell on his face. 'wait no longer.' promised the source of his obsession. 'i shall deprive you of my touch for the day, that is the cost of your salacious fingers.'

Rajendra's face fell, mustache twisting with muscles in downward dejectiveness. 'my captain,' he begged. 'do not forsake my loyalty.'

'loyalty or loins?' brow raised in curiosity. the now dressed captain stepped out of the room, his first mate trailing behind with a sickening stomach. 'i forsake nothing, you were given no permission, my pet.' Quellion spoke again. despite this denial, Rajendra found his core warming with the positive comments. his captain did not spurn him out of distaste for Rajendra, the prince merely acted too greedily. he would learn soon, to properly please his captain.

'you have my apology eternal.' the prince spoke with life in him once more.

'and you my gratitude.' spoke his captain, voice stinging with displeasure, tho not directed at Rajendra. the man followed his captain as silence gathered between them. the halls of this fort were not grand as the palaces of his grandfather, stone cut for the simple purpose of keeping ravagers from the valuables of the local lord. little good that did against the might of his captain, however. they now wandered his halls, slept in his beds, and the lord rotted in the dungeons, wife now disposed of and peasantry relinquished to Rajendra and his captain. he smirked at that, no one had yet imposed their will on his captain, regardless of port.

they passed from one hall to the next, until they reached a grand wooden balcony. guards stood posted at the entrance of the room, nodding in respect to their superiors. Rajendra acknowledged them, though his angel was fast on his way out to the wooden construct. Rajendra followed his captain, the cold winds of the morning rustling the well constructed and layered clothing of the prince. his captain hardly noticed, rather took them as the gentle caresses of a lover.

'my captain?' asked Rajendra, curiosity not hidden from his voice.

'i can feel it,' Quellion peered outwards. a rolling hill in sight, rocky outcroppings that Rajendra connected with descriptions of Pyke. off the coast, sails danced under the breeze, a white raven on black sails the signature of each vessel. some were well crafted, Rajendra admired, others were worn by salt air and battle, they would replace those in time. 'the collective breath the world held.' Quellion continued, those eyes of mysterious blue peering beyond the ships and the sea, Rajendra saw. 'it has been exhaled. rejected from the lungs like a plague ridden wheeze.'

'what do you command of me?'

those fine lips pressed tightly against themselves, Rajendra noticed with need. purse finished, Quellion explained. 'we have lingered for months.' the captain commented. 'be it time for us to return, you would say?' the man looked to his sailor with inviting eyes.

'home.' Rajendra treasured those words. 'it is time.' he nodded enthusiastically. 'i shall prepare the crew.'

'make yourself still a moment longer my pet.' and so the prince did. 'the time is right, but we are not.'

the prince did not understand, his excitement smashed as waves to the rocks. 'are we lacking in your eyes?'

'only in greater purpose.' Quellion turned, his back on the fence post that separated the captain from the falls below. Rajendra couldn't help but worry. 'i shall go alone.'

those words threatened to crush the man's heart. alone? without him? he must not of hidden his disappointment well, for his captain spoke swiftly.

'alone with my most trusted. we shall evaluate this splintered kingdom but we must be acting separate from our sailors.'

'you wish for us to be distant from pirates.' Rajendra drew confirmation from how Quellion's eyes brightened. 'why? your people...'

'are pirates no more. a punishable offense. we shall arrive as other beings. not as pirates.' Quellion waved his hand, as if to urge his present self to disappear.

'as what, my captain?'

'men of faith.' he spoke with confidence, that burned voice of his giving goose pimples to Raj. 'men of the true god.'

 

[wachook]

Alyn Baelish, Acting Lord of Harrenhal

The rumours of a crippled stag were true after all. How bad were the burns for a man to require a cane at such an age? Alyn did not show his sympathy; higher men did not take well to it, after all. His own legs began to ache at the sight of the oaken staff clutched in the king’s fingers. They were hungry for relief and he now began to regret leaving his own locked away in his room. If a man as powerful as Loras could withstand the public shame that came with being a cripple, why couldn’t he?

“It’s precisely that power that allows him to do so,” he thought. Although this was his keep, the King’s presence had usurped him as ruler of Harrenhal—the Lords who greeted King Loras did not spare a second on Alyn. It was somewhat disconcerting but not worth bringing up. After all, his duties as a host demanded that he keep his guests needs over his. They seemed to be enjoying the food which lessened the sting of being invisible. The heavy tables had been carefully loaded with food since dawn—the hearth was still roaring, sending a trail of delicious smoke through the halls.

It occurred to Alyn then the momentous importance of this wedding and the stakes that would impale the realm were this to fail. So many young Lords and Ladies... inexperience led to unstable times. Both Kings of the North and the South were younger than he was—or so he remembered—and his extra years had not helped him prepare this wedding. Many mistakes had been made; many rehearsals botched. Even now, as King Loras talked to his retinue, was not going according to plan. King Stark was supposed to be here....

"Rowena," he whispered, "Go outside and check the grounds. If you see our King, let him know the Baratheon awaits him."

His eldest sister left for the gates with Bethany in tow. If only his brother had gone along as well... now they would have to sit in silence for news to arrive.

"Your lords respect you, your Grace," Alyn stammered to the southron King as Clovis Tyrell began to leave. "Have you tried the wine? Highgarden's best, or so I'm told. All the flavour of the Reach without inconvenience of travel."

 

[Colorless Spectrum]

Ethamira Forrester

Interactions: RayPurchase BELIAL.
Mentions: Kassandra Rose Rusty of Shackleford

The brunette smiled at the younger woman's introduction. Like a sister, that much was true and she is happy to know that, that hasn't changed as she felt very much the same. The man was kind and very much a gentleman as he introduced himself. "Well I, for one, am glad to have satiated your question of the long rumored behavior of Northernmen." She gave a smile, it was truly easy to like the man. No wonder Ciona's was going red as an apple a little earlier." She knew of the Hightower name from the books she have read as a young child, a house filled with wealth, lands and privileges. She then wondered what it was like, to live in the South.

"I am quite sure, Lady Ciona had found your company to be by no means to be a bore. I can see that whatever conversation you two might have had must have been a joyous one." She remarked, now feeling a bit guilty to have disturbed the two since it did look like they were having a good time.

“Alas I spy an opening in the King’s direction, and I should really take full advantage and pay my dues. I beg your leave Lady Ciona, Lady Ethamira. I’m sure we will see each other over the course of the festivities, and if you require anything in the meantime, myself and my party are camped just outside of the walls. Simply look for the banner of flaming towers." The man had said, his figure growing smaller as he made his way to his king but not before bidding the man farewell.

Her brown orbs were immediately mischievous, her smile was teasing as she turned to Ciona. "Is it just me, or did I just saw you going the tenth shade of red with Lord Hightower earlier?" She teased to the younger woman. Something she and Lys would often do to Ciona when they were young. She took the redhead's hands in her own and squeezed it. Sudden seriousness, face filled with guilt. "Cici, I am so sorry, for not being there for you. After the funeral and when you were seated as the Lady of Vale. It's just..." I got pregnant, I had his child. You have a nephew. Tears were forming, she wanted to tell Ciona so badly, but not like this. Not in a wedding. She wanted her to see Elys in the flesh, how much he looked like his father if not for the brown hair he had received from her. "It was so hard for me, I broke down at just the thought of him, what more if I was surrounded by everything he lived for? I was a coward and I didn't want to show how weak I had been." It wasn't a lie, it's very much the truth as she had spend the first few months locked up in her room, unable to accept the fact that Lys had been dead.

She wiped her eyes, not wanting for others to wonder if any had passed by. It was a wedding, a joyous occasion. Crying is clearly not part of the event unless, it is tears of joy that you are shedding. "I didn't plan on coming here, actually. But father had insisted, he wants me to secure a marriage by the time the wedding has ended." Not an easy feat. She had to be on her best of behavior for the occasion and she is also in her best dress. Her face had turned a bit bitter, never liked the thought of marrying somebody else, especially not when she still loved Lysander. "I don't want to be married, at the very least not yet. Hopefully, if things go as father had planned, I find a man kind enough."

From the corner of her eye, Ethamira could see her mother watching. Their eyes meet and her mother, Lady Eleanor, beckoning for her to follow, mouthing the name Starks. "We should get going, Cici. The Starks are here, we should pay our dues." She said to the young woman, holding Ciona's hand as she followed her mother to the gates. She had seen the Starks once, because it had only been once since she came to Winterfell. If there was anything that happened she could hardly remember it as it was a time just before Alricht was born. Ethamira had always wondered how the King and Princess was like, it's not everyday you meet royalty.

 

[RayPurchase]

Ormond strode confidently in the direction of the King's table. Eyes set on his goal, and the smile that had previously occupied his features slipping away, replaced by a more determined look. The light from the torches bracketed along the walls sent twisting shadows and reflections dancing over his plate armour. He would much rather stayed in the company of the Lady Forester and Arryn. They seemed pleasant and accommodating, and even seemed happy to be in his presence. The southron ladies had always seemed a bit more of a mystery to him, no sense of adventure or wild streak to them, almost prisoners in a world expecting them to be nothing more than pampered pets. All the while whispering moneyed words in your ears whilst preparing to twist a knife in your back... well maybe not all of them, but certainly the ones who had obtained a degree of independence. He would have to seek them out again, once certain pleasantries and etiquette had been met.

King Loras IV of the House Baratheon. Twisted in body, the Burnt Stag, He had heard muttered in some of the quieter and more private corners of the Reach. Apparently near dependant on Milk of the Poppy in order to deal with the injuries he had been left with, he had shut himself within King's Landing, rarely making public appearances. Ormond was not yet sure what to make of the young Baratheon. His Lord was Tyrell, and he considered his loyalty to be to him first and foremost. When Mace Tyrell raised his banners for Renly against the Iron Throne, house Hightower and stood by him, in open defiance to the Iron Throne. House Tyrell had the benefit of generations of mutual loyalty and respect to the time of Aegon's Conquest, and that went a long way with the Hightowers. This Baratheon line was new and untried however in the scheme of things. So far King Loras, in Ormond's eyes had done little to foster such loyalty, and given his physical disabilities , first impressions in front of his kingdom at an event such as this would matter double.

Approaching the King’s table, He comes to a halt some 10 paces from the King’s seat itself. With one hand on his sword hilt to prevent himself was tripping over the thing a trick that every young Lord leaned the hard way, he eased himself down onto one knee, his head and eyes cast downwards in a show of deference. Despite the show of supplication his back was still ramrod straight, He was no minor Lord scrabbling before the King for scraps or favours from his table.

“My humblest greetings my King, apologies for interrupting your feasting, but I wished to pass on my most heartfelt congratulations on the match that is to be made,”

He would pass on even more if this brought about a lasting peace between the North and the South. The only thing traders hated as much as war, was the threat of one, and things were uneasy at the moment, Oldtown’s life blood was trade, and he was here to protect that. Raising his head slightly he caught side of the actual permanent resident of Harrenhall.

“And my thanks to you Lord Baelish for opening up your home to us. I see the stories of Harrenhall's size and awe inspiring nature were not simply literary embellishment,”

Mors wachook

 

[MassProdigy411]

Lord Dorren Drumm"The Red Hand" of Old Wyk
The Crossroads Inn to Harrenhall

Dorren was surpised when the raven arrived at Old Wyk, inviting him and his household to the grand castle of Harrenhall for the historical union between house Stark and Baratheon. It was always Dorren's impression that the lords of the Greenlands never cared much for the their betters, the men of salt and rock of the Iron Islands. He was almost certain it was out of fear, fear for their ways, their gods, and most certainly their navy. Yet there his name was written in pretty letters, his first thoughts at first was to toss it in the flames, no doubt many Ironborn lords lacking the name of Greyjoy would do the same. However, a spark went up in his eye as he read the name of the Castle again "Harrenhall..." Dorren whispered to himself in his study. The Ancient fortress of Harren "The Black" Hoare, the last true King of Salt and Rock that ruled over the Greenlands of the Trident. In the time where the Ironborn brought fear across the chores of Westeros, from Lannisport to the Arbor. Yes the good Maester Ronnel was right as well, it is good for Dorren to attend such events to keep up to date with the politics of the realm, but what Dorren really wanted was to see that great monument of once upon a time Ironborn dominance.
The journey was while long, an eventful one as well reminding Dorren of just how much he missed adventuring during the year that he's ruled over Old Wyk. He had no need for servants or some large travelling party to accompany him, only fifty of his best reavers aboard one simple Longship was all that was required for the journey. He left behind his infamous flagship Sea Scorcher, as he was not to be at sea for much of the journey as they were to only sail into Seaguard. From there him and his band of once upon a time Reavers and Raiders rode on as they did before his Lordship, not even flying a banner as he hated the attention it attracted that would not allow them to better enjoy the common inn or tavern on the road. From Seaguard to Riverun and then along the River road along the Red fork they rode in simple leather and iron, baring no grand decorations or noble symbolism to give off the air that Dorren was in fact the head of a great house. In truth they may have came off as a group of hedge knights, but Dorren's company looked more of thugs and bandits, Sellswords if the man judging was so kind. Many wearing grotesque scars and grim sinister looks on their faces. However, Dorren had no intentions of molesting the Riverlands today, they did no such raiding or stealing among the common folk, instead singing bawdy songs of the road and that of the seas, as they left Tavern's drank dry and a mess in their wake.
In truth simply the year of ruling has left Dorren restless and irritable, most days he finds himself fantasizing of travelling once again without responsibility and with all the freedom of the world and all it had to offer.
While granted he also missed the smell of fire and the screams of the dying and helpless as his band set fire to their pitiful vessels and once calm settlements. The bloodlust he'd found in his teen years he was convinced could never leave him. Yet he found himself growing into the shoes of a ruler, thinking more rather than acting on impulse, as he must no long reave and rape in the ways of the Ironborn once had. He did well to stop his bunch from doing so, only allowing simple drunken tavern brawls and the accosting of weaker men's drinks and whores as some things just couldn't be helped. Even now the Crossroads Inn in which sat on where three of the main roads of the continent met, was in a sorry state thanks to their band that had occupied it. Last night was a rowdy one and it took them all some time to awaken and dress themselves to take part in the feast, Dorren receiving words after he'd risen that many a host had passed on to Harrenhall. After paying for whatever damages they had caused, Dorren and his band set down the Kings road towards Harrenhall.
Dressed in a stained deep red leather jerkin, Dorren rode in a more organized column towards the grand castle, his men now flying banners of House Drumm from pikes, the skeletal hand upon it's red field bringing a bit of pride to Dorren. As they rode on and the high towers of Harrenhall came into vision, Dorren looking on in wonder at the marvel. He became anxious and impatient to explore the wonders of the castle and hurried his band to it's walls, he'd traveled all over the world and have seen such wonders as the Wall and the Citadel of Old Town, and one of his favorites the Titan of Bravos. He'd always imagined visiting this great monument of his people as well and is it became closer he felt the adventurer in him once again taking over his body. That was until he came across the Starks of Winterfell, the Kings of Winter, and in truth all though it hurts to admit it his sovereign King. He knew it was expected of him, especially here in the presence of foreign powers, to acknowledge his high ruler, since he has yet to come across his sworn liege the Greyjoy's or any Ironborn for that matter. So putting a hold to his curiosity, he sent word ahead to have an introduction with the Stark King, riding to the head of his column to meet the Shaggy Wolf himself.
"Your Grace." Dorren addressed the King with pride, with hand on the hilt of his Family's ancestral Valyrian steel sword Red Raine . It was his first time meeting a Stark of WInterfell, the tales were mostly true he'd came to see. The coldness that came from the man were chilling, as if he was an embodiment of the North itself.
"I am Dorren the Red Hand, of House Drumm of Old Wyk and the Iron Islands." he announced himself, doubting that the King would have much knowledge of himself or his house as it was minor in comparison to the vast Kingdom he ruled.
"I bring with me fifty true Ironborn warriors of salt and rock, among these Green southern King's and Lords, you can consider them friends!" he declared boastfully, a smirk on his face as he looked about the other men of the great many houses that set up camp outside the walls. It was mere formality of course, his Maester informed him it was his duty and his father's teachings of duty somewhat got through to him. Dorren found no ill feelings for the Stark King, yet no strong ones neither, he'd offer his good will , as well as his blade here among enemies but he would find it difficult if he expected him to kneel.
"I hope that during the feast you'll honor me and share a horn of ale with me?"
Rusty of Shackleford ​

 

[Rusty of Shackleford]

Ander Stark
The Black Wolf

Ander rode beside the carriage the housed the women and children of House Karstark, nodding as he said, "Good day, Lady Karstark. I trust you had a pleasant ride?" He smiled at the little one's inside, chuckling as Alaric cursed. "You better watch you mouth, boy. Or else the White Walkers'll crawl through your window and snatch you up!" He was trying to be friendly, which was actually quite easy, as he had no ill will towards Lady Selyse, her children, or Alysanne. He bowed politely at Alys, saying, "Good day, Lady Alysanne. I look forward to knowing you, My Lady." He bowed politely, the Southron manners his mother instilled in him oozing out like molasses. He hated protocol and manners. If he could, he'd just call her Alysanne, and not have to speak like he had a rod in his arse. But alas, that rod had been shoved so far up his ass, that even he couldn't pull it out.

The King turned when he heard Drumm speak, saying, "And I am Ander Stark, of Winterfell. Well, I suppose you already knew that. A pleasure, my friend." Ander was actually in a good mood now. He'd never had the pleasure of talking to an Ironborn at length, and his long nights of studying history gave him a love of different cultures, Ironborn among them. Ander smiled with the Ironborn, saying, "Thank you, Lord Drumm. I would gladly drink with you, though I must say, I'm not much of a drinker. Though, I did bring with me several barrels of black beer from White Harbour." While he was still friendly, there was a certain...distance he kept. It was obvious in his words, he tried to sound friendly and approachable, yet distant, sometimes even cold. Simply habit, it was. His mother always said he should speak properly, and to never get too close to "lesser lord's." As much as Ander refuted that he was above no one, this idea was beaten into his brain, so hard that he wouldn't dare escape it.

idalie
MassProdigy411

(Probably missed a few mentions. Sick today, so I can edit in any conversations that need to be in it!)​

 

[MassProdigy411]

Lord Dorren Drumm"The Red Hand" of Old Wyk
Harrenhal

"Ha! Then it'll be my pleasure to have you drunk by the night's end!" Dorren declared, a wide smirk on his face as he could almost taste the black beer just thinking about it. While not one for pretty words and elegant gestures, he believed that most people regardless of rank or class can be brought together over simple things such as good drink and song. Dorren acknowledged the other Northern nobles that mustered about the King, taking note of the bride to be offering her a smile. Dismounting from his horse, Dorren handed the reins of his mount to one of his men, then retrieved a carefully packaged item from his saddlebag. He offered a bow to both the assembled Karstarks and the Princess of Winterfell, Dorren chuckled at the little litter of Karstark children, finding himself being reminded of his own.
"No need to apologize for merry and happy children! My own daughter would be the same." Dorren insisted, smiling at the eldest of Lady Karstarks children. He thought for a moment of his little Kyara, probably the only thing that soften his heart at his worst times. After he held his daughter in his arms for the first time, he's had a soft spot for children ever since.

"Forgive me Lady Stark, I have no desire to stand before all of Westeros to present my gift." Dorren stated as he offered a light bow of his head to the Princess of the North. He extended his gift to her, it was wrapped in fine grey linen's, with crimson red Weirwood leaves of the Old Gods embroidered into the fabric. The steel of the dagger shined as it was revealed to the sunlight, the castle forged steel sharp at it's edges and point. The main attraction however, was the hilt of the blade that was made of Weirwood, the dusty grey of the wood sturdy and ancient.
"I spent the fresh years of my youth adventuring the world you see, a decent year or so adventuring the bitter cold of your home. This little antique was one of the many things I've collected during that time. You could never find me off the Iron Islands or my ship without a blade, you should practice the same when among the likes of Lions and Stags, eh?" he explained with a smirk as he offered the blade to the Princess.
His good Maester insisted that it would be improper not to bring some type of gift for the bride, that it was always best to avoid offending his sovereign King and always useful to be in good favors with the royal family for political reasons. The Maester Ronnel, while a bit timid and a weak man was wise and Dorren loved his counsel. Maester Ronnel also made a point to Dorren not to let it be known the truth of where he obtained the gift. In While sailing the Shivering Sea among the trade that flows through White Harbor and Bravos, Dorren learned the Northerner's while scarce for silver, they were plenty in steel and never surrendered their ships willingly. Although the fighting was always fierce and left some of his own dead, they always had something special tucked away in their hulls.

Kassandra Rose
Rusty of Shackleford
idalie​