Game of Thrones: The Rising Sun ((IC/ASoIAF/GOT RP/Open))

by **Krugmar** » Sun Jul 19, 2015 10:24 am

Robb Tully
Lord Paramount of the Riverlands
Riverrun

"Now that he is dead, everybody wishes to pay their respects to him" muttered Robb as he sifted through the letters which had arrived over the following days. Gathered in the Great Hall were most of the Riverlords, all having been invited to the funeral and all having made the trip with the exception for those too old or away in other regions. Even then they had sent their heirs, brothers, other family members and personal knights. For once in almost a century the Riverlands was completely united. The destruction of House Frey eliminated the main rival of the Tullys, and the shared losses the Tullys, Mallisters, Brackens and Blackwoods had shared in the war had driven them closer together.

Lord Bracken and Lord Blackwood still kept their distance, but out of respect for Edmure they adopted a civil attitude towards one another. Lord Mooton could be seen talking to a distant group of lords, his status having risen higher with the marriage of his daughter to Robb. House Tully had never been more powerful, owning four grand estates in their lands, one of them being the mightiest castle ever forged. Robb was eager to rid his family of it however, the curse had not abated it seemed. Castle Darry would also be given away to a loyal retainer, one of the knights who proved his valour in the tourney most likely. The Twins would never be relinquished from the Tully line, and now a cadet dynasty would rule them far better than the Freys ever could.

"They jump on the opportunity to make you their ally. The Riverlands has been weak for most of its history, barely able to raise ten thousand men without squabbling between the Riverlords. Now you can raise a formidable host, with lords loyal to you out of fear and respect. The fortifications you are planning will make the Riverlands almost as perilous to invade as the Vale. Have you come to a decision on the matter of a fleet?" said Lord Mallister. Mallister was a good man and loyal to the Tully name and cause just as they had been during the War of Five Kings. They had both suffered in the war, and worked together to rebuild from the ashes.

"Technically I need the permission of his Majesty to commission a new fleet for the Riverlands, but I think I will ignore the technicalities. I will make inquiries into some deal for wood from the North, hopefully I will be able to meet Lord Forrester. I trust you will make the necessary arrangements for the hiring of sailors and whatnot?" replied Robb, receiving a nod from Mallister. "Excellent, the investment will pay off, I know it" he said, before excusing himself and leaving for the lower and more public study. Inside were a few minor lords and ladies who courteously left for other rooms. Robb sat down to deal with some of the replies, sighing with the effort of replying to the fancy lords down south who had cared little for his family before now.

To his Lordship, Ser Corly Velaryon, Lord Regent of Driftmark

I thank you personally for the prayers said, and the vigils held in his honour. It is good to know that my father inspired the best in others in his later life, despite seeing the worst in his earlier days.

You may of course attend the funeral, and I must urge haste for it will be held in a few days.

May the Warrior keep you safe, and the Father look over your every effort
signed, Lord Robb Tully of the Riverlands

To his Lordship, Renly Baratheon-Donddarion, Lord of Storm's End and the Stormlands

I consent to the betrothal, as has my son Hoster, he looks forward to meeting Lyanna. The friendship between our regions and the increased trade are things I can agree with, but I must stress that a military alliance forming out of this marriage is not what I intend.

That said, if the crown acts against you in an unjust way then I will offer you sanctuary and argue your case. The same could be said in reverse, but as a noble lord and a scion of House Baratheon I doubt it will come to that.

May the Warrior keep you safe, and the Father look over your every effort
signed, Lord Robb Tully of the Riverlands

Ariphos Merryweather
Captain-General of the Company of the Rose
Pentos Encampment

"Two years hmm? Doesn't make you eligible for a Bronze Rose and the subsequent discharge payment, which as you know is five years of service needed. Still, I trust you signed a minimum of one year contract which grants lower pay but an easier time leaving. As a... camp servant, as that is how you described yourself, I suppose that is probably the one you signed." said Ariphos, not truly bothered over losing somebody he didn't even recognise. Sellswords come and go, no point making friends with too many of them because sooner or later they abandon you or die in battle.

"Can't say I blame you for wanting to go back to Westeros. I have family there, distant kinsmen, the Merryweathers. They never respond to my letters, bastards, can't say I'm not tempted to sail over there and take their keep for my own. Trouble is the gold flows easier here, and being a lord under some king doesn't sound too appealing to me." he continued, losing track of his thoughts. The wine helped his tongue flow easier, and reminded him that he truly had nobody to talk to. Years of fighting in pointless wars had torn away at any emotions he might have possessed, seeing his old friends die made him reluctant to make any new ones.

"Go to the Quartermasters tent, the large red one a few tents from mine. Sign off your contract, receive your last payment if you haven't already, pay off the fee for leaving early if it was more than a one or two year contract. Then enjoy Westeros" he commanded before returning his attention to the map.

by **Actan** » Sun Jul 19, 2015 2:59 pm

"Give me priests who are fat and corrupt and cynical, the sort who like to sit on soft satin cushions, nibble sweetmeats, and diddle little boys. It's the ones who believe in gods who make the trouble."

- Tyrion Lannister

Off the coast of Queen's Landing
Ship of the Crone

The High Sparrow, now severely aged, weathered, and beaten, looked upon the might castle and city that the ship approached. Hos old home, King's Landing, was a smoking ruin, home to ten thousand dead souls, brought to their ends violently and without mercy. He bared the scars from this - the entire left side of his face was scarred with burns, forever reminding him the necessity of his faith.

The Targaryens, just as they had always done, came with fire and sword, ending any chance of the rekindling of the Faith there. Even before, their ability to force the Tyrell and Lannister armies back into the Red Keep had allowed for martial law, and thus Margaery, and Cersei to be freed. The common folk suffered, as they always do.

But he relented. The war in the north took precedence over any desire for petty revenge, and he spent many years fighting them back, with his brothers in the Faith, to push the Others back into the Seven hells they came from. Of course, the followers of the Red Demon often forgot this, attributing the victory solely to dragon fire, or to the bastard's watch. Nevertheless, the gods would never have forgiven him had not done what he did.

The ship slowly approached Queen's Landing, as the High Sparrow had several protests to bring to the King. Cults of the Red Demon had broken out all across the Kingdom, especially in the Stormlands, as well as the open heresy by many nobles, and as rumor had it, even the royalty. Even Aegon the Conqueror abandoned his demon-worship when he was crowned king, this nonsense had to be put to a stop. While one or two heretical nobles was an affair that could be tolerated, as their was no serious risk posed to the Kingdom at large, the vast swathe of territory the Faith was losing meant an apocalypse would soon be nigh. The Militant had found themselves busy defending honest neighborhoods against Red encroachment.

With these thoughts in mind, the High Sparrow, with his bodyguard of poor brothers and warrior's sons, prepared to depart the ship and speak with the King.

The Starry Sept
Oldtown, the Reach

Septon Mavrock, a member of the Most Devout, sat arguing with his fellows about the Faith's actions. Septon Croll, in particular, had proven tired and violent.

"The Red Demon has been tolerated for too long! We were once again forced to sanction the incestuous abomination Daenarys, just as we were Aegon, and his descendents, for thousands of years! All it has done has brought us misery! Endless conflict, endless devastation, and the great Others themselves descended upon us. How can this not be seen as a divine message? We must demand the King end this heathery immediately."

Half the Most Devout cheered, with several ayes thrown towards Septon Croll, while Mavrock began to speak.

"I understand your concerns, my brother. But if we continue along this line of action, the lords loyal to their damnation will descend upon the poor. As always, they will suffer first, not the heathens. Full-blown civil war between the faiths would never be good for the realm, and worst still, the heretics in the Iron Islands and the North may very join in. If we are see as the aggressor, I hesitate to think of how the other faiths may see us. I preach for tolerance, not for violence."

One again, half the Devout clapped and ayes, whilst the others stared them down. Croll began speaking again.

"Why must tolerate them? Why must we accept this filth? The Faith Militant has grown strong. Hedge Knights from across the realms have joined, especially since the repulsion of the Others, and tens of thousands of the Faithful stand at our beck-and-call in the poor brothers, who I must say, have been armed for years. The Sparrows have brought with them a wave of fanaticism we have not seen in centuries."

The Most Devout cheered again, but now the Warrior's Sons that guarded them were given attention. Clad in plate, sanctioned by the Crown all those years ago, the thousands of Hedge Knights that lived without purpose finally found a lord with which to serve. The Lord of justice, The Father above, and the scales of justice, were now their only masters. Even nobles, particularly those of minor and cadet branches, or those shamed by the ascendance of the Targaryans and Martells, had lent their horses, lands, wealth, and swords to the cause. Lancel Lannister had proven himself a valuable tool, as his rise within the Warrior's Sons in the war against the White Walkers brought many into the Fold.

"This may be true, brother, but I must counsel caution and judgement. Do not deal out death so rashly, we need not plunge the realm into war after all it has suffered."

Before he could finish, a Septa has come with a message. Calling for a recess, he began reading the letter. Edmure Tully, one of the faithful, had died. The Riverlands, and indeed the realm, had lost an important guardian.

"My brothers, I must excuse myself. Edmure Tully has passed, and let us have a moment of silence for his soul. I shall write a letter for his family, and when the High Septon returns from his business form the King, we may have more official remembrance. Thank you."

To his Lordship Robb Tully, Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands,

As a member of the Faith of the Seven, I must offer my sincerest condolences for the departure of your father. One of the truly devout, he manged to repair the Riverlands after the unfair devastation it had been wrought, and bring about the commonwealth of all his subjects. He never fell to the unholiness the Freys and Boltons conspired, and in fact lived to see them receive the justice they so deserved for their wicked ways. Your father, a patron of the Faith, helped rebuild not only the material wealth of the lands, but the spiritual wealth as well. All members of the Faith across the realm shall weep for his loss, but his memory shall live on in his accomplishments. Forever, his subjects shall remember him, and his legacy will not end. It shall be carried on with you.

The High Septon is unfortunately in transport to the King, but he too shall offer his condolences when he hears of the news.

Sincerely,
Septon Mavrock of the Faith of the Seven

by **Novae Vitae** » Sun Jul 19, 2015 3:13 pm

Lord Paramount Willas Tyrell, Hand of the King
The Black Keep, Queen's Landing

"Frank words are oft-times bold, Your Grace," Willas replied, acknowledging that she was still, in fact, his regent. "I am sure that His Grace will come to make a capable ruler. And yet so will my daughter. She is quite learned, my Margaery--and yes, of course I have told her of my intentions. She was quite receptive to them. And since His Grace is surely quite learned as well, I am sure their rule will be a good one, for what is a lord without his lady?"

Willas chuckled as he pushed himself to his feet. He gave a quiver, then was steadied. "I suppose I'll see you sometime later today, Your Grace. I shall await your answer with all the patience this realm can manage." He gave a smile. He could not decide if it was genuine as he pushed himself from the room, trembling step by trembling step.

Lady Margaery Tyrell
The Black Keep, Queen's Landing

"How marvelous, Your Grace," Margaery said with an easy smile. The boy spoke with a courtesy that was evident, but he had a lingering eye that she found to close to her more intimate parts . . . and her brother's.

Inwardly, Margaery shrugged. They had known of Trystane's desires from far-and-wide (a mistake to say so with a crown, Margaery thought, but it at least helped her). She and Loras were the same, and--if it could be put in tactless word--he was fucking them both, they'd have that much more influence over him.

"Though I must say," Margaery added, "I can't leave all my ladies-in-waiting behind. Melessa, dear, would you be so kind as to come with us?" Margaery turned back to the king. "If you would permit it, Your Grace." Then, turning about again, she said, "And Garth, would you stay with my brother until the fine sers with us can be sorted out?"

Margaery looked back to the king. With a very pleasing smile on her face, with her eyes flashing with nothing but delight, she thought, By all the gods, Your Grace, do try to make it look as though you aren't trying to steal my chastity.

by **Of the Quendi** » Mon Jul 20, 2015 2:08 am

The Vale of Arryn
The Eyrie, in the Mountains of the Moon
The Seven Kingdoms of Westeros

Maester Mallor

A perplexed gasp escaped Mallor, the Maester of the Eyrie, as the great gates of the High Hall of the Hardyng's swung open an a sharp commanding voice called out; "What is this I hear of the Karstark's?". The maester stopped reading his letter to Lord Harrold who sat his weir wood throne with his wife and eldest son by his side as Lady Catelyn, whose voice it was, confidently strode through the hall of her father with the arrogance and pride of a queen. The eldest daughter of Harrold Hardyng was a beautiful but imperious lady, Mallor found. Tall, like all the Hardyng children, graceful and willowy like a young maiden with high cheekbones, vivid blue eyes and the thick auburn hair of her mother's family Catelyn Hardyng remained a great beauty near the end of the summer of her life. Yet it was not the beauty of Lady Catelyn that struck the young maester when he first came to the Eyrie three moons past. It was her confidence and apparent strength that so hypnotized the maester who felt inexorably drawn towards this great personality.

As this Hardyng lady strode through the High Hall of the Hardyng's she interrupted Mallor's thoughts by calling out again. "Well speak Maester Dorne." Lady Catelyn authoritatively commanded. "What words do these usurpers presume to offer to their betters?" Lady Catelyn asked, managing to make even a question sound like an order. Before Mallor could answer the charismatic lady, her father growled at her from his weirwood seat. Lord Harrold Hardyng was an imposing man. At nearly fifty years of age he was a strong man still, tall and heavy with muscles. His sandy hair and beard framed a powerful face with marked features weathered by a long and at times harsh life. "Behave yourself daughter." Harrold Hardyng coldly commanded his oldest child. Before the stern gaze and harsh reproach of the Lord of the Eyrie most men would have abated, but not Lady Catelyn. She merely held her prideful head even higher and retorted; "Manners are wasted on this Karstark ilk, father." She openly admonished her sire.

The Lord of the Eyrie shifted in his seat and seemed about to roar at his impudent offspring until Lady Sansa placed a graceful hand on his forearm. Mallor had spent much of his time at the Eyrie trying to figure out the complex relationship between the Lord of the Eyrie and his fair Stark wife. Did they love each other? Did they merely get along? Or was their thirty year long marriage but a facade masking antipathy and resentment. It was difficult to surmise, but at least Lady Sansa's hand seemed to have the desired effect of calming down Lord Harrold.

Instead it was Ser Robert Hardyng that responded to his older sister. Robert, who looked more a Stark then a Hardyng with a long face, dark hair and pale blue eyes and a lanky sinewy build, was the one of the Hardyng children Mallor knew the least about. Solemn and austere, reclusive and stern he was the diametrical opposite of his temerarious and flamboyant sister. "Perhaps you would like to hear the words of the Karstarks before passing judgement Catelyn." Ser Robert politely spoke. "Maester!" He coldly ordered.

A jolt went through the twenty five year old maester of the Eyrie. Then he quickly resumed reading the Karstark letter for the Hardyng's. As he finished the letter a brief silence fell in the cold hall. Then a burst of laughter escaped Lady Catelyn. "Pretty words from a pretender." She declared dismissively. "Send to this bastard my opinion on his brazen proposal; before the Old Gods and the News I wow that no Stark shall set foot in Winterfell till the Wolf banner flies above its highest tower and my mother or brother rules from the throne of the Starks." Lady Catelyn dramatically proclaimed, raising her hand as she made her wow.

That was too much for Lord Harrold. Brushing his wife's hand aside the old Lord rose from his weirwood throne, roaring at his daughter. "Be silent wretch." He shouted. "How dare you make such a wow. I am the Lord of the Eyrie and your father and you will obey me in this and all other things, and desist from your constant quarreling." The lord ordered. But Lady Catelyn would have none of it. "You would grovel before this upjumped pretender and dishonor your wife and children by recognizing his false claim." The woman answered her sire with a wrath of her own that while controlled and calm was as fierce as that of her father.

But before either of the pair could exchange harsher words with each other Lady Sansa spoke. Having risen gracefully from her seat next to her husband the Lady of the Eyrie coughed slightly attracting the attention of both her husband and daughter. "What oaths you make and what wows you take is your own business daughter." Lady Sansa said in a melodious soothing tone that, together with the sadness that rarely left the eyes of the Lady of the Eyrie, managed to restrain the anger of both her relatives. "For my own part I will go, if my husband will go with me, to Winterfell, for I have not seen my birthplace since the days of the Others and I bear the Karstarks no ill will." Lady Sansa said, briefly caressing her husband's arm tenderly.

At that Lord Harrold grunted, his fury effectively ended by a brush of Lady Sansa's hand. "Aye." He said. "We shall both go to Winterfell." He declared. "Fare thee well then." Lady Catelyn declared. "But I shan't retract my wow and I shall not go." She pompously declared, fanning Lord Harrold's anger anew. "I would not want to bring you, you troublesome quarreler." He growled. "No. We will bring Eddard, Arya, Jehanna and Rowena along." The Lord of the Eyrie declared. Turning to his somber oldest son he continued; "In my absence I entrust rule over the Eyrie to you, Robb. Make me proud." The lord growled. Ever austere, Ser Robert nodded once. "I will father." He laconically replied. Lord Harrold nodded once before waving a hand at Lady Catelyn. "And try to keep this one in line if you can, lest she may burn the Eyrie down on you." Lord Harrold, with a spark of the humor he occasionally displayed, said. With sparkling eyes Lady Catelyn flashed her younger brother a playful smile and Maester Mallor thought for a moment he saw a glimmer of nervousness show in the cold stern eyes of the heir of the Eyrie. Who could begrudge him that, the maester thought.

To the most honorable Lord of Winterfell, Torrhen of the House Karstark, Lady Sansa Hardyng, with the blessings of her lord husband, sends her greetings and most sincere salutations,

I am heart warmed by your kind words My Lord Karstark, and moved by your invitation to visit my birthplace and childhood home. I shall glady and thankfully receive Your Lordship's invitation on behalf of myself and my lord husband. We shall, along with our children, Ser Eddard Hardyng, Lady Arya, Lady Jehanne and Lady Rowena, journey to Winterfell to meet Your Lordship.

No more unto you at this time, Your Lordship, but may the Old Gods and the New preserve you till we shall meet.

by **Elepis** » Mon Jul 20, 2015 3:16 am

House Baratheon-Donddarion of Storm's End

Renly Baratheon-Donddarion, between Bronzegate and Black Harbour

Even from four miles away, Lord Renly could hear the fast flow of the Blackwater Rush. Thousands upon thousand of tons of fresh water pouring from the heart of Westeros in to the Narrow Sea. Once, not long ago, the largest, richest and mightiest city on the continent stood where the Blackwater Rush met the Narrow Sea, vast manses of powerful nobles and decadent noveau riche merchants had stood on the three peaks , Visenya's, Rhaenys's and Aegon's High Hill. The city had sucked in trade and wealth from across Westeros and the Free Cities, making the dreams of many and enterprising young man come true . And towering above the city, the vast, tall, imposing Red Keep had been one of the strongest fortifications in the known world. For three hundred years had been the heart of Westeros and the second most important port on the Narrow Sea after the ports of Braavos. Now it was gone. Burnt by two mad queens with a love of fire.

Renly had been thinking about the old city the night before in his room in the keep of the Buckler Castle of Bronzegate. He had found a book by a former Grand Measter to Renly's Great-Uncle, King Robert I Baratheon and his successor, Joffrey I Baratheon-Lannister. It had document the history of the city, from its founding when King Aegon I landed there, the role it played during the Dance of Dragons, the sack of the city by the armies of Lord Tywin Lannister and ending with the Lannister armies defeating the forces of Renly's grandfather King Stannis I Baratheon at the Battle of the Blackwater.

Renly had been angered by the Measter's false description of his grandfather as a barbarian heathen but never the less it had been an interesting read. When that book had been written, King's Landing was still a rich, populace and prosperous place. There was no way that old Measter could have known what was to come. When "Queen" Daenerys Targaryen besieged the city, she released her Dragons, causing an inferno that in turn caused creates of Wildfire to explode. The best part of 500,000 people died in the flames, men, women and children burnt to death for one woman's ambitions.

Now, as the column approached the town of Black Harbour, built on the ruins of the great city, Renly could see what had been lost. Gone was the Great Sept of Baelor, gone was the towing Red Keep, gone were the massive encircling walls. Now all that was left was a large town. However, this town was still important. The Lord-Mayor of Black Harbour, while officially owing allegiance to the Crown had a great deal of authority and his town's position would make him a useful ally in the wars that were coming. That was why Renly was journeying to Black Harbour to meet the ships of Lord Bar Emmon rather than travel strait to Sharp Point, the vast, two hundred and twelve strong military column was designed to show off Baratheon military power and overawe the people of the town.

Renly raised his hand, calling a halt to the column behind him. "Raise the Banners!" he shouted. As the command was relayed down the long column of infantry, Baratheon men-at-arms began attaching Crowned Stag banners to the poles of their halberds, at the front of the column, the five nobles were doing the same and in front of them, the two forwards standard bearers raised their large banners higher in to the sky. "Play the music and forward march!" the young lord shouted again. Now the column moved forwards as a gilded snake, the Baratheon banners fluttering in the wind and accompanied by a grandiose tune played on the two large bugle horns at the front of the vast column.

House Baratheon-Donddarion of Storm's End

To: Robb Tully, Lord of Riverrun, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands

Good, I am glad we are agreed. I look forward to meeting you at Winterfell when my sister and your son can meet for the first time.

May the Warrior protect you,
Renly Baratheon-Donddarion, Lord of Storm's End and the Stormlands

by **New Granadeseret** » Mon Jul 20, 2015 10:20 am

Lyric Chauston, Blackrock Watch

Lyric ideally spun the quill in his hands, staring wistfully out the window as the low din of a dozen servant's feet clattered beneath him. He had no idea who'd genius idea it had been to place the washing vats just above the Lord's private spaces... but it made him next to impossible to sleep tonight even with the frightful headache he was still nursing for weekly... "safety inspection" of his domain's drinking establishments. Instead, he found himself presented with a half-dozen documents; ship's charters, property exchange reports, warrants for arrest, written up in mindnumbing legalese and demanding his lordly seal. "Why must this all be so... dull," he mused to himself, carefully signing and caligraphiying the Chaustonian Phoenix at the bottom of the umpteenth parchment, barely bothering to give it a quick glance-over before moving to the next one, and the next one... the incoming paperwork never seeming to end.

His fingers were almost working on autopilot now, the movements so familiar, that he could look out onto Blackwater Bay; the scattered mass of masts and hulls barely moving on it's peaceful surface. How long had it'd been now since he'd been able to visit the Free Cities... a year and a half? Not that he didn't have a little slice here but... the crudely built, small districts of Black Harbor could hardly hold a candle to the great streets and merriments of Lys and Myr. What he needed now, more then ever, was something to break him out of this funk... put some heart into these otherwise cold, depressing walls. Another paper pushed aside, another to pick up... but his fingers fell not onto a wide piece of parchment, but something smaller and sealed; the golden wax of a message from Storm's End. Curious, he popped it open and began reading the words within... his otherwise downturned face slowly rising as it discovered the perfect reason to celebrate... writing at the speed of a madman as he prepared his response.

In response to Lord Renly, Head of House Baratheon-Donddarion, Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormland,

I would be most honored to host you and your esteemed guests at our humble fortresses. Rest assured, you will be well treated when you arrived and absolutely no comfort or pleasure shall be spared to insure you found memories for your long travels in the North. May your journey be safe and the Gods old, new, and forgein look upon you with favor.

With deepest humility,

Lyric Chauston, Head of House Chauston, Lord of BLackrock Watch, Lord-Mayor of Black Harbor

by **Phalnia** » Mon Jul 20, 2015 5:31 pm

Ser Corlys Velaryon, Lord Regent of Driftmark
Bay of Crabs

The New Valyria floated across the surface of the water. It was remarkably maneuverable for a ship of its size, and seemed to float along the waves where other ships trudged their way through. At the bow of the ship a figure took shape. It was a great dragon mid-roar, chest proudly displayed, and wings outstretched.

Men scrambled about the great ship. They were in the rigging throwing ropes to and fro. They were below deck rowing oars to the rhythmic timing of drums. One man among them stood still. Ser Corlys, captain to the men of the New Valyria, stood atop the aftcastle wheel in hand. He had relieved the helmsman several hours ago. He relished any chance to be at sea, though his recent duties had kept him bound to High Tide.

Corlys had been raised on tales of the open water and the Velaryons who sailed them; Lords Daemon and Aethon Velaryon who fought under the banner of Aegon the Conqueror, Lord Corlys who sailed farther than any man from Westeros and was richer than a Lannister, and a hundred others. Since he could stand Corlys had been aboard ships, imagining himself sailing across the world and back. On the day of his victory over pirates in the Stepstones Corlys' wish was granted. His father had given him the New Valyria one of the finest ships in the Blackwater and the whole realm.

His thoughts drifted, though his hands acted on their own. They were the seasoned hands of a sailor, taking the wheel and turning it this way and that. If the winds and tides kept their way, they would arrive soon at Saltpans and begin the ride to Riverrun. The raven from Lord Tully had arrived less than two days prior and in tune one had been sent to Queen's Landing, informing Corlys' father of the situation.

Corlys' mind drifted from thoughts of the sea, to thoughts of home. His twin...bastards, gods he hated that word, but that's what they were. Born to a fisherman's daughter and brought into his home. He had sent them North with his mother. There was peace in the realm, but if Corlys' lessons in history had taught him anything it was that the Riverlands was the heart of countless wars since the First Men set foot on Westeros. He couldn't risk their live there. His mother was a Manderly, their name carried weight in the North. They would be safe.

The cry of a seabird snapped Corlys back to the ship. He returned the wheel to the helmsman and descended to his quarters.

by **Of the Quendi** » Tue Jul 21, 2015 8:13 am

The Vale of Arryn
The Eyrie, in the Mountains of the Moon
The Seven Kingdoms of Westeros

Lady Arya Hardyng

At the words of his daughter the Lord of the Eyrie roared with laughter, always tumbling from his high seat. Arya blushed in a mixture of anger and embarrassment as her father tried to compose himself from his burst of mirth at his daughter's expense. As the laughter of the Lord of the Eyrie trailed of and became a chuckle he wiped a tear of amusement from the corner of his eye shaking his head while leaving Arya, frustrated and humiliated waiting for his will. "Oh daughter, what wonderful a jest it is. The Karstark's will host a false tourney and to that you will have me bring a false knight." Lord Harrold chuckled, prompting a number of his courtiers and the men of the Brotherhood of Winged Knights to repeat the laughter of their liege. Arya was mortified, rarely had she felt so humiliated.

Her reaction was anger. Her hand reached the hilt of her blade, clutching it hard, it gave her a sense of confidence, steeling her resolve. "False, father?" She objected angrily. "I am more worthy of a knighthood then many men who has gained the title. With swords or with lance I will prove as much at Winterfell and bring honor and glory to your house father. In the North many a man not a knight will partake in the Karstark tourney, why not let a woman not a knight do the same." Arya declared, drawing her sword, an old bastard sword, and kneeled before her sire on a mail clad knees. Lord Harrold chuckled. "My daughter." He said in a strange tone of voice that seemed to Arya to contain both resignation and, maybe just a little bit of pride. "Simply to teach our northmen friends a thing of knights I may have been tempted to permit you to play your game of pretend. Alas, your mother I fear would not forgive me for it." A bemused Lord Harrold dashed Arya's hopes.

She rose from her kneeling position, her mail clinging slightly as it fall down her lean lanky body. "But father." She objected. But the lord of the Eyrie merely raised his hand. "No Arya." He declared. "You will not take part in the tourney and thats my final word on the matter." He insisted, brushing aside his daughter's dreams before getting up from his weirwood throne, the audience over, leaving for his dinner, leaving Arya rejected and humiliated behind.

~*~

A soft melodious sigh escaped from Jehanne. The pious and studious daughter of Lord Harrold and Lady Sansa had sat quietly and patiently as Arya told her story, her gentle hand dancing with a quill across some of these parchments that was never far from Jehanne. "Really Arya you should have known that father would never approve of you taking part in a tourney, even in the North." Jehanne gently, with the infinite understanding and patience that was so essential to her nature, admonished Arya without her hand ever straying from her parchment.

Arya sighed, a much noisier and unfeminine sigh. "Its not fair." She complained. "Father is never prouder then when Eddard or Harrold joust, but when I ask to join them I get told to stick to knitting." Arya lamented. Jehanne nodded smiling sadly at Arya. "I know sweet sister, I know. Every day I pray the Warrior will convince father that he must not stand in your way Arya." Jehanne said piously. To Arya, whose faith had never been strong, such a statement, had it come from anyone else, would have sounded both pretentious and sanctimonious. But coming from Jehanne it brought tears to her eyes. Her sister's inexplicable kindness always had that effect. "Thank you sister." Arya said, trying to restrain her emotion.

Jehanne smiled once more, her warm smile lighting up her fair features. Arya's twin sister was a beautiful woman sweet as summer strawberries, fair to gaze upon, delicately build like a fairy or elven maid, with titian hair, deep blue eyes that emanated an understanding and compassion so boundless that it seemed not of the mortal world. If Arya's short slender sister, garbed in her modest and innocent white gown, ever made good on her threat to become a septa Arya did not doubt that her sister would be able to singlehandedly reverse the string of defeats inflicted upon the Faith of the Seven with her devout nature alone. If not whatever man won the hand of Arya's sister would have cause to praise the Seven as fervently as his bride for wedding such a woman.

With a rather unfeminine grunt Arya dismissed her bad mood, embarrassed to almost be crying in front of what was after all her younger sister, something Arya had always been rather insistent on. Gesturing towards the parchment across which Jehanne's gentle pale hand elegantly and swiftly danced with her quill, producing a perfect, almost calligraphic, writing Arya asked; "So ... What are you writing sis?" Eager to change the subject.

A surprised smile appeared on Jehanne's face. Arya had never been a great fan of reading and writing and Jehanne always delighted in involving Arya in her world of knowledge, spirituality, learning and prayer. "I am writing a letter to the High Septon asking the Faith for money to set up a charity to minister and provide aid to the poor of White Harbor." Jehanne declared. "The city is overcrowded with refugees from the War of the Dawn who fear to journey home. They have nothing but the clothes on their backs and live in squalor, starving in the streets of the city." Jehanne declared, her deep blue eyes turning moist in sadness. "Since we will be going there anyway I thought maybe I could be of some help to them, if the Faith will support me. I am sure the misfortunate of White Harbor are in need of both spiritual and material comfort." The pious woman said, once again avoiding sounding sanctimonious due to her sincerity and deep heartfelt conviction.

Arya did not know what to say to her sister's words. Charity, one of Jehanne's favorite pastimes, and suddenly Arya felt bad about whining about her own problems when her sister was trying to save the world. "You are a kind woman sister." Arya, embarrassed said. Jehanne merely smiled and, as so often before, Arya got a feeling of being just another book in her sister's hand, easy to read and understand. "So are you sister." Jehanne insisted. "Once you are a knight I know you will fight to defend and protect the weak. We both will. I with my knowledge and my wits, you with your courage and strength. Both will we do the work of the Seven." Jehanne insisted.

Arya blushed. "You are so clever sister. It is as I always say when we where born I was given all the strength and you where given all the smarts." Arya laughed, uncomfortable with the compliments of her twin. The laughter was cut short as a pale cool hand touched Arya's cheek. A jolt of surprise went through Arya at the touch as she looked into the deep blue eyes of her sister. "Sister." Jehanne admonished disappointedly. "I forbid you to talk about yourself in such a disparaging manner." Jehanne commanded, and though she spoke softly and kindly the command was more undeniable then any that Lord Harrold could have roared out. Being pious and humble did not prevent Jehanne from giving orders like a king. "You are kind." Jehanne insisted. "You are kind and your are beautiful, and yes, you are also smart sister. Maybe not in a bookish way like me, or in the shrewd way or Catelyn or mother, but you must not believe that you are dumb. My sister is not dumb, she is very wise." Jehnna insisted.

The fairy daughter of Lord Harrold had dropped her quill as she touched Arya's face. Now, as Jehanne retracted her hand, she took the letter she had written the High Septon and poured sand on it to dry the ink. "I have to get this to Mallor sister." Jehanne said. Still shocked by her sister's act, so gentle yet so strong all the same, Arya at first knew not whom her sister talked of. "Mallor? Who is ... Oh the new maester you mean." Arya spoke. Jehanne smiled nodding slightly, meekly. Arya nodded. "Its strange not to have Ollidor here anymore." Arya spoke. "It must be hard for you." She added, determined to show her sister some of the same kindness that she ever showed Arya. Jehanne nodded, her fair features marred for a moment by sorrow. If there was one thing that held Jehanne away from becoming a septa more effectively then the promise she had made their parents not to take wow until she turned twenty five, taking the time until then to meet potential suitors who would wish to wed the kindest and most pious maid of Westeros then it was Jehanne's interest in the temporal sciences of the maesters, Arya knew. Since her early childhood, while Arya attended to martial pursuits among her father's banner men and her brothers, Jehanne had spent much time with Maester Ollidor learning to read and write and much more. The old maester passing, Arya knew, had hit Jehanne very hard.

Arya, eager to console her sister, reached her arms out towards her short fairy like twin and Jehanne readily stepped into the embrace of her sister and as the small lithe figure leaned against her own large frame Arya was glad she wore a dress and not a piece of armor to not crush her delicate sister. "I mourn Ollidor's passing every day, but I pray he has found peace in the Heavens from where he can watch over all of us. And Mallor." Jehanne said. Arya nodded. "That Dornish boy might need that." She tried to jest. "What is he, our age? And Maester of the Eyrie already, he will have to be very good or he is in over his head." Arya said, trying to cheer up her sister. Letting go of her sister Jehanne shook her head vigorously. "You are wrong." She politely disagreed. "Mallor is very talented, and he is a year older then us." She said with great warmth in her voice. "I am sure Ollidor would be proud of his successor." Jehanne insisted smiling despite a few tears, like sparkly diamonds, gracing her high graceful cheekbones.

As the embrace of the sister's ended Jehanne sighed, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Then she pointed at Arya's face. "You have one too sister." She said, prompting Arya to wipe away a single tear from the corner of her eye. Jehanne tapped her hand lightly against her letter to the High Septon. "I have to send this sweet sister." She said. Arya nodded. "Of course. I will leave you now Hanna, thanks for listening." Arya said, walking towards the doors leading out from her sister's sparsely decorated room, filled only with bookshelves reaching from the floor to the ceiling and a few spartan furnitures. "Wait." Jehanne called, halting Arya. "I have something for you sister." She said, shuffling some books from her desk. Putting aside Wed to the Sea, Being an Account of the History of White Harbor from Its Earliest Days Jehanne found a dire book and Arya's spirits plummeted. "Maester Yandel has written a frankly rather dreary tome about the Tourney of Harrenhal which he proposes was instigated by Prince Rhaegar Targaryen as a precursor for holding a council to depose Mad Aerys. There is not much of interest for anyone not a student of the late Targaryen Monarchy's scholars, but I have marked some pages about the tourney itself that I think you might find interesting." Jehanne said, grabbing the book and turning to hand it to Arya. When Arya looked into her sister's eyes the kindness and compassion that never left then seemed for a moment to have receded in favor of a cunning and playful glance. Her curiosity piqued Arya took the book, noting a book mark placed between its pages. "Thank you sis." She said. Jehanne smiled, giving her sister a wink. "I am sure you will find something worth reading in this tome my sweet sister." She mysteriously declared.

by **Majestic Draconia** » Tue Jul 21, 2015 6:30 pm

First in Battle

Ser Garth and Lady Meggan Tarly
Queen's Landing

Garth's eyes rolled in their sockets as he bowed before the king. This Trystane was far less subtle than he had expected. His eyes lingering on the form of Margaery was no surprise. Garth had taken his own share of glances. But, this king's eyes jumped between her and Loras and in a far from secretive manner. Hopefully, he was capable of more subtlety than this. Though Garth supposed that's why kings had spymasters.

Garth himself had never cared for the pageantry and formality of court. Though as heir to Horn Hill, he was expected to observe them and he did so. From a young age Randyll and Dickon had tutored the boy on how to address each and every member of a court. Form kings and high lords to wine-bearers and kennelmasters. He remembered these lessons now, as only the son of a bannerman to a lord, Garth remained quiet.

Meggan likewise was silent though her mind raced. She observed the king and the people he surrounded himself with. He was a young man his eyes easily drawn by a pretty face, regardless of what was under their clothes. The Dornish were known for their lust and Trystane's grandfather had taken his lust to extremes, leaving him nearly crippled. She wondered if this king could control his desires. She knew less about his kingsguard, though their names were widely known. Lord Commander Daemon Sand, a renowned sword and honorable man by all accounts. And if the rumors of old men were to be believed a close friend of the late "Red Viper". The other was Dorea another bastard. Uncommon among the kingsguard, she was a woman though reputed to be a skilled warrior.

These two had not been chosen from among noble houses. Their appointments won no political favors or friends. They were chosen for the express purpose of protecting the king. There was merit in this. A king needed strong swords to watch over him, but a king needed strong friends as well.

Meggans thoughts were broken by Lady Margaery. "Of course, my lady. It would be a pleasure." She smiled at Margaery and the king. Truly looking forward to the experience and the chance to observe the young king.

Garth's attention was called as well. "Gladly, my lady." Garth turned to Loras. "I am at your service, ser Loras."

by **Arlye Austros** » Tue Jul 21, 2015 6:57 pm

Torrhen Karstark. Lord of Winterfell and the Karhold, Warden of the North.
Winterfell.

After days of tedious work, the town seemed suitable. It was the Winter in Summer, as it was alive as in the cold seasons, but the sun still warmed the world. They had repaired most of the roads, filling them with dirt and gravel to fill the holes after decades of little use and irregular rains. Some buildings were being painted, and the sigils of some of their future users already hung from some.
Torrhen looked at all of this with delight, and behind, Lord Manderly rode, also admiring the town.

“I must say this is not the first time I see this. I was here in the Lament, My Lord. The town looked in a terrible condition. I should presume it´s never been used since then.”
Torrhen looked at him, turning over his sit. “Out of some of the houses near the fortress, no, it has never been populated.” Torrhen heard some of the workers tirelessly hammering the wood of a door. “I must thank you for your people. They are very skilled, Lord Manderly.”

“Aye!” He replied satisfied. “The artisans of White Harbour, their guilds, were under a great enthusiasm in coming here. They appointed their best. And the Ironwood is a great material to work with, it seems.”
Lord Forrester had, indeed, sent lots of Ironwood from Ironrath. No doubt an attempt to gain Torrhen´s favour before the Whitehills. No word came from the others, though.

The Manderly had arrived with a dozen knights, out of themselves, who numbered eight knights and the Lord of White Harbour. He was the first to arrive, and short after the Glover showed up, and the Cerwyn, of course. House Pool was said to arrive soon, and some from House Flint were probably a day behind. Slowly, but surely, Torrhen´s plans gathered together and became more than plans, more material.
“They say the Wildlings will come.” Lord Manderly commented as they passed by a square with a stone king, its face was beyond recognition, and the crown was shattered in many parts, forming a circle of pebbles and shards. They said it was Brandon the Builder, and that before the Dawn it was in a better condition, but Torrhen couldn´t be sure.
“They will come. I have already received a letter from Lord Kingsblood.”

Manderly snorted a laugh. “I am sorry, my Lord, but a House that call´s itself <<King´s Blood>> is hardly a Lordly House, more like pretenders.”
Torrhen didn´t answered simply moved his head aside, recognizing the Lord had made a point, just not really valid. “They have asked me to foster a boy from that house, His Lordship´s Heir it seems. I intend to agree.”

“I never heard Gerrick Kingsblood had a son.” The other one raised an eyebrow.
“Neither have I, but I intend to accept nevertheless. Who knows. If the ages are fit maybe a marriage with Alyn is possible. We need to involve them into the Realm.”

Lord Manderly seemed cynical about the idea. “The Realm? I don’t see a Realm in the North since the Dawn. The Queen barely gave us a reason to obey, yet none to raise against her, and now it is no better.”
Torrhen wouldn´t mind Lord Manderly speaking such things. He admitted to himself his ideas were not all too different from Lord Manderly, yet he remained silent. The Dragons he was willing to stand, the Lions, on the other hand.
“Let´s return to the castle, My Lord.” Torrhen suggested, but Lord Manderly declined, saying he would stay that night in his place in the Town, and so they departed.

The Keep was silent that night, as a chilly wind descended and howled in some towers. Still some hammering could be heard outside, but it would soon fade out in slumber. He walked down a hallway when the small figure nearly smashed his knees.
“Alys!” Osric appeared from a door. Alys, his sister, laughed in the floor. She had dodged her father, but tripped and fell. A fast child for her age, and Torrhen looked on her, wondering if that girl, almost a baby, would eventually grow to marry this Brynden. He said nothing at his son, who would be joined by Artos seconds later, and continued walking.

“More letters, husband. More Lords coming.” Lynara announced as he came into his chamber. She seemed weary.
“Is everything all right?” he asked her.
“Yes, yes… Those children are unbearable some times.”

Yet, she was pale, and looked away to hide it. Torrhen gave her some rest from his wondering look and looked at the pile of scrolls. Minor Lords, knights even, some Lords of minor keeps and even a Royce. But he dismissed them all. He had business to attend. Alyn, his aunt, walked in. She was followed by Lyman and they closed the door behind. Lynara was surprised.

“Is everything alright?” She asked.
“I called them, Love. We need to discuss something.”
Lyman seemed confused. Torrhen descided not to waste any time.
“Lyman, I need you to leave.”
“My L-…”

He interrupted the reply. “I don´t want the Bank to find out about our little Feast. Word is spreading too fast and far. You must go to Braavos, and shut anyone who brings news of this to the Shores of Essos.”
The Steward was now more calmed, and seemed to understand this.

“Very well, my Lord. I will do as you say.”
“Leave tomorrow Morning, and try not to be seen.” He then spoke to Alys. “Aunt, I need to ask you something.”
“You should order.”

He sighed. “Very well, but you are older and wiser, so you get to say something. I need you to head to Riverrun, to represent our House in the funerals of the late Lord Tully. He passed away and I think you are the best to go, many still look up to you.”
“It might be a bit late for me to arrive before Lord Robb leaves Riverrun.” She said, and she was probably right.

“Then you only need to show up and pay your respects to whoever represents Lord Robb in the fortress.” He extended his hand to an upper shelf and grabbed a small ring. It was simple, made of silver, but the trout of House Tully swam on the metal, carved with grace.
“This belonged to Lady Stark. She must have left it here before leaving for the South for the last time. We found it not too long ago in a chest. It is amazing how the things that belonged to the Starks appear form time to time, still today. Give this to House Tully, in the memory of Lady Stark and Lord Edmure.”

“A strange token indeed. I shall have no issues with it. ”
Torrhen smiled. “Good. There is more, I will need you to head afterwards to Queen´s Landing.”
Alys seemed surprise, and Lynara looked at Torrhen with disbelief. “That´s on the other edge of the Realm.” His wife argued.

“I am well aware of that. Yet I need somebody there. Rumours are there will be a wedding or something there, and as with Braavos, I would like the Crown to be blind to this as much as possible. Your mission will be to bring House Karstark´s presence.”
“I understand.” Alys answered. “I have no issues. I ran before the White Death, I can make the trip to the Desert of Dorne.”

“You could take a ship to the Claw to reach Riverrun, and then you could return to the Claw and take a ship to Landing. I shall provide you an escort and the coin.”
“Trust in my success then, My Lord. You should appoint somebody to rule Karhold in your stead, since I will be away.”
Torrhen didn´t thought of that. “I am sure you know the people of Karhold better.”

The next morning the castle was a bit more silent. Alys left in the first lights and Lyman left before. With some luck, The Bank and the Crown wouldn´t hear of the gathering in Winterfell. The Sun rose in the North, but it needed to be invisible to the Sun of the South.

Torrhen sent more messages that sunrise, and commanded Osric to return to his training. He intended him to survive this Brynden. Lynara looked at the wall with a strange look that morning, just as he woke up.
“You have been really odd tonight.”

She looked at her husband as if she wanted a way out, but then she seemed to resign as an animal in the hunt, before the hunter. She sighed.
“I haven´t bled for more than a moon.”
There was a silence in the room. Torrhen remembered her last delivery, she nearly didn´t survived.
“I could have Gregor give you some moon tea if you want.”
But she nearly cut off his words. “No! I don´t want to back off.”

They embraced for a while, but to Torrhen it felt as ages, a long hour or maybe more to him, which died when the three children broke into the room yelling and playing. Torrhen commanded them out. Lynara followed out after kissing him, and he tended to the other matters in his head.

To His Lordship Gerrick Kingsblood.
My family shall be most delighted by the presence of yours. I will make sure your party is protected south of the Wall. I shall also be glad to accept the guardianship of your son Brynden, maybe that way friendship between the Heirs to The North and the Wilds can outlast the current Lords.

Lord Torrhen Karstark, Lord of Winterfell and Karhold, Warden of the North.

To Ser Corlys Velaryon, Lord Regent of Driftmark.
It shall indeed be an honour to have a Velaryon in my Halls. I will make sure your Lady Mother is escorted from White Harbour safe.

Lord Torrhen Karstark, Lord of Winterfell and Karhold, Warden of the North.

To Lady Sansa Hardyng:

The arrival of a Stark once more into these halls will be the most important event in years in Winterfell. Your family is most welcome, and this is your home. My personal retinue will await you at White Harbour.

Beren the Quite.
Pentos.

The captain turned to his map and Beren had little to say. Still not sure about his decision he simply turned to the exit, simply saying. “I will My Lord, I hope I will be able to find my home and my family, they are not always easy to find. Thank you for your time.”

Outside it was growing colder, and he simply headed for the Quartermaster´s tent. The man had little issues, as Beren, when arrived to the Rose, signed a year-long contract, which then renewed. He paid a small fee and received his payment in return, a small stash of copper.
***

“I do hope you find your way home, Beren.” Loquorro embraced him as he got ready to board the “Glorious Wench” for Gulltown.
“I hoped your hugs would end after that tremble-dream you saw.” He laughed and made Loquorro laugh as he backed off.
“You are right, I could kill you if I do this.” He then simply offered his hand. Beren couldn´t help but to feel a bit sad about the departure.

“It´s been an honour, Loquo.”
“Farewell, my friend.”

Beren walked up the plank and into the ship, then looked back at the dock. “If you ever arrive in Westeros, look for me in Greywater Watch, at the house of Lord Reed.”
He had expected for this for a while. He never told Loquorro his family name, and to see this final expression of surprise followed by laughter was worth it.
“Excuse my incompetence, m´lord.” He said with an exaggerated Westerosi accent and an over-worked bow.

The ship finally left the bay of Pentos when the sun rose over the Velvet Hills, and Beren looked at the west. Somewhere beyond that horizon his father maybe forgot about him, and Brandon was ready to become Lord after him. He wondered what would happen when they met… If they met.

The shore was dark. As if the sand was made of charcoal. Beren watched from the air, and was forced to look at things. The feeling made him sick. His eyes rose in the fly, and he saw the wings flapping at his sides. He could now control the bird. He flew, higher and higher, but he fell, and returned to the sand. He was about to fly up once more, but a growl stopped him.
The wolf was huge, almost eight times his own height, and the face had scars. The cheeks where wounded, and the fangs dipped blood, in a slow, nearly unreal pace. Beren thought it would come down and it the bird, and Beren in it, but the animal simply passed by, charging at something behind the bird. He turned, and saw the grey wolf smash into another wolf, almost as large.
The battle slowly tainted the sand, and red and black united as a banner of old. The wolves entangled in a fight that echoes their howls on the nearby hills. Beren observed the hills for the first time, they were misty, and snowed. And the snow descended. The sun seemed to struggle to break through the clouds, but it couldn´t, and when Beren saw its light passing through the veil and falling on him, he noticed the light was cold, as the breath of the dead.

There was a cry, and the fight passed over him, just missing the helpless bird by a palm or two. The smaller wolf managed to slip away from the circle of bites, and took the larger grey wolf out of balance. The smaller was white, just as the snow (he supposed it was snow) that mounted in the hills. The grey wolf dropped to the ground, bleeding, but still tried to bite the other back.
Yet it was faster, and soon the grey one got tired. The white wolf approached from behind, and its blue eyes looked at the back of the neck of his foe. The grey wolf died with a strange sound, almost as a laugh, and the green windows shut together. The white beast raised its head, soaked in blood, and looked at Beren, walking slowly.

He woke up two night after they sailed out of Pentos. Beren saw darkness in the place the white wolf vanished, just before its jaw opened. Something had awaken him, and in the dark it reminded him of the night he was taken. This time he had a knife, and stabbed it at the dark, waiting for the slaver to fall over him. But it was not the ship sailing east, but the one returning home. The captain laughed in the darkness. His eyes attuned to the dark.
“Put that down, boy, I am not goin´ to rob you. I see the lights of Gulltown.”

by **Arana** » Wed Jul 22, 2015 2:34 pm

Brynden Woods

Heir to the Wilds

Winterfell

Brynden rode on the back of his horse, catching snowflakes on his tongue. The snows were much lighter south of the Wall, especially in the summer... if what he heard was true, once you went far enough south, it didn't snow at all, except when winter came. How they could bear the heat, he had no idea. The wolf strode by his side, and the raven flew not far overhead; he had shifted into the two of them so often that the three of them were practically inseparable. His horse had long ago gotten used to the wolf's presence, but the others stayed as far away from it as possible. At his side hung his most prized possession, one of the crystal swords that had been captured during the War for the Dawn. Many of them had been used during the war, although most had been either lost in the blizzards or taken by the white walkers as they retreated. The blades were strong and sharp enough to easily break normal swords, with only Valyrian steel and dragonglass weapons capable of resisting it. The blade had a faint blue glow to it... it was beautiful, but at the same time, a bit unnerving.

"How long before we get to Winterfell?"

The man riding closest to Brynden was an old raider, a veteran of the Battle of Castle Black and the War for the Dawn. Men called him Othersbane, since he'd slain at least three by himself during the war... Brynden, however, refused to call him that, instead simply referring to him by his real name, Toregg, son of Tormund. He had been guarding over Brynden since the day the woods witch had brought him to Hardhome as a baby thirteen years earlier. The man was like a second father to him, and certainly spent more time with him than his real father.

"Not much longer now. The walls should be in sight soon. Are you feelin' any better?"

Frowning, Brynden nodded. As they had passed through the Wall, he had fainted and fallen off of his horse. After being examined by the maester there, nothing had been found wrong with him, and they had come to the conclusion that it was a mixture of hunger and exhaustion. Since that point, Toregg had been continuously forcing him to eat every hour or so, regardless of whether he was hungry or not.

"I'm fine. Just like I was the last time you asked. And if you ask again, I'll drive a sword through your leg."

What was supposed to intimidate Toregg just made him laugh, and the warrior rode close enough to muss up Brynden's hair.

''Lad, you're a real Wildlin' alright. Not like that father of yers... born from a long line of cowards and would-be kings. How the hell you came from him, I'll never know... I'd of guessed a wolf before him."

Before Brynden could make so much as an annoyed grumble, the walls of Winterfell rose in the distance, the banners of House Karstark waving in the wind. Until that point, the only castles Brynden had seen were the ones along the Wall and the fortifications surrounding Hardhome... none of them compared in size or strength to the ancient stronghold of House Stark. Evidently, the Karstarks had done a good job of rebuilding the castle since its destruction at the hands of Ramsay Bolton, and then again during the War for the Dawn. With the Wall in the north, Moat Cailin in the south, and Winterfell in its heart, the North seemed to be the most well fortified region in Westeros.

"Toregg, sound the horn. Who knows what they'll do if a Wildling host shows up unannounced?"

King Trystane Martell

King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men; Lord of the Seven Kingdoms

Queen's Landing

"Of course, my lady. The more the merrier. I am certain that before long, you will all love this city as much as I do."

As it turned out, giving the Tyrells and Tarlys a tour of the city was exactly what the young king needed to take his mind off of his earlier thoughts. As he led his guests through the streets, he pointed out all his favorite sights: the ornate poleboats on the Greenblood, the docks, the markets, and all of the best places to eat. As they walked, children watched from the alleys, and several who had grown up at the Water Gardens with him approached them; whether they were the children of knights, merchants, or farmers, Trystane remembered their names and faces, having spent much of his childhood playing in the pools alongside them. It was one of his favorite things about Dorne, that there was little difference between lords and smallfolk, knights and merchants, bastards and trueborn children, or spouses and paramours. That, and the citrus; the entire tour, he was either eating an orange or a lemon, and made sure to always have enough to offer one to his guests and anyone else they came across. By the time they had returned to the Black Keep, it was past noon, and the city was baking under the Dornish sun.

"Well, I suppose that's everything that can be seen in one day. Perhaps some other time I could show you all the Water Gardens outside of Sunspear, or take a poleboat up the Greenblood... my uncle, Prince Garin, likely has friends among the Orphans who could take us. Although odds are they'll spend most of the trip talking about how small all our rivers are compared to the Rhoyne."

Although he doubted they would enjoy it as much as he did, Trystane loved spending time with the Orphans. They always had stories to tell him about the Rhoynar before they had come to Dorne, and about all the legends and gods surrounding the Rhoyne. When they weren't doing that, the Orphans were always up for a game of cyvasse, or they would sing, and they usually had some form of spicy food with them. Several of his cousins had told them that if it was up to Prince Garin, they would have lived the lifestyle of the Orphans, but instead he had to settle for simply teaching them about it. Evidently, it had worked... his cousins Oberyn, Nymeria, and Trystane had adopted the faith of the Rhoynar for themselves, much to their father's joy and to their mother's annoyance.

"That seems to have taken longer than expected... I hope it isn't too hot for you all. I've heard the weather is much cooler in the Reach.

Arianne Martell

Princess of Dorne; Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms; Protector of the Realm

Queen's Landing

As Lord Tyrell had left, Arianne had immediately begun writing. As much as she hated it, a marriage between Trystane and Margaery would be the best thing for the realm, if not for her pride. Part of her questioned the logic of announcing the marriage before telling Trystane about it, but she was sure he would approve... on the off chance he didn't, however, it would be humiliating both to the crown and to House Martell. Still, having to convince him to do what was right for the realm seemed an easier task then trusting him to make the decision on his own. If everything went well, the marriage would be her greatest accomplishment as regent. At the same time, she figured she might as well try to use the coming royal wedding as an opportunity to solve the realm's other problems as well... Lord Hardyng would need to answer for his acts of rebellion against the crown, and it might be a chance for her to use her children to secure alliances with the other lords. If all went as she planned, the realm was saved... if not, it might very well come apart completely.

by **Arlye Austros** » Wed Jul 22, 2015 3:38 pm

Torrhen Karstark. Lord of Winterfell and the Karhold, Warden of the North.
Winterfell.

Torrhen climbed to the rookery himself to send the ravens. One after another, about half a dozen replies for the day. He had visited that place a lot lately. <<I need a rest from crow´s crap>> he thought, and sighed.
The last scroll he recognized was meant for the Vale. He tied it to the leg of a raven and walked to the window. A blast roared from afar, and the bird jumped off his arm, and made a circle around the room, making a grim noise before flying off to its destination.

Torrhen looked outside, to the Kingsroad, and saw a host approaching. Small horses and people in leather and furs, like northerners, but the horn was nothing like anyone in the Realm, at least the Old One. He heard it only once, and it was as a child, in the battle of the Dreadfort, which he barely remembered, out of the horns, the ones that announced the charge of the hosts of Giantsbane.
“Damn they are fast!” He said before running down the staircase, he jumped over three or four staircases after gaining speed ad laughed, feeling like a child. As he reached the bottom Torrhen remembered his place and walked fast to the courtyard, and spoke to a guard that stood with spear in hand.
“The Wildlings have arrived, open the gates, I will go and meet them in Wintertown.”
The man seemed confused, not used to such orders.
“Open the gates to the Wildlings?”
“How old are you?” he asked, a bit annoyed. The man seemed intimidated. Torrhen guessed he was slightly older than he was.
“It has been two and thirty days of my name, My Lord.”
“Then you have lived in Summer more than in Winter. Open the gates and don´t question me again, unless it makes some sense.”

He climbed to his horse after descending to the ground level and made ready to leave. He saw Roilan Forrester appear behind the smithy, and seemed to rush to the courtyard. Slightly behind him Osric came holding a stick as a sword, followed by Galbart of Skagos. His son passed by him and ceased the chase.
“Come on, Osric!” The Forrester boy yelled. He was being educated by Lucas Cerwyn, Lynara´s cousin, who had been out for a long time leading the hunting parties. Galbart was his own ward.
“Who is it father? I heard the horns. We played it is the Bolton turning on the loyal armies.”
“Wildlings, but you don´t have to get ready to fight, son. These come in peace, and are our guests. I do expect you behave from now, tell that to your friends.”
“Can I go with you?” He asked. Torrhen considered the option a second and then nodded.
“Get your horse ready, the short one. And make sure you don´t get yourself too dirty… Well, more than now.

Torrhen left through the Hunter´s Gate followed by his own son and Tamard Lake, and was followed by four riders. They passed through the town and were met by a number of Lords and Knights already settled. He couldn´t see Lord Manderly, and possibly was out for a ride.
The retinue arrived to the garden of the Faceless King and there they stopped, he saw the retinue of Gerrick Kingsblood. He had commanded some of his own riders to escort them, but they were nowhere to be found. A flame of rage had to be extinguished quickly, as the Lord of the Wilds rode closer.
“Welcome My Lord Kingsblood. Welcome to Winterfell. I hope this was a pleasant journey.”

He looked at the honour guard Lord Gerrick had brought. Not exactly knights or riders of the North, yet much more of what he could remember the Wildling Riders to be in the late years of the Dawn.
“I am Lord Torrhen, and this is my son and Heir Osric. My wife, I fear, hasn´t been able to haste to join us in receiving you, but she will be readying the castle for your retinue. You are most welcome within the walls of Winterfell.”
He noticed some of the earlier guests had been gathering around to see the newcomers. Many of them where gazing a Wildling Lord for the first time. As he turned his eyes to the party he noticed some of its members, particularly an older man, who seemed, nevertheless, able to get rid of many of Torrhen´s men-at-arms. By his side a boy he supposed was Brynden Kingsblood rode and looked around.

by **Arana** » Wed Jul 22, 2015 4:20 pm

Brynden Woods

Heir to the Wilds

Winterfell

Brynden watched the southerners from the back of his horse, noticing the way they were looking at him and his men. He wouldn't be surprised if they were shocked to see that the people of the Wilds even had lords, or were civilized at all. The ones who called themselves Northmen were bad enough, but there were lords from even farther south as well, some might never have seen snow before for all he knew. Leaning to the side, he whispered to Toregg.

"Look at them... damn southrons, in their fancy clothes and armor. You could probably wipe the floor with any of their fancy knights. Maybe I should have you fight one and find out?"

With his usual booming laugh, Toregg mussed up Brynden's hair again, much to the boy's obvious annoyance.

"I'd gladly do it for ya lad, but Lord Gerrick wouldn't be pleased. Besides, guest right and all. Better go tell em you're here alone."

Giving Toregg a glare, Brynden sighed by nodded, and the wildling helped him down from his horse. He tried to put on a happier face for his father's sake, but he had a hard time hiding the fact that he didn't like the south much... everything seemed so much more formal, and all the people so different from those north of the Wall. At least there were forests nearby that he could hunt in, and a godswood where he could pray. He assumed, anyways. Otherwise he might as well head back north. When he was off the horse, he strode forward towards the Lord of Winterfell, the wolf stalking beside him and the raven swooping down to land on his outstretched arm.

"Lord Karstark. It is an honor. I am afraid that Lord Gerrick was unable to come south with us. The night before we departed from Hardhome, he fell very ill, and insisted we go without him. I am his son, Brynden Woods. And not that you asked, but the large man behind me is named Toregg... you may have heard of his father, Tormund Giantsbane."

As he approached, his deep blue eyes scanned the watching faces, wondering what his first journey south would have in store for him. And whether he would be able to get Toregg to fight a knight after all.

by **Novae Vitae** » Wed Jul 22, 2015 5:29 pm

Lady Margaery Tyrell
Queen's Landing

The tour of the city had been pleasing; if not for the fact that the city itself was no better than Oldtown, it at least allowed Margaery to see the ease with which the king blended with his people. Trystane seemed a nice boy, kind . . . but the workings of the world did not seem lost on him either, seated here on his horse as he made his way through the markets of his city where people begged as all markets see, and where the docks were full of goods of ambiguous legality. Perhaps this boy would never be Aegon the Conqueror come again. But he would at least be Aegon V, or--with the proper grooming--perhaps even Jaehaerys the Conciliator. Margaery would begin to think of how she could shape the boy this very night.

"I must say that I found the Mander to be quite large," Margaery warned with a smile, "but it would be a pleasure to sail the Rhoyne, Your Grace. Would you attend us, Meggan?" Margaery gave a pleasant pause to their talk.

"Oh, but you're quite right, Your Grace, it is cooler in Highgarden. My father warned me as much, but I fear that I have prepared my gowns accordingly. I have perhaps one or two that could withstand the Dornish heat. I hope that Your Grace would accompany me to find others in this lovely city, before your regency is ended and the court calls."

Margaery had actually brought two dozen appropriate dresses, but there was no reason that Trystane needed to know that. She flashed a smile that buried her lie.

by **Actan** » Wed Jul 22, 2015 6:26 pm

The Swords and Stars have been re-formed, and this new High Septon is not the puppet that the others were.

- Doran Martell

Queen's Landing
The Harbor

The Ship of the Crone had arrived, and the bodyguard of the High Sparrow departed in half first, to ensure his safety, for he had many enemies. The High Sparrow then departed, with the other half of the guard following him behind.

As they left the dock, and traveled towards the royal guards, a small mob had surrounded around them. The Warrior's Sons would, at first glance, appear as nothing more than knights to a lord. Closely, one could see the symbols and colors they flew in the name of the seven, but to a peasant busy about his day they were not worth the effort.

The poor brothers, however, dressed themselves relatively extravagantly. Wearing signature black robes and chains, wielding maces (for bashing in the armor of knights) and some shields, along with the clear symbol carved onto their forehead, no one could doubt who they served. While the Warrior's Sons also had the symbols carved onto their foreheads, they wore helms that concealed it, and instead adopted another symbol on the front of their helms. This was, however, less obvious, and it as the poor brothers that had been seen by the crowd in the harbor first.

As they slowly marched towards the Black Keep and the official boundary of the castle, a group of peasants surrounded their path. The people of Queen's Landing, like that of King's Landing, had been faithful to the Seven. Unlike other areas, only a small band of heretics worshiped the Red Demon and practices his foul magic. In areas where the faith of the Seven was dominant, R'hollor worshipers were seen as conniving witches, warlocks, and human sacrifice enthusiasts. This was, in part, true, as both magic and human sacrifice played a role in the religion, to the High Sparrow's knowledge, but even when it was not the Faith was sure to reinforce the idea.

As they marched to the Black Keep, with the aide of a royal watchman they met at the harbor, the crowd begged for blessings and support. Mothers brought their babies, to be blessed by the High Sparrow, while beggars asked for coin or food. Fellow priests soon arrived, praising both the Seven and the High Sparrow. The High Sparrow, although moved by the commotion, ultimately decided he did not have time to bless every citizen of the city, and made his way to the Black Keep post-haste.

Once they arrived, the High Sparrow asked the bodyguard to bring his grace, so that the High Sparrow could bring forth the protestations he had about the spread of R'hollor.

by **Majestic Draconia** » Wed Jul 22, 2015 6:58 pm

First in Battle

Lady Meggan Tarly
Queen's Landing

Meggan was quite enjoying the tour. The sights of Queen's Landing were quite exotic compared to Oldtown. A definite Rhoynish influence. She noticed a number of smallfolk openly addressing the King and speaking to him as one would an old friend. Meggan was surprised, though she hid it well. She had never heard of a king to be so popular and friendly with the masses. She dismissed it as a side-effect of his Dornish upbringing. They rules were different in Dorne. Mistresses had places in noble courts, bastards rose to high ranks, and daughters inherited in equal fashion to sons. Regardless, the King was fine company and generous with succulent fruit, Meggan had a fondness for Dornish oranges.

Meggan marveled at the Black Keep as they approached. She hadn't truly seen it when they departed the ship. It was a marvelous structure, though Meggan was reminded of her father's words. The Black Keep is a shadow of a castle. The true seat of Kings burned long ago. She would never truly know which was superior. But, she was drawn from these thoughts back to the conversation at hand.

"Gladly, my lady." Meggan smiled and turned to Trystane. "And I am afraid I must agree with Margaery, your grace. The Mander is an impressive river in it's own right."

Thankfully, Meggan was little effected by the Dornish heat. She had dressed for the weather, a welcome reminder from the maester of Horn Hill. A coy smile crossed Meggan's mouth. As her handmaiden, Meggan was well aware of Lady Margaery's wardrobe. She had no need for new dresses, but Meggan knew a clever play when she saw it.

by **Arana** » Wed Jul 22, 2015 8:56 pm

King Trystane Martell

King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men; Lord of the Seven Kingdoms

Queen's Landing

"Without a doubt, the Mander is one of the greatest rivers in Westeros. But it is said that on the southern Rhoyne, a ship sailing down the center of the river is unable to see the shore on either side. Not to mention that it flows across a whole continent... small wonder that the Orphans consider it almost god-like."

Margaery's smile was beautiful, just like the rest of her. It seemed to be the kind of smile that put everyone nearby at ease. With a slight grin on his face, he continued.

"Of course, those that wish to sail it have to worry about the dangers... pirates in Dagger Lake, and Garin's Curse in the Sorrows. Not to mention the river gods..."

Chuckling and hoping he didn't sound too foolish. he jumped on the opportunity to spend more time with her.

"It would be my pleasure to assist you, my lady. Although I don't know how much help I'll be."

"Your Grace."

Not expecting the new voice, Trystane turned to see a man kneeling nearby. From the looks of it, he was a member of the Warrior's Sons, as evidenced by his rainbow cloak and the seven pointed star on his helmet.

"Please, rise. Can I help you, good ser?"

"Yes, Your Grace. His Holiness the High Septon is here to see you. Shall I take you to him?"

Surprised, Trystane turned back to Margaery and Meggan, bowing his head politely.

"If you would excuse me, my ladies, I should see to this. Please, make yourselves comfortable in the Black Keep... perhaps I could assist you with your search on my return?"

Smiling, he followed the Warrior's Son, Ser Daemon and Dame Dorea following closely behind. It turned out, the High Sparrow wasn't very far away; in fact, he was simply at a different entrance to the Black Keep. Approaching him, Trystane and his guards knelt, as was appropriate when greeting the High Septon.

"Welcome to the capital, Your Holiness. I hope you had a pleasant journey from Oldtown. Is there something you wished of me?"

by **Actan** » Wed Jul 22, 2015 9:32 pm

[quote="Actan";p="25320677"]

The old High Septon told my father that kings’ laws are one thing, and the laws of the gods another.

- Aegon V Targaryen

Queen's Landing
The Black Keep

"Yes, your grace, I have come with a great burden the faith has been saddled with."

The bodyguard dispersed some, to allow the conversation a little more privacy and some distance between the speakers.

"As I' am sure you know, the faith of the Red Demon has spread far and wide across the realm. Some nobles flagrantly disobey the laws of the Seven, even i lands long held to be sacred. Conflicts between the commoners has become frequent, and villages where the two faiths meet do not stay peaceful for long."

The High Sparrow paused.

"Unfortunately, heroes like Stannis Baratheon and Jon Snow allowed this faith to spread far and wide. The witches that preach this heathery have many tools at their disposal, and the hero-figures like these, including your mother, allow this spread. For millennia before the Faith was safe, and concerned itself with the general divinity of the populace. The Heathens in the North and the Iron Islands were content to wallow in their sin, but not the worshipers of the Red Demon."

"Unlike those heathens, the Demon's adherents do not seem content enough stay in their homes. Witches and warlocks from both the realm and Essos have flocked here in numbers, hurting the welfare of the populace and weakening the Faith. The previous laws we enforced are no longer followed by many, and some of them have had their legitimacy directly challenged."

"So I come here, your grace, to ask you to pass an edict discouraging the witchery The Red Demon has come to pass. The Northern and Heathens and Drowned Demon worshipers do not attempt to proselytize and their adherents have not violently attacked the followers of the Seven like lost Red ones have. I encourage your grace to demand nobles renounce the Red faith and adopt the faith of the Seven, or even one of the other heathen faiths, and allow the Faith Militant to began counteracting the actions of the Red witches at the commoner scale."

by **Elepis** » Thu Jul 23, 2015 3:31 am

House Baratheon-Donddarion of Storm's End

Renly Baratheon-Donddarion, between at Black Harbour

The people of Black Harbour lined the streets cheering the as Baratheon column, bugles playing and banners flying, marched through the town. Some remembered when the Crowned Stag had flown over former King's Landing from the Red Keep when the city had been large, rich and prosperous, before it had been burnt by Dragon fire. Now the people of the town cheered as the Baratheon men-at-arms, knights and lords passed them, their armour and weapons gleaming in the bright sun. However, Renly did not know if they were cheering because they supported the Baratheons or they were looking forward to the extra revenue the two hundred soldiers would bring in.

The town on the southern bank of the Blackwater Rush, even though it was larger than the one on the north, was still small and it did not take long to reach the port and the Blackwatch Rock, home of the Lords Chauston. In front of the port, Renly could see Lord-Mayor Lyric Chauston standing on a platform next to a jetty stretching out in to the bay. He wore black and green robes and carried a sword at his side. His hair was blond, shining in the sun, on his face lay a smirk which he was visibly trying to hide . Behind the town, in the Bay lay Lord Bar Emmon's three hundred oar Dromond-of-War waiting to take the lords and knights north to White Harbour and then on to Winterfell.

Lord Renly would not be staying in Black Harbour, he had originally planned to but he had since found it improbable that he would turn up for the Tourney in the North in time if he stayed for a few nights. Instead, Renly's half-brother and closest friend, Edric Dondarrion, Lord of Griffin's Roost and rightful Lord of Blackheaven, would stay to meet with the Lord-Mayor of the town. Renly had asked Edric to do two things, try and get the Lord-Mayor to support the Baratheon, and if that failed to gauge the strength of the town and how many men would be needed to take when the war came. The town and its surrounding lands were of strategic importance to both the Baratheon and the loyalist Velaryon's of the Claw. If the Baratheon's controlled the eastern Blackwater Rush and the town, they would be able to invade the weak Claw lordship with ease. Either way, through diplomacy or steel, the Baratheon's would control this town. After all, War is Coming

As the assembled Storm Lords approached the Lord-Mayor and his guards, Renly and Edric got off their horses and approached the Mayor. Renly wore his Black and Gold armour, complete with an enameled Crowned Stag over Black and Gold underclothes. Under one arm he carried his Burgonet helmet, decorated with two antlers jutting from the temples and across his back lay his heavy war axe. Beside him, Lord Edric wore a simple breastplate, patterned with a forked purple lightening bolt and black underclothes. "Good morning Lord Chauston" Renly said smiling "This is my half-brother Lord Edric, behind me on the horse is my beautiful sister, Lyanna" he said, waving towards the nineteen year old black haired woman "And these fine gentlemen are the pride of the Stormlands, well except Ser Gerold Buckler over there". In fact, the Buckler knight was the finest jouster in the Stormlands but Renly liked to jape him.

House Baratheon-Donddarion of Storm's End

To: To Lady Regent and the Protector of the Realm, Princess Arianne of the House Martell.

I thank you for your kind offer my lady. King Stannis I Baratheon was truly a great man, of the likes I fear Westeros shall not see for a long time. Unfortunately my husband is not in Storm's End at present so he will not be able to reply formally but I assure you we will give your proposal our greatest consideration.

Lady Elinor Baratheon-Dondarrion-Tyrell, daughter of Lord Willas Tyrell, wife of Lord Renly Baratheon-Dondarrion.

by **Arlye Austros** » Thu Jul 23, 2015 10:52 am

Torrhen Karstark. Lord of Winterfell and the Karhold, Warden of the North.
Winterfell.

The sounds of horns once more sounded in Torrhen´s head. He cowered in fear under a tent in the woods. Father was out, probably dead and heading back to the camp, and the voice of Tormund Giantsbane rallied anyone able to carry a blade or a mace to stand against Death. The charge of the northerners against the rear of the Walkers saved them. But that was long ago, when he was even younger than the boy who called himself Brynden. Torrhen smiled, despite his memories.
“Then it is a jolly mistake this. I hope your father is well and sound, young Brynden.” He looked at Toregg. “And I recall Tormund, though barely. He saved my life in the past, any son of him can ask anything from me.”
He made a gesture to the nobles and lowborn that still looked at the Wildlings, and they scattered as if the meeting before the Faceless King was invisible. “I suppose many in your party will take part in the Hunts. And given the lack of Knight here in the North, being a Ser is not a need to take part in the foot melee. Your warriors are welcome to take part there as well and test their arm against Southron Steel, though I do hope nobody dies in combat, our wars should be left behind.” He was drifting away. Brynden seemed amused at the formality of his words, or maybe annoyed. Yet it was slightly unnerving the fact he had introduced Toregg, as if he knew of Tormund´s part in that battle, as well for his own questions about the warrior.
“I suggest we head back into the castle. Osric can lead you to your quarters if you like, Lord Brynden.” He turned his horse and moved to Winterfell. As he did, he noticed a man with the crest of the Sentinel Trees in his chest spat on the floor aloud. He glared at him and the man bowed his head and turned away. Gods be merciful, nobody would die in his demesne.

by **Novae Vitae** » Thu Jul 23, 2015 12:47 pm

Lady Margaery Tyrell
The Black Keep, Queen's Landing

"Until then, Your Grace," Margaery called. "I look forward to it with pleasure." She did not allow the smile to fade from her lips until Trystane had ridden quite far from she and Meggan, and even then its essence remained. She knew that here she could never allow the facade to fall, except with her family and perhaps the Tarlys. She would see.

"Meggan, dear, I understand there is a very small godswood here," Margaery said, "and while I do not hold the Old Gods their appreciation of nature is still welcome. I have seen too few trees since we left Oldtown. Would you accompany me once we have given the stableboys our horses?"

In truth she did not care if the godswood was a copy of Qarth's Red Waste or of Ibben's frigid mountains. She wished to speak alone with Meggan.

Ser Garlan Tyrell, Master of Laws
The Black Keep, Queen's Landing

News had spread through the king's court in half-a-fortnight that he was to wed Garlan's sister, and soon the Tyrells had been thrown into the center of the attention. It did not surprise Garlan. In his years at Queen's Landing, he had learned that the court focused its attention on those members of a family in which a single person had come to be of great interest. Garlan was not surprised; Margaery and Loras had arrived in a bluster of show regardless.

"You've many letters to write," Willas said, sitting across the table from his son. It was early, so the Hand was not yet required by the courts. "Have Lord Tully and Lord Karstark replied?"

"They have," Garlan said, nodding. "Lord Tully has given us the natural pleasantries, and invited us to the funeral of his father."

"You'd never make that ride," Willas chastised.

"I know," Garlan replied, "and I would look more the fool arriving at Riverrun late. No, I shall sail by boat to Lord Karstark's tourney. I shall have to inquire if Ser Garth would like to accompany me. It is a time for him to honor himself, I suppose. Such foolish pleasantries."

"I advice that you do not say so in Ser Garth's face, nor in Lord Karstark's," Willas said. Garlan laughed with his father.

"No, I should think not," Garlan agreed. "I'll also be taking one hundred knights with me, on a separate vessel."

Willas pursed his brow when Garlan said this. "One hundred knights? Why? You know that I must needs have them at Summerhall. House Tyrell must look strong beside the king."

"Then ask Lord Tarly to summon extras when you invite him to sit beside you at the wedding, for all I care," Garlan replied. "I must needs send some with an envoy to the Magister of Pentos."

"The Magister of Pentos? For what reason?" Willas demanded.

"He is only an excuse, I have no true interest in Pentos," Garlan said. "Perhaps eighty-five of my knights will attend the magister, and their head delegate shall flatter his ego and make gestures of good relations between Westeros and Pentos. I am Master of Laws, after all--I am more than free to do this. But I shall have five or six of my knights seek out this Ariphos Merryweather. Recent reports tell me that he is in Pentos as well, and he leads the Company of the Rose."

"For what reason would you need to make contact with a mercenary company?" Willas demanded. He turned his head in Garlan's study, to make what he left unvoiced clear: The walls have ears.

"General curiosity," Garlan replied, understanding. "I'll also write to Elinor. I wish to rendezvous with her at Storm's End after the tourney. I can only hope that we can silence this uproar that Lord Baratheon is making."

"Naturally," Willas said. "I should write to her to scold, but I fear a brother's apprehension will have more effect than a father's scorn on your sister. She has always been the wildest of my roses." Willas pushed himself to his feet to leave.

"But my thorns have always been sharpest," Garlan replied, as his father made his way to the door.

"No, my son. Your vine is the strongest, but Margaery has the sharpest thorns. The same can be said of my sister, and gods help us all," Willas said. He pushed himself from the room.

Flush, Garlan began to write his letters after he had sent for Ser Garth.

To Lord Paramount Robb of House Tully of the Riverlands,

It grieves me to say that I could never make the ride to your father's funeral in time, and for that reason I shall have to take a ship north to reach White Harbor. As it is, I shall barely arrive their in time as well. But I look forward to seeing you, my lord, to express my condolences in person. Perhaps the gods will favor your presence in the tourney and allow me to witness your success in the name of your father, I suppose for which you may now strive.

-signed,
Ser Garlan Tyrell, heir apparent to Willas Tyrell and all his lands and ancestral titles, Master of Laws to the small council

To Lord Paramount Torrhen of House Karstark of the North,

I thank you for the acceptance Lord Karstark, and I look forward to the honor for partaking in your tourney. I shall arrive with a small contingency of knights of noble birth, but I regret that few of the lords not currently within my company would not be able to reach the tourney in time from the Reach. Still, I thank you for this gracious allowance.

-signed,
Ser Garlan Tyrell, heir apparent to Willas Tyrell and all his lands and ancestral titles, Master of Laws to the small council

To Lord Paramount Renly of House Baratheon-Dondarrion of the Stormlands,
or to his Lady Wife, Lady Elinor of House Tyrell of the Reach,

Goodbrother or sister, whichever of you receives my letter, I write to ask a gentle request. As I am sure you are aware, Lord Karstark is holding a tourney in the North, and while I will attend with a small group of knights I shall also be sending some to Pentos on royal matters. While we will separate our courses near Black Harbor, I have no desire to anchor their on my return to rendezvous with them. May we reach each other again at Storm's End? I also long to see my dear sister, whom I have not seen since before my appointment as Master of Laws to His Grace.

-signed,
Ser Garlan Tyrell, heir apparent to Willas Tyrell and all his lands and ancestral titles, Master of Laws to the small council

To His Eminence the Magister of Pentos,

Hello, good magister. We have not spoken before, but on behalf of His Grace, Trystane of the House Martell, First of His Name, and all other corresponding titles, I inquire if I may send an envoy to broker an agreement of trade between Pentos and Westeros. Alas, I will not be able to receive your reply, but I trust in the renowned hospitality of Pentos to at least offer my men shelter when they land.

-signed,
Ser Garlan Tyrell, heir apparent to Willas Tyrell and all his lands and ancestral titles, Master of Laws to the small council

To Captain-General Ariphos Merryweather,

Greetings. Men of mine will soon arrive in Pentos. I will equip them with gold for a meeting with you to discuss your possible employment for House Tyrell should war ensue in Westeros.

-signed,
G. Tyrell

The last letter Garlan did not put his seal on, but rather the personal seal of a distant member of the family, a Garth. The last two letters were given to a servant to run down to the fastest ship leaving for Pentos.

by **Phalnia** » Thu Jul 23, 2015 7:01 pm

Lady Wylla Velaryon
The White Knife

Lady Wylla sat in her cabin, watching her grandchildren play. The weather had grown cold and the mountains of the Vale were fading behind them. The Bright Day had stopped in Gulltown to resupply, tactfully choosing to avoid the Three Sisters and the distasteful Sistermen. Wylla was nervous with excitement. It had been years since she had seen White Harbor and the New Castle. She had left as the bride of Monterys, carrying their first son. Now she returned with that child's children.

As she sat and watched Jon and Allysane playing with wooden knights and dragons, she thought back to her own childhood. She had been a great terror according to her grandfather. She had taken a wooden sword from the armory and chased her sister up and down the halls. It had been so long since Wylla had seen Wynafryd and her father, Wylis. A commotion from on deck drew Wylla's attention. She took the children by the hand and led them up.

On deck they could make out the tops of towers in the distance. The ship was drawing ever closer to White Harbor. Wylla gripped her grandchildren's hands ever tighter.

Several Days Later
Near Winterfell

Wylla sat atop a fine white stallion, Allysane nestled in her lap. To her right rode Ser Stokeworth, Jon in his own lap. They had collected fine furs for their journey to Winterfell. Wylla felt a slight comfort draped in fur, they reminded her of her days as a child in White Harbor.

A horse behind her whinnied and Wylla's head turned. Among their retinue were Sers Stokeworth, Chelsted, Brune, Farring, Celtigar, and Harte, the men who would compete in the tourney on behalf of the Claw. In addition a dozen men at arms had sailed aboard the Bright Day to ensure the Lady and her grandchildren's safety. They had also met with a group apparently sent by Lord Karstark to see them along safely.

Wylla was somewhat disappointed to find White Harbor ruled by a steward as Lord Manderly had already traveled to Winterfell. But, she kept her mind off of it. Choosing instead to identify various points of interest on their journey. She relayed tales from the North she had learned in her youth and peppered in a few from the Reach that were still told by the Manderlys. As she was retelling the story of Brandon the Shipwright and his son Brandon the Burner, Ser Stokeworth cleared his throat.

"My lady, Winterfell is not far." The knight motioned ahead.

Wylla looked ahead with actual attention for the first time. It was true. Wintertown was an arrowshot away with the walls of Winterfell looming over them.

"So it is Ser Stokeworth, thank you. If you'd be so kind as to sound the horn. We'll finish the story tonight."

Jon and Allysane protested, only to be drowned out by the long, low sound of Ser Stokeworth's horn.

by **Majestic Draconia** » Thu Jul 23, 2015 7:57 pm

First in Battle

Lady Meggan Tarly
Queen's Landing

Meggan was quietly smiling along as King Trystane and Lady Margaery, spoke. In her opinion it seemed to be going very well. The king had seemed eager to help find suitable dresses, a good sign. Meggan was surprised to see the man kneeling before Trystane. Of course she instantly recognized him. Those gaudy cloaks and love for seven pointed stars made the Warrior's Sons stand out quite well. Though her only interactions had been in her travels to Oldtown, she knew them well. Her Lord Father had spoken of them often from his time in King's Landing. He had a slight mistrust of these men. Zealots and fear mongers, he called them. He went to great efforts to keep them far from Horn Hill. What few non-practitioners of Faith lived on their lands kept to themselves and Dickon would have no one marching in his lands dictating how he and his smallfolk lived. In an instant this "zealot" had whisked the king away.

"Farewell, your grace." She smiled before turning to the Warrior's Son. "Seven keep you, ser."

Meggan sat in silence with Margaery as the king rode out of sight. She turned when Margaery suggested they seek out the godswood.

"I would enjoy nothing more, my lady. Sand and stones can grow quite tiresome." She waited for Margaery to lead the way.

Ser Garth Tarly
Queen's Landing

Ser Garth had accompanied Ser Loras as they found housing for the great number of knights that had sailed with them from Oldtown. It proved a simple if long task. What few beds were to be found in the Black Keep went quickly, as did those in guards barracks around the city. They had finally fit the last few dozen into inns less than a stone's throw from the Black Keep. Not the ideal, but at least they had found enough beds.

For the first time Garth was able to take in the sights of the city. It was an impressive city. Though, it held no comparison to Oldtown. As Garth looked about the city his head craning to the towering black stone keep, a boy approached. Garth looked surprised when the boy addressed him. He had been in the city for less than a halfday. It couldn't be a message from his father, the man wasn't the kind to worry like a hen. He was surprised to hear that Garth had been summoned by Ser Garlan, the master of laws.

With slight confusion he nodded to the boy who took off and disappeared into the crowd. With as much confusion in voice as was in his look he turned to Ser Loras.

"Forgive me Ser Loras, but I have been summoned to the Black Keep. I am sure we will meet again soon." He felt it odd that Garlan had asked for him as opposed to Loras, his own brother. Feeling it not his place to question the relationship of brothers he did not include who it was that had summoned him.

He rode the short distance from where he was, back to the Black Keep. Despite the closeness, Garth's journey was prolonged when he took a series of wrong turns and had to be put back on the course by a member of the city guard. He arrived at the keep leaving his horse with a boy at the stables and entered the keep with little trouble from the guard. With haste he made his way to the study of the Master of Laws. He removed his helm placing it in the crook of his arm, brushed his hair with his hand and plucking a few bits of sand from his beard.

Feeling himself presentable he knocked on the wooden door awaiting a response from within.

by **New Granadeseret** » Thu Jul 23, 2015 8:12 pm

Lyric Chauston, Black Harbor Port

Lord Lyric stood by the bay, ideally chatting with a Myrish sea captain; seemingly deaf to the flurry of activity going on at the docks around him. Certainly, Black Harbor wasn't the greatest cities or the holder of the largest domains on the continent; if his advisors were to be believed, it and the rest of the settlements under his command could only bring about 1,500 good spears to muster, that did not mean it's port wasen't constantly filled with fishermen dragging in their catch or merchants loading or unloading their wares... the traffic jam created by the extra men and onlookers brought in by the arrival the massive warship who's shadow now loomed over him hardly helping matters. "Sounds like it was a mighty beast... but don't Kraken's normally frolic in the Sunseat Sea," He chuckled disbelievingly... getting a sharp glare from the captain but not a word of protest. "No foul friend...don't think I haven't heard fish stories before," he countered. "Stop by the Smith's Grave next time your in town and I'll share one of my own."

It was so... liberating to be allowed to wander about in the green; much easier on the eyes then the gaudy whites and oranges of his family sigal. Among the foreigners, he could even move with some level of anonymity, testing out his wit and charm without the weight of nobility behind it. He nodded the man off in good spirits, eager to face his next challenge before turning around to face a pair of sights not often seen in the shadows of the old walls; a collection of honest to goodness knights, and a woman who's cloths possessed any degree of modesty. The crowd was soon giving them as wide a berth as they could manage without having to wade into the bay; Lyric stepping forward and easily flowing into a sweeping bow.

"Lord and Lady Baratheon," he said regally... having to resist the urge to overplay the dramatic. "It is my honor to welcome to my own little slice of paradise," his guard was only slowly coming together; a half-dozen warriors who looked more suited for tossing deadbeats out of a tavern then marching in line... but in the dirtied orange cloaks that marked them as the city guards. "And your loyal vassals," he walked from one to the next, giving them a comraderious slap on the back. "Such a collection of martial virtue is a bit too small for the conquest of my humble fortress, yet too great for nearly another other purpose. Please, may you all feel free to partake in what pleasures we have to offer before your trial into the frigged north." He gestured to one of the guards... moderately better put together then the rest. "Prepare us a proper escort back to the keep, good boy. Fit for a noble of the highest caliber." The guard was soon hustling off, Lyric casually leaning against one of the dock posts before speaking.

"And do not worry, sers... I have heard how dreary both Storm's End and Winterfell can be. Blackrock Watch is eager to earn the respect of Stormlords."

by **Novae Vitae** » Thu Jul 23, 2015 9:29 pm

Ser Garlan Tyrell
The Black Keep, Queen's Landing

"Ser Garth," he said with a smile, as the fellow Reachman entered the room. "I understand that you have just arrived, but it could have come no sooner. I understand that you may wish to see the city, and I cannot begrudge you that, but I have an offer to make you."

Garlan smiled pleasantly. "But first, refreshments." A servant brought forth a platter of Dornish foods; of spiced meat and massive oranges, of exotic and gay melons, of iced wine and lemon water. Garlan himself had taken to the oranges. It was a custom he had adopted from the king.

When Garth had taken what he desired, Garlan continued, "Lord Karstark has invited all the Wardens to attend a tourney in the North, but my father is somewhat indisposed and the Hand of the King no less. Therefore, Lord Karstark has granted me permission to attend in his place, and has also allowed me to bring six noble lords with me. However, I have little and less time to depart--within the next three days, in fact--and for that reason I have chosen to bring only those lords that are in Queen's Landing with me. As it is, ser, that is solely you, if you would attend me. But by all means, do not feel obliged to come. It is a trivial matter, more political than amusing."

Garlan had cut his orange and peeled it while saying all this, and placed a slice in his mouth as he awaited Garth's response.

Lady Margaery Tyrell
The Black Keep, Queen's Landing

"Quite small," Margaery said as she and Meggan made their way through the godswood. "It will serve, I suppose. Perhaps my father can have it expanded." Margaery paused in a small clearing, her eyes closed, her ears stretching further, further, further into the woods around her until she was sure that no one was about them. She had learned this trick from her dalliances in the woods about Highgarden. She had spent a great deal of time there; her maiden head had torn while riding at only two-and-ten, yet she had become so adept at the matter that it was a simple thing to escape a hawking trip with Loras to rendezvous with a lover. She would oft-times reunite subtly with the parties not twenty minutes later, and--being a woman--she was often overlooked upon her return.

"We are alone," Margaery informed Meggan, after her eyes fluttered open. She did not bother to explain to the Tarly how she knew this, though she knew Meggan to be shrewd. Margaery did not think Meggan would guess what she had done in the woods, however. Perhaps she would believe Margaery only to be a more adept hawker than she was.

"So tell me, Meggan--what do you think of the king?" Margaery asked. "Rest assured, anything you say here with not leave the godswood."

Ser Loras Tyrell
Queen's Landing

Having been left by Ser Garth, Loras thought it would be odd if he were to return moments after, as if he had explicitly allowed Garth to leave only so that he may avoid him. For that reason, Loras diverted himself and made his way to a brothel they had passed. He was sore from the time on the ship and the constant ride about the city, and had no wish to whore, but he decided that there was little time to waste.

He made his way into the brothel with a bored expression, and the keeper had almost refused him before Loras had showed him his wealth. "And what would my lord like?" the man stammered out.

"Your two prettiest," Loras replied.

"Very good, my lord," the man said, as he led Loras to a private room. Loras stopped just near the entrance. He needed to be heard. "And would my lord prefer the company of men or women?"

"I already said," Loras replied. If a bloody septon asked, Loras would only reply that it was only so clear that he had wanted only women. If Trystane asked . . .

"Very good, my lord," the man said, not so much a fool as he acted. "Very good indeed. The two will be with you shortly."

Loras grunted and entered the room alone.

Game of Thrones: The Rising Sun ((IC/ASoIAF/GOT RP/Open))

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