ASoIaF: The Storm Rises (IC)

by **Liecthenbourg** » Fri Apr 29, 2016 5:07 am

NO RESERVED POSTS

House Baratheon of Dragonstone

"Ours is the Fury!"

The flame atop the watchtower burned. A bright hue of red, yellow and orange. It crackled quaintly as around the stone watch tower of Crofter's Village snow descended gently onto the ground, the thatched roofs of the multiple buildings of the quaint village being covered in an endless blanket of the frozen white water. There was an absence of silence, an eerie calm before the storm. The Men of the Azor Ahai were en camped amidst the buildings, feasting on the little fish they had managed to capture from the two frozen lakes adjoined to either flank of the village. The men were cold, some coughed and saw their breathes materialise before their own eyes.

The flame atop the watchtower burned.

Stannis Baratheon, First of His Name, King of Westeros, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Lord of Dragonstone and Lord of Storm's End, sat within the Great Hall of Crofter's. It was here that a few hours ago that the treacherous swine of Arnolf Karstark and his men had been disarmed and put in prison for their treachery. Lord Snow of the Nights Watch had shielded the True King from a disastrous blow; that letter had prevented a mutiny within his own rank and file. And here he sat once more, watching. His eyes were narrow, his beard not as trimmed as it had once been. Lightbringer was on his hilt, a cup of the last remnants of their wine was clutched in his right hand. He watched as the shivering Prince of the Iron Islands sat by the hearth and as Arya Stark was consuming her share of a light lunch. He watched as the Princess of the Iron Islands conferred with Alysane Mormont, the Bear Woman, whom was as proud of a guard against the woman whom had hurt her homeland as any could be. He watched the Braavosi man swindle and intrigue many with his talks of Braavos. The grip around the cup tightened. His teeth clenched, they grit and the King downed the last of his wine.

The flame atop the watchtower burned.

His left hand became outstretched. His gloves were worn, the chainmail beneath clinking and shifting with every of his movements. "Ser Massey." he called and the Great Hall grew silent; his voice became a knife that cut through the noise. The young knight, that former squire for Robert Baratheon, stood at attention. Stannis noted the white surcoat, slightly stained with a patch of oil beneath the intertwining, different coloured swirls that made up the Massey banner. He approached his lord, bending the knee before the man's seat.

"Yes, my lord?" He asked.

Stannis stared at him in silence, setting down the cup of wine upon the table. "You are to travel with Alysane Mormont and the brothers of the Nights Watch who escorted Nestoris here back to Castle Black. You will take Arya with you. You are then to travel to Braavos with the Braavosi banker - and from there you will hire me an army of 20,000 sellswords."

"And... if you perish, my lord?"

The King bristled at that, tapping his fingers against the cup. "If I am to die; you are to continue your mission and use the sellswords to the best of your ability to put my daughter, the Princess Shireen, on the throne."

The dialogue between the two continued, with Ser Massey putting forth his own minor suggestions and plans that the King rebuffed and refuted. Blows were dealt through words and anger was made - but so was a suggestion, almost an incentive, by the King to the Ser. And Massey nodded. It had not been long for the man, the Mormont, the Banker and the Stark to depart from Crofter's for north. This was not the only thing to travel in our out of Crofter's this morrow; for news had arrived by way of Umber foot that Aenys Frey had perished before he had even left Winterfell. The confusion had set back the men by some time, so Bolton's Vanguard was on its move now. This had pleased Stannis, as now command for the Bolton force fell upon Ser Stupid Frey.

The flame atop the watchtower burned.

The hour had come; the final meals dinned by the upper echelons of Stannis' command. Asha was under guard once more; no longer from Alysane but a group of Stannis' own guardsmen. Her brother Theon, this broken Ironborn, was too placed and placated with her. The King stood up, the eyes of the Longhall turned on him and he stood defiant. "The time has come." he called. "The time has come. This point, this moment, will be remembered for all ages in the history of Westeros. Where the North stood defiant against the Crown, the traitorous Boltons, the cowardly Freys. Where the Clan Men of the North came from their mountains, where the House of Mormont and the House of Glover stood to spit in the face of Roose and Ramsay and all the other puppets from the Dreadfort. The time has come for the Starks to be avenged. For honourable Ned whom continued my work those two years ago, for your fallen Liege Lord Robb Stark whom was butchered by the Twins after he received their bread and salt. What do I say to you? We let the Freys taste the salt on which they broke a bond. What do I say to you? We fight for the North, for Westeros, for all the Gods and for the men whom died before us to end injustice. I was told by the Turncloak that we are to fear the Bastard of Bolton. I ask you, what battles, what wars, has the Bastard of Bolton won to which we should be fearful of him? Did he fight in Robert's Rebellion? Did he fight at the Greyjoy Rebellion, or was he a suckling infant?. Come with me to take the North!" at that, the King drew forth lightbringer and her beautiful flames of light travelled across the Longhall. The cheers of Stannis! Stannis! Stannis! echoed through the Longhall and whatever their allegiances, old to the Starks, were the fury the man inspired in them was worth the shout of his name. For Stannis had come to liberate the North.

The King of Westeros grabbed his helm and donned it, standing up within the great hall and marching outwards. The rest of the individuals followed behind him. The scene of the battle was set, as per the King's instructions. The Mountain Clans; those fierce Stark Boys, were placed as a screening force in the forests to the right of Crofter's. A defensible position indeed. Having been built between two lakes, now which were frozen over, the paths to Crofter's were from its east or its west, negating the strength of the Bolton Vanguard to be forced to fight in cramped conditions. But Stannis had a plan, a devilishly tactful plan. Upon the banks of the northern lake did Stannis place his force and to their immediate right flank came the Mormonts and Glovers. To his rear, on the bank of the river to his south, came the other Northerners and the men who fought under the late Rodrik Cassel at Winterfell. The Karstarks, unarmed and imprisoned, sat within the Longhall. The stage had been set and the clock ticked for the inevitable.

The flame in the watchtower burned.

The snow had picked up slightly, but visibility was still present. Little patches of blue and grey dotted the other flank of the lake, to Stannis' North-East. The flame had called to Hosteen Frey. The sound of war trumpets filled the air, a charge of cavalry had been called. "Spears, ready!" came the united call from the lake flank and with a thunderous whoosh did they swing downwards. The weirdwood tree upon its island whistled in the wind, her branches shaking. The ground, the snow, thudded into the air with every monstrously loud hoof clattering against the snow and then the ice. The Frey's cavalry masse descended diagonally towards the ranks of the Baratheon King, across the frozen lake and behind them their spearmen and other foot. Stannis stood his ground, lightbringer at hand, his cloak picked up in the cool winds. And a crack emerged.

The flame in the watchtower burned.

A crack in the lake, a screeching monstrosity of a sound, the ice splitting and cracking, the sound of water washing. And then the final symphony of Stannis' plan, the lake, obscured by the blizzard, unknown to the Freys and uncared of by Hosteen's own warrior spirit, collapsed underneath the charging Frey horse. Horses neighed, reared, crashed, men screamed and shouted and clung to dear life but all was lost beneath the tides of the lake. Those Freys that had turned round in time, found themselves butchered on the northern banks of the lake by the forces of Wyman Manderly, his knights and men at arms. Stannis had defeated the vanguard of Roose Bolton and not a man of his had perished in the conflict that drowned so many Freys. The ice turned red, the water too, and some Freys lay on the ice, groaning in their deaths. And yet, the flame on the watchtower burned.

"Kill him!"

"He deserves death!"

"MURDERER!"

"TRAITOR!"

Stannis' victorious army did not forget its past. They were victorious, indeed they were, and the delegate of Wyman Manderly atop his stocky northern horse and from beneath his shining plate noted a point that many of the northerners had seemingly forgotten in the euphoria of the aftermath of the battle. "What of the turncloak?" he inquired. Stannis had not forgotten of the one called Theon Greyjoy, but that conversation had sent ripples amidst his camp. They were stood outside now, the Longhall's short man-holding capacity not being suitable for the large audience the King of Westeros intended to speak to at the moment. He and the turncloak had made themselves across the tattered northern frozen lake, making past its cracks with light steps and a calm demeanour. The King had, in truth, also taken off his armour and replaced it for an immense cloak, willing to change once when back to safety.

The King and the Turncloak now stood on the Weirwood Island. The latter was shivering immensely, brought to his knees by a chopping block in front of the Weirwood Tree. Stannis drew forth lightbringer, it shone beautifully in the outside sun and he held it to the sky. "Theon Greyjoy." a silence filled from across the bank, the visibility now much clearer due to the sudden absence of the intense snow falls of before. The Mormonts, the Glovers, the Manderlys, the Mountain Clans, the Florents and all looked onwards from their position. "I, Stannis Baratheon, First of His Name, King of Westeros, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Lord of Storm's End and Lord of Dragonstone sentence you to die for your treachery and murder." The sword swung downwards and the cheer from across the bank silence the sound of the blade cleaving through.

The Manderly man smiled a devilish smile and he took lightbringer from King Stannis. Behind him men clad in the clothes of Freys, some of which had to be scavenged from the lake bed, donned roughly over 1,000 men in the clothes of the Twins. These were Northerners and Kingsmen all, disguised as those of not. Some managed to ride the few remaining horses that had escaped the butchery of the Manderly counterflank and others took the horses from amidst the camp of the King. The rest went on foot. The plan was simple, a simple plan indeed. The Manderly man would give lightbringer to Ramsay Bolton as he rode out himself and inform him that Stannis had been defeated. Then the Kingsmen would march into Winterfell and a great ploy would be fulfilled. The North May Remembers, or so Stannis had heard the cry. He mused slightly and turned back into his Longhall, for more preparations had to be done.

TL;DR
- Stannis defeated Bolton Vanguard
- Theon Greyjoy is executed.
- Manderly forces begin return to Winterfell, with lightbringer in their possession and the remnants of the 'Frey' portion of the vanguard.

And so our scene is set. Get posting

by **Sasutary Island** » Fri Apr 29, 2016 7:19 am

=Retcon'd for the moment=

by **Valaran** » Fri Apr 29, 2016 8:58 am

House Hightower

The Hightower,
Oldtown,

“Our duty is to the tower.”

“The tower is a heartless bitch, Gunthor. We shouldn’t cower here.” Garth paced. His armour was stained with streaks of blood - Garth had come back from a raid, having killed three Ironborn from a longboat washed ashore. He had not changed.

Gunthor gripped his maester’s chain with one hand. “We aren’t ready, or strong enough, not without the Redwyne fleet, or the Tyrells. We should consider what is most important to us - here.” He scraped his foot along pale stone to mark his point.

Baelor watched his brothers argue. The scions of Hightower they were, yet each was gripped by their own stresses. The Hightowers had been jolted out of comfort by the ironborn, and none of his brothers had yet settled into the right spirit. Garth’s armour was leaving bloodstains on the floor.

“We should at least ask father’s opinion.”

“Words are wind, Gunthor, and his more than most.”

“So you keep telling me. But if we cannot decide on the proper course of action, we should ask him. Even-” even if he locked up above. Baelor know what Gunthor wouldn’t say. The confusion that surrounded the tower only came from one place. “Even if it won’t do any good. We should ask him.” Gunthor held onto that phrase like a mantra. Garth snorted.

Baelor looked up. His voice was low. “I tried to.”

Lord Leyton of House Hightower had never looked feeble. Grey haired and past his sixtieth name-day, the Lord had remained strong, broad chested, without fat or withering of the body. Illnesses had rarely come to him; even that year of the Bloody Flux, that had taken Garth's mother. Three wives, the Lord of Hightower had outlived. He has a fourth now, a Florent. Once considered to be a good match, though perhaps less so now. But maybe Leyton would outlive her as well. Endurance was bred into Hightowers.

Yet now Leyton looked weary. His eyes appeared sunken, as they looked over ink-scrawled parchment. Grey stubble had appeared in uneven clumps, for Lord Leyton had not shaved. A hand clutched the cover, marked with first spots of age.

Light was distorted in the room. It was dark, yet it shimmered, like a reflection of moonlight upon water. This room of the Hightower had no windows. There was no torches either. Instead, the octagonal chamber had been lined with bookshelves, with eight lines of stone running to a plinth in the room’s centre. Leyton’s desk was drawn up against a wall. A maester stood at the other side, one Baelor trusted. He watched the lord, cooly, fingering the links in his chain.

And in the centre of the room, a jagged candle of black glass burned, a woman gazing into its depths.

Baelor ignored the candle. He focused his gaze on his Leyton, only pausing to give a brief flicker of recognition to the maester standing at the side. “Father, I’m here to give a report of proceedings.”

Leyton did not look up. Maybe his eyes flickered upwards at his son.

“Garth has found another ironborn scouting party, and routed them, and the maesters of pale steel say that they should two hundred more coats of mail ready in three day’s time.” Baelor paused, hoping for a response. “But, I fear that we are still far too vulnerable.”

Silence. The quiet stare of maester. Wine-dark shadows threw themselves against the wall, thrashing in the un-light. “Father, we need your counsel. What would you have me do?”

Leyton looked up. His sunken eyes flickered with recognition. “Do?” He asked, uncomprehendingly.

“Yes. What orders would you give?”

“Nothing,” Leyton’s voice become shrill, irritated by the interruption, this intrusion of mundane affairs. A momentary pause; absent thought. “Hold the tower,” the voice snapped and Leyton’s head turned back again, to peer over gold filigree and ink blotches. He didn’t even mention the city.

“Baelor, you should leave him.” Malora had stopped staring into the dragonglass candle. Her hair was unfastened, its free flowing curls as wild as her eyes. Baelor saw half-lights reflected there, faint traces of fading images that had imprinted afterglows into her gaze.

“Sister, the city needs him. He cannot shut himself away like this.”

“You can watch over the city. Our father has more important matters to attend to.”

When had Malora spoken for Leyton? When had she presumed to know his mind? “Like sorcery?” Acid laced his voice, bitter and frustrated. Baelor did not care for riddles, or the mysteries of fools and mummers, not when men of salt and iron had come at their gates, howling for blood. Where was his lord? Squinting in the shadows.

“Our duty is to the Tower,” Malora intoned, yet the words sounded twisted from her mouth, mocking Baelor’s duty. She fixed him with her eyes. Baelor was the first to turn away.

He turned to the maester. “Watch him for me,” he spoke quietly, feeling that Malora heard his words.

The maester didn’t look up. He clutched his Valyrian steel link between thumb and forefinger, rubbing it idly. “Of course, but I cannot say what he will do. I will inform you if anything happens.”

“That’s all I ask for.” The Seven knows I can’t do more.

“It was pointless to ask him for strategy.” Garth reiterated his views.

“Perhaps." Baelor mused, frowning. "I had thought the attack might awake him to the danger. But he won’t think of anything beyond the tower.”

“We don’t need father to do anything. He’s craven or mad and useless besides.”

“Don’t say that.” Gunthor spoke again.

“Seven Hells, its the truth. Unless the Lord of Hightower would summon a horde of snarks to repel the ironborn, he is doing nothing up there.” So derisive. Baelor noted the bloody armour again; Garth hadn’t taken it off. The liquid had congealed, hardening into a burgundy crust. It would need to be scraped off.

“What would you recommend instead?”

“Counter-attack. Retake the Whispering Sound. Post a hundred men at Blackcrown and Three Towers. Have them watch over the river.”

“You would have us split our forces? The iron born would attack us while we were divided.” Gunthor again, querying. Cautious.

“No. We would lure them in. The castles would be the anvil, and our cavalry the hammer. We would smash them on the castle as a wave smashes a barnacle caught to rock. They would either be slaughtered there, or flee back onto their ships, and think twice before raiding us again.”

Strategies and counter-strategies flickered through Baelor’s mind. So many fears. The ironborn might capture another castle, and use it as a base to launch raids. They might sail past them completely, in the night, and strike upon Oldtown. A surprise attack would catch them all off-guard. Even if they failed to take the city, they could burn the boom. Maybe the ironborn would ignore them entirely and strike along the coast, while the forces of Hightower cowered in Oldtown, led by their craven Lord. The raiders defied all logic. Baelor could not think like them. It was impossible to predict their actions. They were sea-demons to him, only shaped in the skins of men.

“I heard the Imp used wildfire and a chain, on the Blackwater.” Gunthor spoke, softer than before. “Would that we had either now.”

“We have swords, and we have high walls. When have we needed more?”

“The ironborn will make a mockery of our walls.”

“Seven Hells Gunthor!” But Garth stopped.

Baelor had held up a hand. he looked at the door. "Come in."

“Mi’lord-” The door had opened. A face with two cinnamon eyes, and two large ears peeked out.

Baelor gave a friendly smile. The famous expression of his, so little used these past days. “I’m not a lord lad, just a knight.”

“Of course, Ser. Apologies.” The youth tried again. “I’ve come with news from the ravenry. They'e received a raven form Blackcrown, sighitng more longships. He handed Baelor a message, a pale arm darting forwards and back.

“Send him my thanks. Oh and take what you will from the pantry, sunset will shorty be here.” The youth smiled and bobbed away.

It should have calmed him. The trust the commonpeople had, it should have been bedrock of the Hightowers, one that they had relied upon for centuries. They were guardians of the second largest city in Westeros. But they weren't known for this. Nor for the maesters either. Only one monument in the Reach defined Baelor's House.

House Hightower. This one edifice. Baelor thought it strange how our castles come to define the Houses. The Lannisters would be nothing without Casterly Rock, the Tyrells without Highgarden, the Arryns without the Erie. Only the Dornish did not care for monuments. Becuase to the Martells, Dorne is their true hold, not Sunspear. They measured their worth in their people, not in stone. The Dornish were wild too, but Baelor could at least understand them, and their strange sort of honour. The ironborn had honour too, but it was a cruel sort, one of swords, salt, and barren rock. It was a code of savage men.

Baelor turned back to his brothers. Both looked at him, and he felt the weight of their expectations. He had no true title, and yet it been an age since he had not been considered Lord Hightower, even by his own kin. Baelor remembered the face of his father, the sunken eyes, the twitching worry as he pored over tomes of sorcery.

“Our duty is the to the Tower.” Gunthor nodded solemnly. “Send a hundred men each to Blackcrown and Three Towers. Make sure they have maesters of pale steel and black iron, and ravens with them. The castles should have provisions. Tell them to watch the Whispering Sound. We shall gather a force of three hundred riders and knights here. If the ironborn attack either castle, we shall be ready to strike at them. Finally, send a raven to the Arbor. We must know when Paxter returns.”

Garth snorted, grinning. The brothers clasped hands. Only Baelor remained. A smile had touched across his lips, but it was a rueful thing, a mockery of his famed expression. His eyes looked forwards, but they did not see. His mind was locked in place, the visions he had seen in Malora’s eyes shimmering before his gaze.

Our duty is to the tower.

by **Krugmar** » Fri Apr 29, 2016 9:33 am

Kingdom of the Stepstones

A young man with flowing brown hair, long enough to hit his shoulders, made his way through the busy streets of Torturer's Deep. The squalid old town was bustling with the great gathering of nearly all the pirates of the Stepstones, with camp-sites and rudimentary shacks spawning around the outskirts of the town. Sitting upon a hill in the north-east of the port was an old keep, the stones were crumbling, being pulled apart by hedges and rogue stretches of grass.

Men in leather jerkins, sporting mismatched pieces of armour, stood in front of two gnarled doors. Blowing in the soft breeze were two banners, sporting the personal banner of one Aurane Waters. The doors creaked as they were pushed open, with much effort, by the guards, and were rapidly pulled shut again. The young man was greeted by a small hall, with several occupied tables in front of him, though he could hear no talking, singing or jostling that one would expect. It took him a moment to realise that those sitting at the tables had planted their faces into the cold wood, and took no breath.

"Darvin, come forward, it is good to see someone still breathing" spoke a familiar voice. Darvin looked up, seeing a pale figure with splendid white hair sitting upon a motley throne. "We were having such a good celebration, until they seemingly dropped dead. Pity." continued the figure, rising from his seat and gracefully making his way forward.

"Your Grace" started Darvin, before the figure cut him off.

"Do I look like a king to you? Hiding away in this pitiful shack, on these gods-forsaken islands. No. I would prefer My Lord, but you Darvin, you can call me Aurane." spoke the latest pirate king, the Lord of the Waters, Aurane Waters.

"As you wish my L- ... Aurane." replied Darvin.

"Good. Now, I chose you because of your intelligence, and thus I take it you understand what has happened here?" Aurane asked.

Darvin quickly scanned the room, "These are all the pirate captains who swore allegiance to you, and submitted the Stepstones to you after you defeated the Bloody Baron of Bloodstone and the Grey Ghost. I take it you distrusted their loyalty?" he posited.

"Correct, and what wonderful titles those pirate kings gave to themselves. I did distrust their loyalty, seeing as they abandoned their former companions and masters so quickly. Unfortunately these men forgot that behind every captain, is an ambitious lieutenant. These new men will owe their rise to me, and remember how quickly they can fall. As can you." Aurane said, his sweet smile drowning out the dire warning he had just given to Darvin.

"Was there anything else you summoned me for?" asked Darvin.

Aurane nodded slowly, "Order the men to their ships, we depart in several hours. Report to my ship, the Lord Tywin. We will talk more there."

The weak morning rays gave way to the strong glare of the noon sun, and golden light bathed the gargantuan ship preparing to set sail. The Lord Tywin was one of the largest ships in Westeros, being twice as large as King Robert's Hammer, and was now the personal flagship of the pirate king, Aurane Waters. Waters stood upon the deck, eyeing the map put before him, before straightening himself and meeting the stares of the various captains gathered before him. They were crownlanders, young men who he had picked to captain Cersei's fleet of Dromonds, which Aurane had nicknamed the Lion's Folly.

"You are my inner circle, the men I trust with information, and men I trust know what will happen if they betray that trust." Aurane said, noticing the odd mixture of fear and relief in their eyes. "I do not mean to set myself up as a pirate king, lording over a bunch of wretched rocks. I need an ally, a powerful one, one wearing a crown, and I have already earned the wrath of one for my flight."

Arrel, the Captain of the Lady Joanna, spoke up, "Would it not be possible for Cersei to forgive us? You could claim that you fled because you feared for the safety of the fleet and your position, and that you are returning now with a far larger fleet."

Aurane shook his head, "That would work for a time, but she has shown to be a poor judge of character, and it will not be long before she is overthrown again. I mean to put myself at the service of someone who knows how to rule."

"You mean to declare for Stannis?" asked Darvin.

"No, not until I am sure he is capable of winning. We shall watch and wait for the proper moment. Until then, we shall raid and pillage Blackwater Bay. With the Redwynes and Tyrells occupied with defending the Reach, it should be lightly defended. Return to your ships, captains, we set sail immediately." he said, dismissing them with a quick wave.

by **Faldarun** » Fri Apr 29, 2016 9:47 am

The Night's Watch

"I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the shield that guards the realms of men."

Darkness had, surely, gathered around him, for Jon could not see. Or was it perhaps that his eyes had failed him? He was unsure what had caused the blindness. Perhaps it was related to the cold, for Jon could feel naught but the cold icy chill. There was no warmth in him, only cold. No heat, only snow. No joy, only sorrow. Had he fallen? Was this - the things he felt - the feelings of death? No, he didn't feel these things in actuality, he realised, but he instead felt the absence of feeling. The blindness was sight, the coldness was warmth, the joy was sorrow... but why did he feel death? Why had he fallen? He did not remember, but then it came back to him. Betrayed. Jon had been betrayed, slain by those he had trusted most.

If only he had saw it coming, he thought. If only. But he should have, he thought, for he was warned. The Red Woman, Melisandre, she had told him what she had seen in the flames... told him to beware of daggers in the dark. If only he had listened. If only. If only he had listened, he could have prevented it. If only he had another chance, he could have saw it coming and been on his guard. Jon, he was fairly certain, did not belong here... this was not truly death, he thought, and even if it was, he should not be dead.

And then he was running. Not on two legs, but four. Running through a forested meadow, with dry and warm snow beneath his feet. Yet, as he soon realised, it was not snow, but sand. Sand? Why on earth was he running on sand? And why was he running on all fours? In fact, why was he running at all, was he not dead? No, he was dead, of that he was certain. Perhaps it was a dream. Do dreams occur in death? Jon assumed that what was unfolding at this present time was evidence that they did. Regardless, he continued running. And then, far in the distance, he saw giant mountains. Not grey and tipped in white snow, but red and tipped in yellow sand. Red Mountains? Why was he in Dorne?

As he moved closer towards the Red Mountains, a large stone building began to emerge behind the hilltop. It was a tower, round and true, peaking up into the skies. He drew closer, and made out some figures... there were three, he thought? His vision was blurry and his eyes refused to focus on any one target. He soon regained his focus, and was able to distinguish the figures; there were indeed three men. They wore white plate armour and long white capes. They were, seemingly, guarding the entrance to the tower. One was lent against the wall, sharpening his long greatsword, which was not silver like other swords, but instead the colour of milkglass. Another stood watch nobly, and unlike the others had a helmet emblazoned with a black bat upon his head. The third paced between the other two, slowly but with purpose. His hair, Jon thought, was grey and of an older man.

Jon approached at a faster pace, but then seven new men on horseback approached. One rode a fine red stallion, another seemed malnourished and underfed, a third radiated pride, another looked as tribal as a wildling and a fifth held a shield emblazoned with a black horse. Among the final two, one donned a long green cloak and grasped a long, spear like weapon, while the final man - who appeared to be leading - was a strong Northman of large stature, dark of hair and... and...

It was his late father.

He was astonished. Why was he watching a dream about his late father? In fact, was this really, truly a dream? It felt too real and vivid to be one. Perhaps it was not a dream, but instead a vision? Like the ones that the greenseers have, perhaps? Jon did not know. But he sprinted closer, and soon enough reached a ridge overlooking the tower. He could hear the men talk as the seven approached the three.

"I looked for you on the Trident," Ned said to them.

"We were not there, woe to the Usurper if we had been," said two of the white-clad men.

"When King's Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were." Eddard replied.

"Far away, or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells." said another.

"I came down on Storm's End to lift the siege," Ned told them, "and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge us fealty. I was certain you would be among them."

"Our knees do not bend easily," said the man with the milkglass sword.

"Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him."

"Ser Willem is a good man and true," said another of the three. "But not of the Kingsguard," another pointed out. "The Kingsguard does not flee." "Then or now," said another, as he donned his helm. "We swore a vow," explained the older Ser. "And now it begins," said the man with the milkglass sword. He unsheathed his sword and held it with both hands. The blade was pale alive with light.

"No," Ned said with sadness in his voice. "Now it ends."

And, at that moment, the seven and the three charged at each other. Jon looked on at disbelief, as Eddard - his father who had died so long ago - fought valiently alongside his comrades against three men who, he now knew, were members of the Kingsguard. One of Ned's men charged up to the milkglass-sword-man, who Jon assumed to be the Sword of Morning, and attempted to end him. After a short fight, however, the Dayne threw him aside dead. Meanwhile, two others of Ned's men attempted to slay the older man, also to no avail. Eddard himself went after the larger man, alongside the Crannogman, while Ned's other men tried too to slay Dayne.

The battle lasted long, and was hard fought, but in the end, Ned stood victorious, as he finally cast down the Dayne with a quick stab. Ten had arrived, only two had survived. Ned looked sad, and asked for the Crannogman, who Jon now assumed to be Howland Reed, to bury the dead. Ned then head inside, and Jon leaped down from his ridge in order to follow.

Ned, unknowingly with Jon behind him, then started to climb the stairs to the top of the tower. Every step was a mile, every second an hour. As Eddard reached the top, he found a wooden door. He head towards it. When he had reached it, he opened it, and inside saw Lyanna in a bed of blood. Jon, he thought, finally knew what his aunt looked like. Ned sprinted towards Lyanna as soon as he had entered, dropped to her side and clutched her hand. She yet lived. As Eddard came close to weeping, and Lyanna's tears continued to stream from her face as the blood did her legs, the She-Wolf of Winterfell finally spoke.

"It's a boy," she said, as a slight smile came across her face. "The child, Ned, it is mine and Rhaegar's." She said, as she slid the bed sheet away from her body to reveal the young boy - dark of hair and pale of skin - which suckled upon her teat.

"He... he forced himself unto you!" Ned, in an outburst the kind Jon had never seen, exclaimed.

"I loved him." Lyanna responded, calmly. "I love him almost as much as I love this child." she then added.

Eddard tried to speak in response, but Lyanna beat him to it. Not even childbirth, or her impending death, could dull her stubbornness.

"His name is Jon." she revealed. "Of the Houses Stark and Targaryan, trueborn, as I was wed to Rhaegar in secret before the realm went to war over me."

"Robert will ask me to end his life." Ned said. "He will not want any Targaryan pretenders in his realm."

"Then from now on he is no Targaryan, but a Snow." she said. "Please, Ned." she said, as tears continued to overflow her eyelids and stream down her soft face. "You have to keep him safe, raise him as if he were yours." she said in agony. "Promise me, Ned." she then whispered, as the life drained from her body.

"I promise." Ned replied, as he kissed her forehead and stubbornly relinquished his pride in order to save the life of his sister's son.

Jon was in disbelief. His mother was Lyanna Stark, his father Rhaegar Targaryan. Eddard Stark was his uncle, not his father, and he was trueborn, not bastardborn. With a claim on not only the North but all the Seven Kingdoms. The new information was overwhelming, and were it not a dream Jon felt as if he might faint. And yet he did not feel faint, in fact he felt more alive that he ever did when he was living.

And then the first shock truly came, as the vision blurred and ended, with Jon crying out to at least see his true mother one last time. Yet the vision had ended, and he had been cast out of it. The darkness had returned, and he felt more alive. But only for a minute. Then came the second shock, as the cold dispersed and Jon felt only intense heat and warmth as the heat of a thousand fires burnt throughout his body, and the breath of the dragons was dealt upon him. He felt more alive. Then came the third shock, as the darkness faded and light appeared. A burning sword passed through him, as he saw a winter rose, nestled in a chink in a wall of ice. He felt more alive. Then came the fourth shock, as his other senses awoke again, and he felt the aroma of sweetness radiating from the rose, and heard the chanting of a woman. Of Melisandre.

As soon as it had begun, it had ended. Jon Snow awoke, and arose anew. He felt his body, cold and worn, for the first time in an eternity. He was on a table, laid upon it, surrounded by men in black, and a woman in a red dress. He tried to stay awake, but he was too weak. He reached upwards, but his arm was too heavy. He tried to speak, but the words were too hard. In the end, he could only mutter a single word as he drifted off into a living sleep.

"Ghost."

by **Vredlandia** » Fri Apr 29, 2016 10:32 am

House Reed of Greywater Watch

"We swear it by ice and fire."

Screams hollowed through the misty bogs and marshes of the Neck. Howland Reed, the Lord of Greywater Watch, listened closely to them. They were the screams of his enemies, traitors to the North and the Starks. Traitors to the Old Gods and the new. It was likely some Bolton or Frey men were caught by lizard-lions, or they were swallowed by the mud. Maybe they were caught by crannogmen. The Old Gods would have their revenge either way. Howland could only hope that they died with regret in their hearts. If they were doomed already, they should at the very least be truthful to themselves. No sane man could justify the bloodbath at the Twins. No logic, no feeling. It was wrong by any means.

Howland mourned the loss of his friend Eddard's son, and now he was looking to save the remaining Starks. Meera and Jojen were away with Brandon. It was likely they were safe and well, but would Bran ever return? Meera and Jojen were well able to care for themselves and the boy. Nevertheless he had his own mind and the Reed's couldn't force his hand. Then there was Sansa, the sweet, innocent girl accused of murdering a King. Howland didn't believe those Lannister lies, and he didn't care. As long as she wasn't dead or safe, Howland would keep searching for her. Then there was Rickon. When Howland talked to the woods, they winds carried word to him that the boy was hidden and alive. Was he safe, though? There was not much of a choice rather than trusting the Old Gods to guard him. Lord Reed was powerless to act.

He heard the tales of the crying of Arya Stark. It would have been foolish to try to save her, and it would have cost the life of many of his men as well as maybe the life of Arya. But now it seemed like she was rescued and with the false King, or so the woods told him when he last talked to them. Stannis Baratheon was an admirable man, yet a dangerous one. With his liberation of the North he made many friends. Nevertheless Howland didn't trust the man, who fought for the name of false Gods. It was yet to be seen whether his deeds derived from his honor or his strategic genius. Was Arya safe with him? And then the thoughts of Lord Reed went further. He closed his eyes and saw Snow and sighed.

Suddenly Baland marched into the room.

The Crannogmen and Reed didn't trust him at first. Not because he was a bastard, but rather for his cultural and ethnic origins. They all knew what anyone not from the Neck itself thought of them: Bog devils, mudmen, swamp-dwellers and of course frog eaters. As if they were wild creatures, uncivilized even. Naturally Baland would have thought the same, but after they rescued him, he got to know sides of the crannogmen that few even heard about. They knew secrets that not even the maesters of the Citadel knew. Baland wasn't sure if he could still use his hands to count the times they saved him in the bogs, either from creatures or enemies. "Lord Reed, 'twas a Frey carriage, likely for the Boltons at Moat Cailin. They either drowned in our arrows or in the mud. Tons of food. And leather!"

Reed nodded. "They deserved no better. We will have use for their foods, with my wife Jyana..", he started and knew he had to talk no further. His wife did not bleed, and her desire for food was rather strong. They rumoured she would have another child, but if it would turn out to be stillborn, they didn't want everyone to know about it, so they didn't discuss the pregnancy yet. Howland strongly believed in it, though. Jojen told his father of dreams of a Reed boy who led some crannogmen through the woods, and Jojen didn't recognize himself or Howland in that dream. His green dreams never lied, Howland knew that, and so did Jojen. "We will have use for the leather as well. I will see that they craft boots and boats and shields from it, to supply our hunters and fishers and warriors", the Lord continued. Now Baland nodded.

"Baland, you are a loyal friend. Word has it that Arya Stark is with Stannis Baratheon. I will not let her be another asset in the Game of Thrones these Lords and Kings are playing. Find her, try to retrieve her. She might not have to fear Stannis, but she is not safe with him either."

"I will, Lord Reed, I swear."

And with those words Baland left, for now. Howland sank into his own thoughts again. He swore his aid to the Starks as well, but he wasn't very satisfied. Gauntlet and Bear told him the will of the Young Wolf, and Howland could not see it done to fulfill it. The late Lady Stark entrusted him with will and crown, and Howland had no use for them yet. The Silent Sisters brought him his friend's remains, and he didn't bring them to Winterfell. Such things take time, he reassured himself. But when was the last time he thought time would be of advantage to the Crannogmen? It was when they nearly rooted out the ironborn at Moat Cailin. Two more weeks and it would have been restored to Northern control, in the name of Robb Stark. However, the Boltons snapped it away and he couldn't do anything about it.

Baland was not a man who waited long times. He was a soldier through and through: He received orders and saw them accomplished. Hopefully he would do better than Lord Reed of Greywater Watch did so far. For the North.

by **Lunas Legion** » Fri Apr 29, 2016 1:05 pm

House Targaryen

Ser Barristan listened to the pitter-patter of the rain on his armour. It helped him focus, take his mind off what was about to happen. Daenerys had only ever wanted peace in Meereen, and she had sacrificed for that peace. But Daenerys was gone; vanished along with Drogon to the north, into the Dothraki Sea. Searching for her in that expanse would be futility. They had far more serious and immediate issues to deal with as well. The Yunkai'i had not returned his envoy, and with the death of their supreme commander in the chaos in the fighting pit and Hizdahr zo Loraq imprisoned, peace was gone.

Barristan was no coward. He was not a man to sit behind the walls of Meereen as the Yunkai'i hammered away with their trebuchets and let the Pale Mare run through their streets. No, he would sally forth, and crush the Yunkai'i on the field of battle. So he sat atop his charger in the square behind Meereen's main gate, joined by all the cavalry they could muster. Five hundred Stormcrows, the final twenty of Daenerys' Dothraki, and his own squires, 26 of them, armed and armoured in the Westerosi-style with chainmail and lance. Just under five hundred and fifty horsemen in all. They would be charging the Harridan, the largest of the trebuchets. Just under five hundred and fifty men, charging a full Ghiscari legion plus Yunkai'i slave soldiers. If it was five hundred knights, he would have no worries. Five hundred heavy horse against infantry would be a bloodbath. But these were sellswords, Dothraki, and unblooded squires. But the charge was necessary, otherwise the Yunkai'i could attack the Unsullied and Freemen Companies while they exited the city.

He turned towards the gates, and slammed his visor down with his left hand, drawing his sword with his right. He waved his sword, signalling for the gates to open. It was so quiet he could hear the chains of the gates rattling as they swung open. He swung his sword down, and jerked his legs, kicking his horse into a fast trot, the rest of the cavalry following.

The sound of the rain was drowned out by the clattering of hooves as they trotted out of the gate, fanning out into three ranks as they did. He could see the dim shape of the Harridan in the distance, black against the grey sky, and as they drew closer, faint outlines of men appeared in the mist. One of the Ghiscari legions had formed up in front of the Harridan, flanked by Yunkai'i slave soldiers. Barristan motioned forwards with his sword, shouted "Charge!", and kicked his horse from a trot into a full gallop. The rest of the cavalry followed, kicking their own horses into a gallop, weapons held ready. He watched the distance between them and the legion close, the Ghiscari formation shifting slightly as spears were lowered and they braced for impact. "Wait." He whispered to himself as they closed further, before he suddenly shouted "Wheel off, left and right!"

The charge turned away from the Ghiscari, splitting in two before slamming home into the slave soldiers either side of the legion. He cut down one, then another, then a third. The Yunkai'i were dropping like flies as he and his cavalry galloped among them, hacking and slashing, sowing chaos and death as they went. Then they started to flee, or attempting to flee in the case of some of the slave soldiers, who had been chained together. Neatly slashing a fleeing soldier's neck open, Barristan brought his horse to a halt and surveyed the field. He saw that the Ghost of Astapor just to their east had already fallen, two of the Freedmen companies having routed the Long Lances, while Yellow Helm's element of the Unsullied was moving on the Harpy's Daughter further north-east, barely visible. The Dragonbreaker and Mazdahn's Fist were to the north of the Harpy's Daughter and concealed by Meereen's wall, but the sellsword companies defending those were opposed by the rest of the Unsullied under Grey Worm.

He turned himself back towards the Harridan, shouting "Cavalry, reform on me!". As they did, the Ghiscari legion had reformed itself into a five-rank deep half-circle bending around the trebuchet, the bend facing towards Barristan's cavalry. Charging them head-on would be suicide, but they didn't have to. "Rommo, Jokin, take the Dothraki and half the Stormcrows and break off to our right, try to get behind them. Widower, I'm giving you the rest of the Stormcrows. Remain here, charge at your discretion. Squires, with me."

Barristan's cavalry formation broke up, half of it moving off further south, while Barristan and his squires trotted back towards the city, linking up with the third Freeman company, the Stalwart Shields, as it moved south to attack the Wicked Sister alongside a small force of Unsullied which had exited via a postern gate further south.

"Tal Toraq!" Barristan bellowed as him and his squires drew up next to the company. "New orders, follow me. We'll crush the Harridan first then move onto the Wicked Sister afterwards."

Somewhere in the ranks, a voice shouted back. "You heard Ser Barristan, wheel right!"

Barristan's squires fell in on the left of the Stalwart Shields as they turned and advanced towards the Ghiscari legion. As they approached, they could see that The Widowmaker's cavalry had held it's position, while Aggo and Jokim's cavalry had taken up a position further south. The Ghiscari had formed a circle around the Harridan to prevent themselves from being outflanked by the cavalry, but that had left them vulnerable to an infantry assault against one area. The Stalwart Shields slowly closed with the Ghiscari, who stubbornly refused to break formation and risk a cavalry charge on their flank or rear. They broke into a run, then a full charge. Barristan hung back with his squires, and noticed the Wicked Sister off to his right fall as he watched the Stalwart Shields push into the Ghiscari, their formation shifting to deal with the more imminent threat, and leaving their rear exposed to the cavalry. The Widowmaker charged first, hitting the Ghiscari right, before Aggo and Jokim charged their left. The Ghiscari, hit on three sides, began to crumple, eventually falling back in good order while the Stalwart Shields brought down the Harridan.

To the north, Barristan watched the forces around the Harpy's Daughter retreat. They had the field, at least for now.

"Red Lamb, ride north, tell Yellow Helm he's to advance and destroy the Harpy's Daughter before falling back towards the city. We need consolidate our forces in case the Yunkai'i reform their lines and counter-attack. The day is ours."

by **Terminus Alpha** » Fri Apr 29, 2016 5:15 pm

House Baelish

Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish
Gates of the Moon, Winter Court of the Vale

Littlefinger looked up, into the cloudy sky that now covered the Vale. Soon, the first winter in nearly a decade would set in - and while he paid no mind to the rumors of a winter that would last far longer than the past summer - the chill reminded him of his limits. There was still much to do, and when the snows inevitably began to fall in earnest, he would find himself slowed tremendously - the lords of the Seven Kingdoms retreated to their strongholds during winter, loathe to do anything besides dream of spring. The War of Five Kings - that conflict that allowed him to rise so high - would either be over or stall when the winter came, and this time would serve as his limit - a point in time where he could no longer travel as freely as he could now, a time where his ambitions would have to be contained to Harrenhal and the Riverlands. The thought of the expense of heating the castle made him shiver - especially with the ruin that had come to the Riverlands.

But all of that was in the future, for now he needed to continue his game of chess.

Alayne would be wed to Harrold Hardyng - a young man who carried himself as a lord, and looked the part. Already, some in the court spoke of Harrold replacing the ailing boy who currently sat upon the Vale's throne, though all knew that sickly little Sweetrobin would not be long for this world. Some feared (or hoped, as certain other rumors told) that he would not see his first true winter, and almost all assumed - almost as a matter of fact - that he wouldn't be alive when spring came again. Few knew why the bastard of a low-ranking lord of the Fingers would be married to the heir-presumptive of the entire Vale, fewer still knew who Alayne truly was, and only one person knew the long-term consequences of this union. Soon, all would know the answers to the first to mysteries, though the third would be only revealed in time.

This had all been arranged already, and with winter coming, the future Lord and Lady of the Vale needed to be wed - as soon as possible. To this end, Littlefinger broke from his quiet contemplation, fetched parchment, and began to put his plan into action.

TL;DR:
-Raven sent to Anya Waynwood to begin Harry X Alayne OTP
-Plotting to end Sweetrobin begins.

by **Sasutary Island** » Sat Apr 30, 2016 12:17 am

by **Elepis** » Sat Apr 30, 2016 1:01 am

House Nymeros-Martell of Sunspear

"Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken"

Nymeria Sand
King's Landing

Who are you, city of lies? You are but a sand relic, a home of vipers and false-prophets

Nymeria was struggling to remember who wrote those lines as she stood at the front of the Morning Star. Some old Volantene poet describing his city after the Century of Blood, Bennera or something like that. After a century of war in which she had tried to rebuild Old Valyria, Volantis had been broken. Moneyless, defenceless and filled with the unwanted filth of human kind the first daughter had been a worn statute in a desert of its own making. Bennera had been writing in mourning for his city's lost greatness and in fear of the rise of Braavos. However Nymeria was remembering it with mirth. Three hundred years later those words could be applied to this city in front of her.

King's Landing, a grand name for a once grand city. Like Old Volantis, King's Landing was a ruin of a once great city. Filled with whores, cut-throats, sell-swords and the faceless, desperate masses this city was on its knees. Yet somehow it couldn't see that fact. The boy King and his advisers in the Red Keep still thought they wielded absolute power, that their city was the greatest and that anyone who dared oppose them was a fool. If only they could see what Nymeria could see. Coming in on the swift galley, Nymeria could see and smell the desperation of the place. The poor in their hovels around the city walls, the fish-mongers brought to their knees by inflation hauling in today's meager catch, the great houses on the high hills. And the funny thing? Nymeria loved it. This was not only a place of desperation but also a place off opportunity and greed, everything the placid gardens of Sunspear were not.

"My Lady" came a voice from behind. Nymeria turned from looking at the young, strong men on the docks hauling the galleys in to place. The face that greated her was typically Dornish. Brown skinned, black haired and shorter than the northerners. He wore the orange and yellow surcoat of the Martell guards emblazoned with the pierced sun over a chainmail breastplate. At his side was a long, curved scimitar, his scarred, strong hands curled around its hilt. This was Lewyn Yronwood, the captain of Nymeria's twenty guardsmen.

"Yes?" said Nymeria, meeting the old man's gaze.

"Your sister, the Lady Tyene has left the ship with her....companion, and is on her way to the some street in some area of this city. Anyway, the galley and your entourage are ready to leave, we simply await your command". As the guardsman finished, he looked down at the docks to where the men were still working, and then over to the walls of the city, scanning the battlements for siege weapons and defenses.

"I am not ready yet, ser" Nymeria replied, looking down at her body. She wore the clothes she had worn all her time on the ships, loose fitting cotton of no particular design or note. "We are off to serve a King, I think I shall change first".

Half an hour later, when Nymeria exited her cabin, she was dressed as the mysterious Lady of Dorne everyone in this city expected her to be. Her orange and yellow frock divided in a v-neck down her chest, curving around her breasts to where her sternum finished, an orange cape flowed down lazily from her shoulders to her knees and her raven black hair was tied in a rope around one shoulder. Around her neck was placed an artfully decorated diadem and a ruby studded belt enclosed her hips. She looked, to the outside world an exotic and noble woman. However what they could not see were her daggers, her babies as she sometimes called them. There were three of them one her now, one hidden behind her back and to tucked in behind her trousers, under the frock. She of course had her guards with her but she would not be taking any chances in this Lannister city.

Tyene Sand
Flea Bottom
King's Landing
Five Days Later

"Thank you sister" said the old woman. "Thank you sister" the old man. "Hank You the reedy voice of the little boy.

Tyene Sand, or Sister Elia as the people of this city knew her, walked through the shit stained streets of Flea Bottom. Her grey gown was stained around the hem and there was an unholy agglomeration of waste around her shoes. Not that the kind Sister cared. All she cared about was distributing her bread to the people of this city. Under one arm she carried a box, filled with warm, steaming bread while her other handed it out to the raised hands of those on the street. Whenever she passed at 10 o'clock each morning a steadily growing crowd was waiting for her, but today's crowd was vast. An old woman, carrying a small child jumped in front of her and began shaking, saying words that came out to quickly to make sense. The septa only smiled and gave her two loves of bread. She did not have enough bread in the box for all these people, that did not matter though. She would simply come back again later.

Of course, it was good that all these people were here. The septa was happy because it meant she could do her work, distributing the bread to the poor and helping the helpless. Tyene Sand on the other hand was happy for altogether more cynical reason. With all these people her everyday, word would soon spread to the High Septon of her activities, of her charity and she would soon be called to him. Once that happened, she would carry out the task laid out to her by her uncle, to befriend him, to show him the face of the meek yet clever septon, the most devout. Once that happened she would work silently for Dorne, to bring down the Lannister of King's Landing and Casterly Rock who killed her father and aunt. Of course, at the moment she was only focused on delivering her bread.

Ser Cletus Manwoody
The Tower of Joy
The Prince's Pass

What is Doran waiting for? thought the young commander as he huffed and puffed his way up the steep sided hill. The North is open, the forces of the Reach are in the capital or on the sunset sea, the Stormlands lie open, their soldiers either drowned in the Blackwater or up north of the wall. The Realm has never been so open. Now is the best time Dorne has had to strike in years.

Ser Cletus was the second son of the Lord Dagos Manwoody, Lord of Kingsgrave and the second in command of what had become known as the "silent army". When the command from Sunspear had come, Ser Cletus had been ecstatic. Finally after years of training in arms and tactics he would be able to test himself against the enemies of House Martell and the Dornish people. But, after the five thousand soldiers and their horses had arrived in the Pass, nothing had happened. Instead for months now Ser Cletus and his men had been sitting here waiting while the Realm burned. The young knight was now walking up the steep sided Hill of Rheagar to the Tower of Joy as he did everyday to alleviate the boredom. His black and silver half-cape flowed behind him in the hot wind and his robes slid over each other silently as he reached the top and gazed once again at the ruins of the tower. Here was where a dynasty fell. Not on the Trident or in the streets of King's Landing but in this tower on this hill. If Rheagar had stayed with his lawful wife, a Dornishman would be king and the Targaryens would be in power. Alas, Rheagar burnt it all for love. In some ways, the twenty five year old Cletus admired Rheagar, he could not see what Rheagar saw in Lyanna, but then Cletus could not see the attraction of women in general. But he still admired the silver princes and he sometimes wondered if he would do the same if he had to chose between his House and his golden haired lover back in Kingsgrave.

But Cletus was an intelligent man, he could see why Doran delayed. In the first six to twelve months of a war with the Lannisters and the north we would run wild and win victory upon victory. But then, if the war continues after that, I have no expectation of success. That is without the support of others. Cletus did not know who Doran was courting but he knew that was what he must be doing, trying to find allies for the cause, whatever that cause was. The army amassed in the Prince's Pass was not a defensive one. It was made up of light and medium cavalry, horse archers and javelins throwers, who, if let lose, would burn a path through the Reach and Stormlands until they reached King's Landing before anyone in Highgarden or the Red Keep knew what was going on. But yet they stayed and thus Cletus knew their time would come. But it would have to come soon.

by **Blackledge** » Sat Apr 30, 2016 7:07 am

House Arryn

Below the Giant's Lance, throughout the Vale, the autumn continued to persevere. Farmers worked to bring in one more harvest as crops continued to ripen and grow. With winter sure to come it gave the season a feeling of brevity with regards to life. As though at any moment the weather might finally bestir itself to blanket the Vale in snow and snuff out the last harvest. It gave those enjoying the brisk autumn air one more reason to continue to enjoy it. Even the sun shown clearly, with nary a cloud to hide it. For such a somber day it was surprisingly bright and warm.

Harrold Hardyng worked to hide his emotions from appearing as bluntly on his face as they usually did. Walking arm-in-arm with Alayne Stone, he stood at the front of the procession returning to the Great Hall of the Gates of the Moon. Behind them, sealed for all days yet to come, they had laid the mortal remains of Lord Robert Arryn to rest. At the base of the Giant's Lance the Arryns had set the great tomb of their family. My family, now, Harrold told himself.

Alayne gave his forearm a reassuring squeeze, as if sensing his troubled thoughts. "Harry," she spoke softly, so only he could hear. A single word of reassurance. He did not smile, but covered one of her hands with his own. In the weeks since Lord Robert's tourney he had grown to know, and find himself drawn to, Alayne. By now he had the truth of it from her, of course. Who she was, who she had been born as. But in his mind it was still the baseborn Alayne that had won his affections.

Not long after the tourney for his brotherhood, Lord Robert had suffered a shaking spell that left him unconscious. Maester Colemon had tended the frail young lord as best he could, and other greater and lesser lords and ladies of the Vale had arrived with their own maesters. Not that it had mattered. Young Robert, who Alayne had called Sweetrobin, trembled no more in his sleep, yet passed all the same. In his first act as lord, Harrold had buried his cousin draped in the falcon and moon banner of his forebears.

"My lord," the knight holding open the door into the Gates called him.

"My lord," others highborn addressed him as he passed. Many more, common servants, young boys and men-at-arms muttered "M'lord" as he passed. Behind followed the great nobility of the kingdom, with Lady Anya Waynwood and Lord Royce, called Bronze Yohn, forefront among them. Each had brought a retinue of lesser lords and knights, plus many and more retainers.

Though in truth he had been legally lord once the maesters had confirmed, there was ceremony to be considered. The party filed into the Great Hall, and the guests took their seats at the chairs and benches filling the large chamber. Approaching the dais, Alayne detached herself to stand by her father, the now former Lord Protector with his charge dead.

Carefully Harrold stood in front of the high seat of the hall, looking upon those would now be his bannermen. He fought the urge to wipe at a lock of his sandy hair that fell to brush against one eyebrow. Clad in a fine sky blue doublet with the falcon and moon of House Arryn on his chest, he looked every bit the strapping young lord. Clearing his throat, he finally spoke, "As Lord Robert's faithful cousin and heir, I do this day take my place as his successor. Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East. And I shall this day accept oaths of fealty from my bannermen. In the light of the Seven."

As expected, it was Bronze Yohn Royce who spoke first and loudest, "Long live Harrold Arryn!" He spoke again, his gruff deep voice booming off the walls: "Lord Arryn!" Other, younger, lords and knights took up the call, "Lord Arryn! Lord Arryn! Lord Arryn!" Harrold accepted it, as Lady Waynwood as explained he would have to. The knights of the Vale need an Arryn to serve, to protect. From this day forth, he was Lord Harrold Arryn.

- By order of their new lord, the maesters of the Vale have spread word of Lord Robert's death and Lord Harrold's succession.

by **Lunas Legion** » Sat Apr 30, 2016 9:54 am

House Targaryen

"Daenerys Targaryen." Khal Jhaqo called out. She thought she'd recognised him, but she'd never mistake that voice for anyone else. This was Khal Jhaqo, once her husband's Ko, the second to declare himself Khal after Drogo's death. "Last time I saw you, you were dying in a tent."

Daenerys remained silent as Jhaqo's riders formed a circle around her and Drogon, who lay next to her, her left arm draped across his neck protectively. Drogon snorted, sniffing the air, eye drifting to watch the Dothraki.

"Since Drogo's bloodriders have failed to do so, I will do what they could not. A khaleesi with no khal must join the dosh khaleen." Jhaqo reached down to his saddle, hand grasping the hilt of his arakh. "Will you come with us?"

Drogon raised his head as Daenerys pulled her arm off his neck, his nostrils flaring angrily.

"Drogon does not seem to think that is a good idea, Khal, and neither do I. The dragon does not belong with your old crones, and I have things I must do."

"A khaleesi without a khal belongs with the dosh khaleen." Jhaqo unsheathed his arakh, his riders following suit with their own weapons. "It is known."

"It is known." His riders echoed, edging their horses towards her.

"It is not known." She insisted, but she had forgotten how stubborn the Dothraki could be. They edged closer and closer.

"Sometimes, sometimes there is simply no alternative to violence." She muttered to herself. Fire and Blood were the Targaryen words, and she had rejected them in favour of peace. But what had peace ever done for her? It had just needed more and more sacrifice to keep it. Never had peace done anything for her, and neither had Meereen.

The Dothraki edged closer.

Perhaps it was time for violence. No, peace had it's chance. It was the time for violence, for fire and blood. Khal Jhaqo may have forgotten a slave by the name of Eroeh, but she most certianly hadn't.

"Drogon." She called out softly. A yellow eye glanced down at her sitting on the ground. "Dracarys."

Drogon roared, and fire poured over the Dothraki. Man and horse alike screamed as Drogon's fire washed over them, while Daenerys watched impassively as Khal Jhaqo and his riders burned to death. She had promised them the same mercy they had shown Eroeh, and they had been given it. Drogon turned back to her, and placed his neck on the ground so she could climb on.

"Ready to go back to Meereen yet?" She asked as she climbed on, wrapping her arms around his neck. Drogon did not reply, and with a beat of his wings flew into the sky, leaving the charred corpses to rot.

by **Cuprum** » Sat Apr 30, 2016 1:09 pm

House Tyrell

Garlan Tyrell, now the Lord of Brightwater Keep, was finally ready to make the long march on the rose road. He was accompanied by 20,000 soldiers who stayed loyal to him in Blackwater plus a horde of masons, carpenters, and builders following close behind. The Gallant planed to rebuild his new seat in the reach brick by brick. Oakheart, Peake, Caswell, Cockshaw and Rowan were waiting for him with a 15,000 host. There would be no room for silk tapestry's or jeweled goblets in his new keep. Other than the soldiers and builders, he had woman and children who had been displaced by The Five King's war and now the Ironborn who wanted steady food and pay. In total, there caravan was close to 21,000 strong.

The Gallant mounted a horse with Starling Flowers and an Ex Company Captain rode alongside him. The Captain was a well known friend of the Gallant who was wearing Renly's armor, someone he had been fighting along side for close to 15 years. A quiet man, who only spoke when spoken too. Starling was a different matter entirely, he had known her for little more than a week, yet he felt like he could trust her already. Or maybe she was friendly just because of the gold, but The Gallant doubted that. Although he did not know if it was out of fear, or respect. Regardless, he wanted her on his side.

Starlings looked bored. She wasn't used to journeying so slowly. Lord Tyrell was quite the dilemma to her, he was one of the most powerful men in Westeros and he wanted her as a guard and as bedmate. A bastard sellsword? Something was odd about that. The man's family could be King if he wanted to be. His people loved him, The Gallant had thousands of soldiers and dozens of high born allies in his host. And a smile that could warm the coldest of rooms. What did he want with her? She wasn't complaining though. He was a kind and incredibly generous man she had five gold dragons now. Well, three really she'd bought that gauzy green dress she'd been eyeing off for weeks now. Starling sighed she desperately wanted to wear it out sometime.

The Gallant rode a stallion for the ride who's coat had the same green sheen of his armor with a saddle of fine studded leather. He opted to wear Renly's armor for the ride to inspire his new common folk to follow him. He must have looked a proper lord that day. He looked over to Starling and smiled, he saw a lot of himself in here. She looked somewhat annoyed by the pace of the company, as was Garlan but he hid it better. He broke the silence.

"Not used to this pace are ya" His reachmen accent popped in. He was getting more relaxed with Starling, he did not actively hide his accent anymore around her. "It is rather difficult to go from marching with soldiers to marching with masons. In four days Brightwater Keep is going to be conquered."

Starling looked over to the Lord.

"Not really, M'Lord. Most of my journeys have been either been alone or with a half dozen horses at most. Usually we made them run rather walk. I hope your lordship is conquered but where is your brother Willas?''

''He's assembling the fleet with the Hightowers, Costaynes and the lords of the Redwyne straits. The Ironborn will taste the familiar flavour of defeat''.

Willas Tyrell

Willas and Lord Beesbury are going over the defences of The Reach. Willas warns Beesbury that any precaution should be taken to stop the Ironborn from breaking through when Lord Beesbury just hopes the iron chain between the fortresses in the Mander is going to be sufficient for stopping the Ironborn. Willas says that Lord Beesbury does not know the ironborn as good as he does, stating that the Ironborn see any barrier as nothing more than obstacles to overcome. He adds that Highgarden must be defended at all cost and that an invasion of the Iron Islands shall be made before the leader of the reavers returns from Meeren with a great host. The islands are defenceless against the fleet of the Reach.

To our majesty Tommen Baratheon, first of his name and king of Westeros.

My lord, I beg you to assist us in the conquering and destruction of the Iron Islands. If you allow us to use the new warships your dear mother has ordered, we will more than pleased. With your help, we'll be able to pacify the realm that you wisely rule.

Secret annex: My lord, disband the Faith Millitant and free my sister. If not my father will no longer fight for your cause, we will take what is our and we will adopt a neutrality policy. This is not a threat but a matter of family, if you are wise and humble as the rumours say you are, you won't let your dear queen to spend the night in a horrible and dark place under the Great Sept of Baelor.

My best wishes and regards.

Ser Willas Tyrell

by **The Jonathanian States** » Sat Apr 30, 2016 3:42 pm

____________The Noble League for Northern Remembrance____________

The sound of horns was the first sign. One after another they rose as the guards noticed the returning army and a futher wave of trumpeting as the Bastard's men, and his own, responded to the signal in kind.
Then it was a pair of guardsmen, a Bolton and a Hornwood, barging into the great hall "Excuse the interruption my lords, Lord Bolton, the Lord Ramsay is returning. His Bolton banner as well as those of Frey and Manderly are clearly visible amongst the columns marching back. We expect them to be here in half an hour". At the announcement of the returning banners, a slight smile appeared on the face of Wyman. Motioning for a servant before slowly rising, the man's sheer size hampering his movement, the lord of White Harbor rose and raised his trinket even higher. "A toast", he declared, carefully looking around and making sure he faces all other lords in the hall, "A toast to the victory of our troops!".
From high on his dais the Lord Bolton formed what vaguely could be identified as a frown, it was hardly a secret that the new Lord Paramount distrusted the White Knife's Warden, "a toast", he calmly responded, "to the victory of my son".
With a multitude of faces the other northern lords looked upon the the two most powerful lords of the north, but they could merely concur a "hear hear".

A dozen men, riding through the woods far past sundown. Brynden sighed to himself. It was far from the glory days of him being in massive hosts during the days of his grand-nephew's great rebellion. Once more memories arose of battles in the field and the siege of Riverrun. Oh, how long it had been. But he had remained true to the cause. Throughout the siege he remained loyal to a king of whom he did not even know he definitely existed. And then the kingslayer had sent him young Edmure. He gained a king and lost his home. Truly, the Seven were terrible. Escaping his memories of days past, the man who for abandoning his home once before and now was on the run again, noticed the surrounding forest starting to fade.
His heart wanted him to drive faster. Family, Duty, Honor. Family, it was his grand-nephew's brother he had failed and did wanted to not, could not, fail again, Duty, he had a king far north as he may be, he bent the knee to a Stark son, he must now serve another, Honor, he had surrendered; Under threat of the devastation of his birthplace, the death of his own, his family, his old comrades-in-arm. On and on it drove him. Family. Duty. Honor. Family. Duty. Honor. Cat, oh his dear cat, Robb. the brave king, Eddard, the comrade unavenged. Family. Duty. Honor. He neither wanted to nor could he stop. And yet he saw himself raising his left arm. And nearly in synchronization the 11 men behind him moved to a trot.
"We'll have to make rest soon", he announced, "We'll reach the Bloody Gates on the morrow, but now we must rest. Over here we need not fear brigands, Lions, or Frey-scum, but we better have one man guarding at all times. I'll take the first watch."

By now, all the attending Lords, including himself, had left the great hall of Winterfell. They all were eager to receive the incoming troops and he most of them all. The blizzard was still raging, of that he was glad. He wasn't sure the Ryswell scouts could be trusted and it would be to the benefit of all if they would not discover the army gradually approaching them under Glover's command. A silent prayer left Wyman, to the seven of his own and to the old ones prayed to by all around him, the old gods of north and winter, in the hopes that one of them would listen. He prayed for a path for Robett, for a shining path through the white storm. But he had no time for that. And rely on Robett he couldn't either, who knows where the snows could drive him if he got astray from the right path.... the creaking of the portcullis' rise focused him back on the present. First rode in the thrice-damned bastard of Roose. No decree would make that monster of rape less of a bastard. Cheering as usual, he was waving... a sword. "Stannis' sword", he called, "Lightbringer they say he called it". It was then that Manderly carefully hid a smile. Ramsay was sure of Stannis' defeat and yet his men seemed to be returning safe and unharmed, else Ramsay already would have charged straight at him. No, their plan had worked, he now truly knew. The words he had once spoken to Davos recurred to his ears. They had since become the equivalent of a motto to the true liege of the north. Not the Bolton traitors, curses upon their kith and kin, and their king knew not of his reign, so all that remained was the cause. The cause that had unified all but two houses of the north behind it. And only one would truly willing to fight against their heroic cause, for it was liberty, justice, revenge... truth.
Behind Ramsay and his Bolton men came the Freys... but it could not have been... the Freys were all supposed to be dead, if his own men were not. But if the men under the banner of the towers were not Frey men... Stannis was a smart leader, Wyman knew, he would have found much use for multiple hundred frey colors. Now Wyman could not but reveal a smirk, damn the pair of Boltons seeing it, it was too late for them to do anything. No, the north remembered, and the mummer's farce was almost done.

The sun had barely risen again that Brynden commanded his men to pack again. Time, he knew, was of the essence. Soon winter would make passage in and out of the Vale chaotic and cripple warfare in general, placing a white veal of peace, burying the war for a few years once more. But that, he considered, was not to be an option. He was respected amongst the Lords of the Vale, having served as knight of the gate for many a year at his friend's and then niece's behest. Together, he hoped, they could call for an intervention to unify the remnants in the trident, to strike out once more against the dishonorable scum in red and blue. Quickly the small band rode away, with a glance he saw that they already had left quite a considerable distance behind them.
In front of them rose the walls of rock that he once called home too.
Mountains to right of them, mountains to left of them, mountains in front of them, unmoving and silent. Through them they rode, once more driving their horses to their fullest, a charge with no opponent, on and on he pushed until the Tully rode alone, his companions in the distance behind him. But as his horse slowed to a trot, he heard a call so familiar that he could recall it in his sleep, "Who would pass the bloody Gate?".

Wyman Manderly was not a man to take the interruption of his sleep without due cause lightly. But there they rang again, the blaring horns from the walls of the great fortress Winterfell. He shuddered at the quickly-dismissed thought of it being the arrival of reinforcements of Lannisters, Freys, or Boltons... no, that could not be. He then considered Stannis marching onwards through the blizzard, following the path of his and Wyman's men. But Stannis seemed wiser than to press on such a march after a battle, with fighting or a siege to be expected. At last came the option he had not dared believe in for it had been what had hoped for. The gods had shine a path after all, he realized, whether it was his southron gods shining a path or the old gods receiving his prayer and making way for their own, he neither knew nor wanted to discuss. He immediately attempted to rise. Just as he could his own door was barged upon by one of his personal retainers. "Ser Edwyn?", he asked, only for Edwyn to march in and make way four the other eight knights the Lord of White Harbor had kept as his personal guard. His Merman's Guard, one might call them. "Robett is marching on the Gates", spoke Edwyn, only to be replaced by another knight, "Roose is sure that he won't have enough supplies to outlast Winterfell and wants to hold tight". Edwyn spoke up again, "We've made sure all our armies are aware of their allegiance. The Portcullis should be charged by a force of your knights right about..." the unoverhearable clanging of metal on metal rang out as slowly a creaking sound weighed in. Cheers were heard, shouts of panic, and faintly in the distance, cries of war, a single "For Stannis" rose like a tidal wave, and then, more thunderous came by a repeated "the north remembers", "the north remembers", "the north remembers". His massive form now moved past his knights and out of the room. On the floor below him he could see a force of Bolton Men-At-Arms desperately drying to barricade the doors which he now saw were slowly moving backwards and forwards, pressure being applied. A few men down below started noticing the Manderlys up top had him moving as fast as he could with his size, the force of knights forming up around him, towards one of the balconies. A pair of crossbowmen were standing on it, firing down below. One of them noticed and fired a shot that went straight through the raised shield of one his knights but lacked the velocity to then break through his armor, instead sticking in it. Now having gained momentum the three knights to his front charged forward, shields raised, simply pushing the two enemies off the balcony by sheer force of momentum. As he himself reached the balcony, Manderly stepped foward, looking around. If the spray of corpses and wounded was anything to go by, the Boltons had initially dispatched the Freys to secure the gate while they themselves attempted to charge the northern houses into the Manderlys, only for the Freys to turn out to not be on their side, forcing the Bolton Sergeants to cut their way through in the attempt to close the gate. But the damage had been done, men of all colors had rushed through the gate as the northern houses charged into Bolton troops from all sides. But the Boltons fought fiercely, worryingly so. Hearing sounds behind him his glance turned away from the many skirmishes in the courtyards to a column of soldiers rushing up stairs and seeming to head straight for them. His own knights were forming up behind him. He himself, pulled a sword out of its sheath, fully aware that if push came to shove he would be a sacrifice of the cause, for he was a broad man, but not of muscle. On they charged, steel clanging as they performed the first strikes against the shields of his protectors. Once more he stepped on the balcony, watching as Manderly ran past Ryswell men in chase of multiple Boltons until finally a man of the black horse-head emerged and struck them in their flank, leading to a charge of his comrades. The sounds behind him raised worry in his heart once more, a feeling of dread he had not felt since quite a while, a true fear for his live. Turning around he saw Edwyn forming a last line with three brothers as the Boltons charged at them unrelentingly. Starting his prayers to the seven above, to the father to guide his son, the mother to watch over his house, especially over little brave Wylla, he was interruped by the crashing of wood. Great Robett charged in first, a force of Dustins charging in behind him, striking at any Bolton within reach. A pair of crossbowmen in Frey Garbs ran in, opening fire on his attackers rowdy warriors from the clans breached from a different entrance.

A breath of relief escaped the White Knife's warden. A breath of relief followed by a grin of anticipation. The bolton soldiers were traitors, all were to be put to the sword. And they would have to dispatch a raven. Son not only his son but the son of Eddard would be home, for the north remembers and the mummer's farce was done.

tl;dr:

The Blackfish arrives at the Bloody Gate in the Moon.
Stannis' men infiltrate Winterfell with the Manderly and Bolton forces, on the following morning Manderly's second army under Robett Gover's command is let into the castle, commencing the second battle of Winterfell, in many a way quite similar to the last one.
THE NORTH REMEMBERS, LORD DAVOS. THE NORTH REMEMBERS AND THE MUMMERS FARCE IS NOW DONE
EDIT: Now Stannisseans propoerly Stannisize. /EDIT

by **Phalnia** » Sat Apr 30, 2016 4:10 pm

The Faith of the Seven

The Great Sept of Baelor was quiet, save the sounds of soft footsteps and brushes scrapping the marble floors. The sept was a monument to excess. A citadel built on faith and profaned by the weak nature of men. Its' grounds were stained in blood and its' air polluted with sin. The physical act of cleaning would not be enough. The tangible markers of affronts before Gods and men may be hidden but, the memories of men are long and gods' eternal. The only true method of cleansing this site, this realm, was atonement. The simple act of atonement was easy enough. A man could claim to regret his actions and swear to never repeat them. Such words were uttered daily. But, how many men had truth in their hearts and mouths? How many men truly felt guilt for their deeds and intended to never repeat the mistakes of their past? Too few by any measure. Such men, with contempt for the Seven Above, are unworthy of the Mother's sympathy of the guidance of the Crone. Such men deserve only the judgement of the Father and the gift of the Stranger.

Beyond these base men are a worse breed. Those who had transgressed against the Seven and denied their guilt and sought no atonement, had no love of the gods. Such men could not be saved. Their immortal souls damned to rot and burn in the Seven Hells, true peace forever denied to them. It was against such men that the faith was meant to combat, that the faith of the past had failed to curtail. These men had long gained power in the Seven Kingdoms. They claimed to serve the gods and won the favor of the people. But, they were sinners. Sinners who damned the realm and its people to suffer in this life. Only once had the faith of yore attempted to end such deviousness in this world. They had raised hard steel to replaces stern words. Devout men rallied to them and wicked men feared justice. Their holy crusade came to an end with the deaths of two foul kings and the ascension of middling boy. A compromise was reached and the king swore to protect the Faith.

Such a duty had greatly been ignored of late. Though, who could blame kings of failing to protect the Faith when the Faith refused to protect itself, when it failed to adhere to its own tenets? This failure had led to a holy and righteous rise. The rise of Sparrows. The rise of Swords and Stars. With the Faith now led by such men, surely the realm could return to true faith and the favor of the gods. How else could such men lead if not by example? If the men of the Faith scrubbed the stains of sin, then the Voice of the Seven on Earth must scrub.

And scrub is what he did. Down on his knees, His High Holiness scrubbed the floors his hands callused and cracked from the hard labor, harsh soap stinging the flesh. Rising to his feet, the aged man rubbed his brow with his arm. The coarse material of his robes scratching his face. Seeing him rise, the other diligent scrubbers likewise rose. Exchanging not a word among them they lifted their buckets and walked in single file through the hall and down a winding staircase. Each man and woman took their turn emptying the contents of their bucket down a large drain in the center of a small, hot room. At last the High Septon sloshed his own murky water down the drain and added his bucket to the neat stack that had been built in the corner.

Again without a word, the group left the room and separated at the top of the staircase. Some headed towards the center of Baelor's Sept, others towards the chambers at the rear of the edifice, and the rest towards their respective doors, the High Septon followed the latter. Outside on the grounds of the Sept they were met with the smells and sights of plight of the smallfolk. Where once the grounds had housed opulent gardens they were now put to a useful purpose. The flowers and useless trees and bushes had been ripped out at the root. In their place the septas and septons had planted neat rows of produce. It was a small attempt to alleviate the hunger that gripped the city. Regardless of its actual effect on the hunger, it served a far better purpose than ornamental flowery things.

Flanking the Father's door were two large bubbling cauldrons, tended by septas. Lines of smallfolk waited, bowls in hand, for their rations. Scattered among them were Poor Fellows and Warrior's Sons. They ensured order and peace here within the sept. Sword and ax were foul tools no doubt but, they were necessary. As a shepherd defends his flock, a septon must protect his congregation. The High Septon walked down the steps of the sept, greeting the hungry as he passed. He assured them that the soup would be more than enough to go around. Their broken smiles and dirty faces were enough to keep the Septon sure that he was doing what was necessary. What the Gods demand. Out from the crowd stepped a face that the High Speton recognized. It was the tired face of Ser Theodan the True, Commander of the Warrior's Sons.

"Your, Holiness." Ser Theoden nodded as he stopped before the septon.

"How are you today, Ser Theoden?" The High Septon cupped his hands over his stomach as he asked.

"The Gods keep me well your Holiness."

The High Septon smiled. "The Gods are good, ser. But, only so long as we are good to them."

"It is a shame more do not see that truth."

"Aye, a shame." The Septon placed his hand on Theoden's shoulder. "But, we must not lose heart. The Crone will guide us through these times. Look for her lantern always. On the subject of the Crone, has she seen fit to see our guests safely to the city?"

"All, save one."

"Oh?"

"The champion of the Faith has been unavoidably detained. I accept full responsibility, your Holiness." Ser Theoden's head was bent in shame.

"No need, Ser Theoden. Surely the God's have plans contrary to ours. And who are we to argue? But, a bit of good news still. If the others are in city, then it is time for Lord Tarly to fulfill his vows." From within the folds of his robe the Septon produced two scrolls, both sealed with wax and emblazoned with a seven-pointed star. "Bear this letter to Lord Tarly. And this one to the Lord Regent. Both are sure to be found in the Red Keep. Return here when you are finished, I trust Lord Tarly and Lord Regent Lannister will fulfill their duties without your presence."

The knight took the scrolls and tucked them beneath his breastplate. "I shall see it done your Holiness." The knight bowed and walked towards the winding streets of King's Landing. As he went he motioned half a dozen Poor Fellows to join him.

The High Septon smiled and turned back towards the Great Sept. His eyes rose up to the very top of the monstrosity. His eyes were drawn back from the heavens by the sound of footsteps next to him. It was Septa Renna. The High Septon looked curiously into the basket she held in her hands. "Were the people of Flea Bottom not hungry today, Septa Renna?"

The Septa's eyes darted back and forth before answering. "I went to Flea Bottom as you asked, your Holiness. The people I found there had loaves and spoke of a Septa Elia, who delivered them. They say she has come every day for quite some time, promptly at ten in the morn."

The High Septon smiled as he heard of this Elia. "Thank you, Sister Renna. Please, hand your bread out to those here. Tomorrow you may do the same."

The Septa nodded and headed towards the throng of those gathered for their daily rations. She passed a man with a large ax at his side and red star on his chest. The High Septon beckoned him to come, which he readily did. The High Septon drew him close and spoke in a hushed tone. "There is a woman, a Septa Elia. She distributes bread in Flea Bottom in the late morn, have you heard of her?" The Poor Fellow shook his head. "Neither have I. Tomorrow please find her in Flea Bottom and bid her to come here and speak with me."

"Of course, Your Holiness."

"Oh but, let her hand out her bread first. Duty first." The Septon returned to the Great Sept for his prayers.

tl;dr:
It's not that long just read it.

by **Valaran** » Sat Apr 30, 2016 5:36 pm

House Hightower

The Upper Docks,
Oldtown,

Our duty is to the Tower.

Baelor stood at the upper docks. Boats bobbed around him, sides sinking and raising in the turquoise waters. A wall of white stone rose up in front of him. Bright green moss grew at water level, damp and shiny. The Wall had battlements, merlons being installed into the crenellations. Towers overlooked the bay. Ballistae had been mounted on them, and they were manned by the Watch.

The Hightower ascended above them, a pinnacle of stone and light, reaching into the sky.

Our duty is to the Tower. They were not the words of his House, but they might as well have been. What was House Hightower without their namesake? It had never seemed wrong to Baelor, to trust in its security. Not until Leyton and Malora had decided to explore the corruption lurking within.

Oldtown’s defences were lacking. The fleet - there was no fleet, only a flagship with cracked white paint, and three dozen rotting vessels. Behind Baelor stood a score of half-completed Galleys, their hulls covered in scaffolding and workmen. Leyton had assigned him to build a fleet. To deplete their treasury so. Baelor knew they would never be enough to match the long ships of House Greyjoy, but they were being built all the same.

The walls were strong, at least, and the Oldtown Watch well-trained, and resolute. Baelor did not lack for soldiers, or for arms. But this was not enough. When had they ever felt so vulnerable? Peace had eroded their vigilance.

The Hightowers had been suited to peace. They profited off of trade, off the pursuits of learning and pleasant matters. Baelor had wondered if they had been corrupted for it. He had his own hand in this, managing the port, the trade ships, and city taxes. That sort of ruling was easy to him. It required so little sacrifice. Even in this war, it had not affected the Reach. Only further weakened them, as the Tyrells had thrice taken their forces to war, first to Renly, then to King’s Landing, and now against the Florents, the House that Leyton had taken his fourth wife from.

And yet, the walls of Oldtown were not their last line of defence. Nor was the Watch or even the half constructed Galleys. The Hightowers could always retreat to the shining pinnacle of stone and light, even if their subjects could not.

Oldtown had been taken many times, sacked, enslaved. But the Hightower had never fallen. How was that so? Was it sorcery that had achieved this? The same might happen now. Oldtown was vulnerable, though the tower was not. Baelor hated that reality, the one where so many hundreds of thousands could perish, as the Hightowers watched on in safety. Their weakness would only lead to the deaths of others. “Defend the Tower”, his father had said, as if there was no city below.

That was their duty, so it was said, and known. The Tower, not the city. That edifice did not seem so homely to him now. It seemed the lair of craven men and magic. Of corruption and cowardice. How was this Baelor’s duty?

He gazed in pained silence as a knight approached. The knight had a scruffy look about him, stubble thick and light brown. He was handsome too, with green eyes, and a pronounced jaw.

Ser Jon Cupps had married his sister. A decent and true man, low-born, it had been a love match of sorts, one Lord Leyton had few qualms about. For why should he? Alerie had married Mace Tyrell, Denyse a Redwyne, and Lynesse had still been happy with Ser Jorah Mormont. And Baelor himself was wed, though not to whom had been intended for.

Leyla Cupps was in the Hightower now. Baelor had considered to safer for her to be out of Oldtown entirely, for all the Hightower’s not able to fight to be ensconced east, in the mountains. Leyton had decided otherwise. To him the Hightower was the safest place, and the most important. Their House would rise and fall with the Tower, he had said, and Baelor had not pushed the matter.

Cupps went to one knee. “My Lord.”

Just Ser. “Jon, I would have need of you.”

“What is your will?”

“I have sent a raven to Highgarden, asking for all the Hightower swords to be allowed back here. We have more need of them here than sitting at Brightwater." He looked at Jon. "I would like you to take command of them as they march South. In all, it should be 3,000 pikemen, 400 crossbowmen, 200 riders, and 60 knights.”

Jon’s face showed surprise. “My Lord. Are you sure that you think I should have this command? I have never led so many before.”

“I trust in your abilities, Jon.” In truth, Baelor could not be sure Ser Cupps was the right man. He would have sent Gunthor, or Ser Moryn Tyrell, if possible. But he needed his brothers here, and he needed Moryn to look over the Watch. Cupps was no loss to him. So calculating, I have become. I never needed to be so, in peace. War changes a man in so many ways. “And I would rather it be led by kin now, and you are tied to my House by marriage. I plan to use this force to strike South, and bring the battle to the ironborn. The have been allowed a free reign for too long now, and Intend to change this. But I need them here, first. Will you do this for me?”

Cupps bowed his head. “My Lord, I shall.”

“Good. You may take two score riders with you. I want you to march hard to Brightwater Keep, and the besieging Tyrell forces. Even if Garlan, or the Hightower forces are not to be found there, they should direct you to them.” Baelor stood tall. “You are to be the spear of Oldtown, that reclaims the Redwyne straits for House Tyrell, and King Tommen Baratheon.”

Cupps had bowed again, and taken his leave. Baelor reflected the letter he had sent to Highgarden, by Raven.

A hurried letter, laced with urgency. Baelor could not find clever words to convey his message. He had once fancied himself a writer, back when he had such idle time. Back when he had been called Baelor Brightsmile, and other names. Back when Elia’s face had enchanted him, and dragons had ruled the Seven Kingdoms. An age had passed, but they still called him Baelor Brightsmile.

He looked at the Hightower again. Its image had dominated his life; he never strayed far from its light. The distant haze of Oldtown surrounded it. Oldtown, the city that had produced Cupps, and all those swords he now sent to die, and more besides. Their name came from the Tower, but the wealth, the life, came from this city.

Our duty is to the Tower. But it was not Baelor’s only duty. He would not sacrifice so many for that, no matter what his father decreed.

I would sooner save Oldtown than Hightower.

by **Mesrane** » Sat Apr 30, 2016 9:32 pm

House Mallister

The pitter-patter of the rain on Seagard's high walls pulled Jason Mallister out of his deep thoughts. His grey beard was heavy with rainwater, and drooped over a chest that was still well-muscled for a man of nearly fifty years. Sighing, he gazed with sad blue eyes out over the town which his family had ruled for so many centuries. It was morning, and the stormclouds enveloped Seagard like a great grey blanket. A harsh, bone-chilling wind was sweeping through, a harbinger of the winter to come. Already it was snowing relentlessly in the North, or so the most recent merchants to pass through the town had insisted.

Not an hour had passed since the mute dawn, yet the town's smallfolk were already up and about. Fishermen were weighing anchor and lowering their sails as they drifted out to the icy sea. Merchants hawked their wares in the cobblestone streets, and a few assorted travelers or farmers from surrounding villages went from stall to stall, haggling and buying little. But it was too bitterly cold; most of the townspeople remained indoors. It was obvious to their lord that the past two years had been hard on them. Of all the Seven Kingdoms, the Riverlands had been ravaged the most by far, as first the Lannister army and then the Starks had marched and countermarched across the realm, followed always by bands of vicious brigands that sprung up in such times. Jason's heart still burned with fiery hate for the Lannisters and the Freys and the northern traitors, the Boltons. The former had threatened the Riverlands and their rightful rulers, the Tullys, and the latter families had shamelessly betrayed and butchered Robb Stark and his mother Catelyn. There was no recompense for such an evil, Jason had decided. The only compensation was death, and the Lord of Seagard had decided the moment he had been forced to bend the knee that he would have a hand it seeing in doled out to each house in turn. Yet his smallfolk were weary of war of and all its trials, and who could blame them for that? The war had caused trade to dry up and gotten a great many people killed. There were now less farmers for the fields, fewer fishermen to work the boats. Jason counted his house lucky in that their lands; Seagard and the Cape of Eagles, had escaped the worst of the scourging dealt to the rest of the Riverlands. That, however, was not saying terribly much. Any Riverlander lord with functioning villages and most of their smallfolk alive had escaped the worst of the fighting.

Jason pulled his purple cloak closer about him, the white eagle of the Mallisters wrapping around his back like a fearsome protector. He may have been immensely lucky in another regard; both of his sons had escaped the Red Wedding alive and returned to tell of every grisly horror between tears. So many friends had been lost, and now House Mallister and any other house that had dared to stand with the Starks knelt to Freys or Boltons, and their puppet masters the Lannisters. A shameful position indeed. Jason thanked the Seven every day that his wife Nora had passed two years before Robert Baratheon's death, before Westeros had been torn asunder. She was not in any danger, nor did she have to live through such times.

A gloved hand touched his shoulder. "Father."

"Patrek." Jason made no attempt to smile. They came too rarely these days, and he knew it would come out to be more of a grimace. "What is Devan up to?"

"In the yard," said Patrek. His broad shoulders seemed to bear some invisible weight. The rain had soaked his blond hair, which hung loose down the back of his tunic. Lately, bags had formed under his eyes. The horrors of the Wedding still haunt him. "Drilling, as always."

Jason sighed. The Red Wedding had been hard on all of them, but his younger son had become especially bellicose in the weeks since. Most days found him wielding a sword in the training yard, venting his rage on posts or anyone game enough to try him.

"They have to pay, father. We must do something, anything."

"I know what needs to be done!" Jason wheeled on his son, his eyes alight with fury. "Do not presume to inform me of that! I spend every waking moment dwelling on the shame of the Lannister boot that pins us down. I jump from one half-formed plot to the next, always thinking, always grasping for the most minute sliver of hope. But the truth is my son, that we are left kingless, as they have murdered Robb. Lordless, as they have stripped Edmure of the Lord Paramountship and bestowed it on that snake Littlefinger. Nearly hopeless, as every house in the Riverlands and the North is made to kneel. Only Stannis endures."

"But there will be a repayment," he promised him son. "There will be a reckoning. There will be blood. In my time, in yours or Devan's time. In your sons' time. However long it takes. We will keep alive this flame of hate until it torches every last Frey and Bolton. And then we can rest." And be at peace. I feel already like a walking ghost.

Patrek sighed. "Above the Rest. Those are our words. But above whom? Whom, if we will not subvert their designs in even the smallest possible way?"

Jason embraced his son. "I did not say that, Patrek. Stannis yet lives, as does Edmure, the Blackfish and the Stark girls. Most of the Riverlander lords still hold hate in their hearts for the Lannisters, and all would love to spear themselves a Frey or three." A savage grin spread across his face. "So, my son, we play the bandit. They are always about at times like these."

Mud squished under the horses' hooves as the sixty-strong mounted party departed Seagard from the main landward gate under cover of darkness. At its head was Patrek Mallister, who wore a rusty full helm to obscure his face and give the appearance of a well-armed brigand or a wayward mercenary. The men behind him were similarly armed and armored, with no Mallister arms or banners among them. They would ride north into the Frey lands, or southeast between the Green and Blue forks, keeping off the main roads and shadowing them instead, as bandits would do. Any Frey men they found along the roads would be slain. By staying off the Kingsroad some would be able to move north of the Twins, and thus haunt the Freys without needing to pass their coveted stronghold.

As the mounted men veered off the dirt road that ran out of Seagard, they split into groups of a dozen or so men. Jason watched his son go from the gatehouse. His every hope and ambition went with him. The clouds of defeat still hung thick over the castle, but Jason hoped that a small seed of vengeance had been planted tonight.

tl;dr:
-Jason and Patrek have a depressing heart-to-heart
-Patrek is put in command of a small company of retainers w/o arms or banners, basically disguised as bandits or wayward mercenaries in order to harry Frey patrols and cause them no small amount of pain

by **Elepis** » Sun May 01, 2016 4:38 am

House Nymeros-Martell of Sunspear

"Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken"

Doran Martell
The Sandship
Sunspear

New Ghis...Volantis....Myr.... Oldtown

The old man sat in his chair, drinking a flask of water as he watched the ships enter and leave the mouth of the Greenblood and the harbour at Plankytown. The Ghiscari galley was easy to see, its white painted wood and black sail clearly visible. The green Volantene trader likewise. In truth he did not know if the other two ships were from Myr or Oldtown, but he enjoyed guessing. A fat hulled cog, a great crossbow mounted on its prow was recognizable as a whaler out of Ibben and the huge swan ship could only be from the Summer Isles. In recent years there had been a significant increase in traffic coming in to Plankytown from across the western world, as the north of Westeros tore itself apart and the Reavers of the Iron Islands chocked of trade north of the Redwyne straits, Plankytown and Dorne provided a safe heaven for ships trading with Westeros. Dornish wine, jewels and spices were exchanged with Black Diamonds from Asshai and statues wrought with Volantene ivory. Plankytown was no King's Landing, not even a White Harbour but alone among the Seven Kingdoms Dorne had prospered during the years of war.

How long can it last though mused the aged Prince. It will come to an end soon when the Dorne throws it hidden die to see how the number come up. Soon war will come and the men of Dorne will once again wet the fields of the north with their blood. Doran knew the time was coming. Since the Fall of King's Landing to Tywin Lannister and Robert Baratheon, Doran had been working to bring down the Lannister and their cronies. The question was, when to strike. If Dorne could act on its own now would be the time to do so. The five thousand men in the Prince's Path and five thousand in the Boneway would be unleashed to carve a trail of deverstaion through the undefended southern Reach and Stormlands. The soldiers of Dorne would win battle upon battle at first but it could not last, eventually the superior manpower of the north would show and Dorne would be subjugated once again, no Doran had to wait.

He had waited for decades, a few more months wouldn't hurt. His son Quentyn was across the world in Mereen, hopefully winning the trust of the Dragon queen and her armies. Nymeria was in King's Landing with Myrcella and Trystane to win the trust of the Lannisters and Tyrells before bringing them to justice. Tyene would soon win the trust of this High Sparrow who's Faith Militant could prove a useful ally in the battles to come, Arianne was still in Dorne but Doran new she would make a great Princess when he was gone. But it would take months at least for the Queen to land in Westeros and there was still much Doran could do.

"Areo" he said, waking from his revive.

The big, iron haired guard stepped forwards and the old Prince continued "My brother had connections with numerous Sellsword companies in the Free Cities....We need more soldiers, even with the Queen's forces it will be a hard battle. I want you to send one of your men, one you are sure we can trust, to the Free Cities, the Disputed Lands first, to find us more men. I have already had the Maester write a letter of introduction for him. Can you do this?"

The axeman nodded "Yes, my Prince. I have a man in mind."

Tyene Sand
Flea Bottom
King's Landing

As the crowds grew, Tyene had realized she needed more food so today the septa had enlisted the help of her bodyguard Janos Sand to hand out the bread. Both were dressed modestly, Tyene in her grey robes and a scarf around her golden hair and Janos in a brown shirt and brown trousers, a club swinging by his waist and a dagger hidden somewhere below the layers. Janos was a soldier, a middle aged stoney dornishman from the villages around Wyl in the far north of the Principality. He did not look like a warrior, he was of middling height and not particularly broad. However he was strong and quick, if anyone wanted to get to Tyene or Sister Elia they would have to go through him. Both were carrying out the task they had been assigned, by Doran or by the Mother it depended on who asked, and gave out the bread and now small pieces of meat as well. Today Sister Elia was also carrying a small wooden toy for a child who had taken a particular liking to her. If anyone asked she would say Janos made it, in reality it came from some market stall in the Shadow City of Sunspear.

Tyene was growing more and more confident, it had been almost ten days since she arrived in the city but word of her daily trips to the alleys of Flea Bottom must have reached the ear of the High Sparrow by now. Certainly the crowds were growing and the other Poor Fellows and Septa's around the district must have noticed her. At one point in her journey, an old leper came up to her, crying while the people around him shied away. The Sister Elia however placed her hand on his and passed him a piece of bread and meat pie while muttering the blessings of the Mother in his ear. At the end of the walk, the holy pair came across the child who always smiled when Elia passed. She reached in to her robe and produced the wooden boat, pressing it in to his small hands.

Once the rounds were done and both Tyene's and Janos' supplies were empty they went in to a secluded alleyway and faced each other, whispering.

"Did you see the man, the Faith Militant?" she asked, almost excitedly.

"Of course, he has been following us for at least two days now. How could I not notice him?" came the gruff voice of Janos Sand.

"well?" Tyene prompted.

"Well pass him, get as close as you can but don't look like he is your target. Perhaps offer him the Seven's blessings. If he says something, great. If not carry on past." The old soldier replied.

Tyene nodded and turned out of the dark alley. As she had suspected the man was down the path, trying to look like he wasn't interested in the two people. Sister Elia smoothed her robe and strode towards him, already stringing together a blessing for the gallant protector of the faith.

by **Krugmar** » Sun May 01, 2016 6:56 am

Kingdom of the Stepstones

The sounds of screaming and laughing freely mixed in the air, as Aurane observed the small Stormlander village wither and burn away. His men greedily began to grab captives, hoping to sell the men on the Tyroshi slave markets and perhaps keep the women for themselves. He detached his frozen feet from the earth, from which he had been seemingly joined to as a statue, and made his way over to the one leading the attack, Captain Arrel.

"Arrel, what is the meaning of this?" he asked.

Arrel turned around, in his hands a young girl no older than twenty years, with little more than rags to cover herself. "Everybody in the village has been captured my Lord, we're loading them on to the sh-" he began to answer, before being interrupted.

"I did not give orders to capture, Arrel." Aurane responded, pulling the girl from the captain and holding her in his hands. "Quite beautiful for a commoner, a shame." he said, before placing into her gullet a finely crafted dagger. The colour drained from her face as her crimson lifeblood flowed freely from the gaping wound, before she was crudely dropped to the floor.

Arrel looked at him in disbelief, "I don't understand." he said, bewilderment tearing across his face.

"We are not here to enslave, but to send a message. Kill everyone, burn everything, take what you want." Aurane shouted. Buthcery instantly followed, and the air was filled only with screams, laughter having no role in such a savage place.

"Butchery is not the pirates way." said the tall Lysene, his exotic dress and Valyrian features giving away his identity as one Salladhor Saan. "We plunder, and kill when is necessary, but never simply murder entire villages."

"A pirate lecturing me on morals, how amusing." Aurane replied, lazily dismissing the concerns of the elder pirate.

Saan shook his head, "You will lose the support of these men should you continue down this path, they are pirates and-"

"They are no longer pirates, they are soldiers. Lacking in arms and discipline, but that matters little. I only have need of them to raid small villages, like the one we just visited. And before you say it, I am no pirate." he responded, feeling a slight swell of anger at such an accusation.

"Say that too loud, and they might just desert you." the Lysene said, sporting a wide smile that repulsed Aurane. The man could not be trusted, and Aurane had been a fool to let him live this long.

"I like you Lord Saan, it is the reason I spared you. But carry on lecturing me, or making threats, and I assure you, Varys won't be the only lordly eunuch in the Seven Kingdoms. Now, tell me of Stannis Baratheon, everything you know." he replied, and listened for hours as Saan told him every little detail about the man.

Miles behind, a breeze rolled through the ghostly remnants of what had once been a thriving little village by the sea. It had been nestled upn the eastern side of the isle east of Tarth. The proud wooden houses were now burnt, empty shells, and the grass and cobbled paths were stained and cluttered with the blood and bodies of those who had once joyfully used them. Fluttering in the wind was a banner, a golden lion upon red meeting a black stag upon yellow, the king's banner.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Sun May 01, 2016 7:55 am

The Bight of Dorne, Southern Coasts
Lord Paxter Redwyne
Fury's Wings Unfurled

Lord Paxter rushes west with the wind behind him, cursing the Lannister bitch for her insane mendacity and single-minded fixation on Stannis. Screw Dragonstone, fluttering isle of useless rock and crumbling keep, and futter the Greyjoys for being sons of known whores. With crack of sail and the spray of salt the main body of the Redwyne Fleet flies west along the golden sand shores of the Martells, ready to give the Reavers a "jolly-rodgering". Lord Redwyne is not amused.

Tower of the Sunset, Ryamsport, The Arbor
Ser Desmond Redwyne
The Account of Blood

With the coming of day Ser Desmond receives another tally of fishing vessels lost, coastal settlements scouted with providing attacks from the accursed Ironborn. Though they have yet to try and seize land, like they did with the Shield Islands, the Arbor is ill-prepared to repel any naval assault. Desmond and Lord Garth Gildhun of Startown have wisely hidden most of the remaining naval assets of the Arbor within the safe harbors of the isle's major ports, where any attackers just deal with the anchorage's defenders as well try to match the still formidable White Fleet in her home waters. But these decisions trouble Desmond, for every dawn he hears rumors of raids against minor villages, and the story across the water along the undefended Reach coast must be worse still. There would be a bill to pay for the Greyjoys, a bill written in Crimson.

by **Liecthenbourg** » Sun May 01, 2016 8:51 am

House Baratheon of Dragonstone

"Ours is the Fury!"

Melisandre of Asshai, Castle Black
"Ghost." he muttered.

Castle Black was in chaos. The murder of Lord Commander Jon Snow had created immense rifts within the brothers of the Night's Watch the moment they realised what had happened. The Lady Melisandre had managed to tightly grip onto the Princess Shireen, whom had fled the screams and shouts of that monstrous giant. The men of Castle Black were fighting amongst themselves and only a few loyal brothers had marched to Melisandre amidst her surrounding Queen's Men. Queen Selyse and the Princess Shireen were also present, hidden beside the Red Priestess behind the tide of armoured sergeants, men at arms and some knightly fellows, even the flowing woolen clothing of several of wildlings, some close enough to have seen the butchery between the Night's Watch and their Lord Commander. The Queen's Men stood as a circular shield wall, knocking the brothers of the night's watch who drew to close with their stalwart and colourfull shields.

Bowen Marsh sat beneath the thatched roof of Castle Black's stables, tears running down his face before they almost froze upon his swollen cheeks. Several of the brothers battled outside, those aiming to steal in the confusion and those whom remained loyal brothers. From his closing and opening eyes of regret, the Master Steward of the Nights Watch watched as the giant, that giant whom had smashed Ser Patrek against one of the walls of the castle, stood up, his wounds covered in snow and fur, as he slammed a brother of the watch against the portcullis leading to castle black. Several of the Queen's Men staggered in their lines, but the giant Wun Wun stood stalwart alongside them, all past grievances seemingly ignored as he defended the corpse and they the priestess.

The Lord Commander stirred amidst the surrounding individuals and Melisandre looked at him as his eyes fluttered open, his hands darting down his surcoat and mail and cloak to cover where wounds had once been.

"Jon Snow." she said in her accented Westerosi, still clad in little clothing in regards to the freezing winters outside. The Princess Shireen, clad in enough clothing to turn her into a ball of fur, peaked over, her two little eyes peering from above her scarf and beneath her hat.

"Look, mother, patches, he's alive!"

The Court Jester jingled, the bells on his antlers ringing in glee. "I know, I know, oh, oh, oh! The Mermaid calls for song and the men feast on castle pie!"

"Jon Snow." Melisandre called again, clutching him by the shoulders and shaking him. Her read hair dropped behind her and she stared at him with eyes of determination. The lord commander cough up blood, rolling onto his sides before he took in a large breath of cold, crisp winter air. He groaned, stirring as if awaking from a deep sleep.

"Jon Snow." she repeated for a third time, her eyes narrowing as she made her distance. "I have seen it in my flames, Lord Commander Snow. The endless snow has subsided. I have seen it. Here, coming north, rides a Banker, a Bear, a Knight of the Stag... and." she bit her lip, almost hesitant. "A wolf pup."

"Arya..." he exclaimed, both excited and tired.

"Yes." nodded the Red Priestess. Behind her, the small figure of Shireen Baratheon had fallen over due to the weight of her clothing and now rolled around in the snow, a turtle struggling to get up, before one of the Queen's Men yanked her upwards and pushed her into clutching the legs of the Lady Melisandre. "But the flames tell me more; Jon Snow, they tell me that Winterfell will be taken. King Stannis Baratheon, I have seen him in the flames, sitting in your longhall with the tattered banners of the pink, flayed man."

"W-winterfell?" the Lord Commander croaked, struggling to breath air. "You... Stannis did... it?"

"He will be doing so, Jon Snow. The flames have told me."

The next cough from the Lord Commander seemed more forceful, signalling to the Red Priestess he was rather incapable of speaking. That was when he noted the circle of queen's men, wildlings and brothers of the nights watch, the Queen Selyse, the little Princess clad in her clothes and the awfully frightening jester, the bucket and antlers he wore on his head clinking and clanking. Then he heard the irreplaceable sound of the striking of swords and curiosity washed over his mind.

"The sound, what is it... Melisandre?" he managed to say, struggling to sit up.

"A Civil War, Lord Commander. By the Grace of R'hllor you are amongst the living, but the deeds of the past have their repercussions."

Davos Seaworth, The Isle of Skagos
The quaint little rowboat was big enough for four, but only one man manned its oars on this night. Lord Seaworth was a gruff man. An honourable man. More honourable than most lords in the Seven Kingdoms. He was loyal, true to his word and above all, he was a simple man who did his duty. Duty was the often echoed word of his King, Stannis Baratheon, and how all men and women in the realm had their duty. Davos' was, nominally, to be Hand of the King, but now he found himself in the employ of the Lord of White Harbour. "The Mummers' Farce is almost done." he had told the knight of the Stormlands and the words sent a chill down his spine even now. Or perhaps that was due to the cold northern airs blowing across the bay of seals.

Davos Seaworth had been sent on a mission, a noble one indeed, to retrieve Rickon Stark whom Wyman Manderly had told him had been taken to the island by a wildling woman. It was the mission of Seaworth to get the young lord back. He rowed and rowed and rowed, the boat shaking and bobbing up and down on the seas. He had been well provisioned by the Lord of White Harbour and as he took a breath from his rowing he downed a few pints of water from one of his goatskin flasks. Before long did the the Onion Knight's rowboat slide onto the sand shores of the isle of Skagos and with a quick collecting of his gear, the drawing of his sword and the lighting of a torch did the man from the Crownlands descend upon the isles.

Stannis Baratheon, En Route to Winterfell
The blizzard had lifted, partly. They had marched and marched and marched from Crofter's. Stannis marched at the forefront, clad in his armour save for his helm and now carrying a simple steel sword in the absence of lightbringer, which he had given to the Manderlys in part of his elaborate ruse. His men were rested, some were hungry but they were more fed than when they had arrived at Crofter's.

Stannis had decreed they would march the day after his own 'vanguard' of Frey-dressed men marched with the Manderlys back to Winterfell. He grit his teeth as they marched and his thoughts went back to the Mountain Clansman, Hugo Wull, whom had made him a promise that he wished to bathe in the Bolton blood rather than die in the cold winters of the coming season. "This winter would be my last." he had told the King of Westeros. And now the King had come to think of how many would this winter be the last of. The Boltons? He had aspired to make sure it would be their last winter as well. Wull himself had been one of the gruff clansmen they had dressed up in Frey clothing and now Stannis could only think of what mayhem and mischief his plan had caused amidst the forces in Winterfell.

And now the men clambered ontop of the hill, one overlooking Winterfell and they saw the chaos. Smoke, it seemed. An army pouring in, infighting could be seen atop the battlements. Stannis allowed a brief smirk to form on his lips and he drew his sword, holding it into the air. Before he could call to charge however, the men of Mors Umber and the Castellan himself clambered up the hill beside him.

"King Stannis." Mors called, a polar bear's pelt clad over his head and shoulders. He was broad shouldered, an eyepatch covering one eye and despite fighting Stannis could smell the strong stench of alcohol that covered the man. The Boltons are fighting amongst themselves and the lords; the Knight of Manderly told us of your tricks when he arrived. Its working, there are much less enemies now."

"Fewer." Stannis replied, still looking onwards towards Winterfell. "I heard your work killed Aenys Frey, an excellent plan. Now, Mors, let us mop up where our allies have left off, shall we?"

The Umber man formed a toothy grin with his mouth, holding his large, double bladed war-axe in his hands. "With pleasure." And so had the forces under King Stannis Baratheon descended down towards Winterfell, multiple banners fluttering in the winds. The Bear of Mormont, the Closed Gauntlet of House Glover, the Crowned Stag admist the Flames, all fluttering in the winds as the men marched down to Winterfell.

by **Kisinger** » Sun May 01, 2016 11:13 am

Smoke rose into the sky and the smell of ash mixed in with the smell of blood and sweat. The sound of steel hitting steel and wood splintering as ships crashing sounded music to Victorion's ears. Standing in the bow of his great longship, Iron Victory, he saw before him a battle of which he would win his bride. At last when his ship crashed into another and splinters flew, The Iron Captain jumping onto the Qartheen Ship smashed his axe into the first slave warrior he met as soon the mighty reavers boarded and soon the battle began as the slaves and slavers were no match for the battle hardened warriors of the Iron Islands.

Looking up from the now captured Qartheen ship, the field of battle had changed dramatically with the longships of the Iron Fleet smashing the Qartheen War Galleys in a quick surprise strike on the fleet in Slaver's Bay had struck fear among the Slavers who had never seen the men of the Iron Islands nor the longships that they sailed in. With several breaking and fleeing to fight another day.

Victorion turning towards his helmsmen shouted, "Make for the Port." His plate scratched together as he turned towards the city of Meereen. With a sure victory at his back he headed towards port. With his future bride and the three dragons that would come with her. The World would bend to him as he unleashed the fury upon the world. Though if she did not agree, he had a horn and axe for a reason.

by **Vredlandia** » Sun May 01, 2016 12:49 pm

House Reed of Greywater Watch

"We swear it by ice and fire."

No screams hollowed through the bogs tonight. Baland and some crannogmen rowed their boats through the streams of mud, ever northwards. His arms already hurt a bit, but Baland knew that they were close to their destination, and he also knew that taking the road to Winterfell was no choice for him. Either the Boltons would have discovered him at Moat Cailin, or some bandits on the way. Not that he couldn't cut through them, even in his age, but that was attention Baland neither wanted nor was able to afford. Surely it would raise some questions to have a lone warrior return that late, armed and with enough money to travel from the Neck and back.. twice.

Sometimes, when Baland looked around him, he saw eyes staring at him in trees, and if he listened closely he could hear them whisper. Crannogmen, all over the Neck. Not many, admittedly, yet they followed him everywhere. Baland wondered whether Howland sent them to escort him to safety, or whether they were natives and had their crannogs somewhere hidden in the dark. A crow tried to find its way through the woods. Either way he felt intimidated. How much easier it was to cross through the Neck when he didn't know of all these hidings and tactics of the Crannogmen, or the horrible methods they used to kill their enemies. Not that he was in any danger. That didn't calm him, though. Crannogmen might have seemed uncivilized, but they were cunning and bold and that certainly didn't exclude Lord Reed. What if he wanted to get rid of Baland?

Paranoia, it followed Baland everywhere in the Neck. Even having been rescued by the crannogmen several times, he still remembered the stories about them. Bog devils. He continued to row his boat and concentrated on the mud. A frog stared at him, but as Baland looked back the frog jumped away. I fear them as much as you do, little guy, he thought to himself as suddenly the crannogman in front of him stopped. They hit land again, so he took his boat, strapped it to his back and ran off into the woods, ever northwards. Baland and the others did the same and followed him, and at that time Baland was glad he had the crannogmen with him. No way he would have found that other guy again without them.

After another hour or two, they were finally far enough to see sun again. The crannogmen stood still and looked at Baland, who nodded smilingly. They were truthful to their word, and he was more grateful for that than he should have been. Maybe that was a remnant of his Red Wedding survival. "Where's Moat Cailin from here?", he asked to orientate himself. "A way to the South and then to the East, we are far behind Moat Cailin. You are safe here. Just travel North and you will reach the White Knife. Continue to follow it and you will reach Castle Cerwyn. You will find your way from there. May the Old Gods give you guidance and protect you", one of the crannogmen said and they retreated into the woods, their eyes following Baland. He nodded. If someone found him, he could just say he's on his way to the Wall, to take the black and join the raven's of the Night's Watch. Or was it crows? He often couldn't tell them apart.

Here it was already a decent amount colder than in the Neck, and Baland was shocked how he could forget about that, when he lived in the North for all his life. The further he wandered, the less there was around him. Eventually it was just him and the ground beneath his foot. The winds of the North sang for him and Baland continued to walk, ever northwards, to save Arya of the House Stark.

Lord Reed of Greywater Watch stood on his castle and watched the sky. It was beautiful, innocent even. He looked down and sighed. How many men and women died in these few years? Good men, like Ned and the Starks. Bad men, like that Greyjoy traitor or that boy King Joffrey. Even crannogmen. All of them were victims of war, in one way or another, and the Lannisters had their hands in all of it. But the lion's roar was weak now, and the wolves began to howl again. Howland returned downstairs, only to find his wife eating the remains of that bird he caught for her today. Her belly looked like a bowl, and she smiled as she saw her husband. "It will not take long anymore, right?", Howland asked. She nodded smilingly. "Fennard. That will be his name."

by **Lunas Legion** » Sun May 01, 2016 1:05 pm

House Targaryen

Barristan's council had assembled in Daenerys' throne room. Not that it was fit to be called a throne room anymore; Daenerys's bench had been replaced by Hizdahr's pair of gilded wooden thrones, and in turn they had been replaced by a round table surrounded by tall chairs. They numbered quite a few more now than before the battle, so the newcomers stood wherever they could. Originally, it had been Barristan, Grey Worm representing the Unsullied, Skahaz mo Kandaq for the Brazen Beasts, Marselen, Symon Stripeback and Tal Toraq, the three commanders of the Freeman Companies, Jokin and The Widower for the Stormcrows, Rommo for the Dothraki, four of Hizdahr's pit fighter guards and Strong Belwas. Fourteen in total. They had lost none in the battle, thankfully; injuries, yes, but nothing lethal.

The Tattered Prince had already arrived, and was tapping an armoured boot against the floor impatiently as he leaned on the table. Brown Ben was late, but Barristan expected nothing less from the twice-turncoat.

"Sorry I'm late Ser Barristan, but these two insisted on coming." Brown Ben apologised as he hurried into the hall, taking a position standing between Belwas and one of the pit fighters. The first Barristan recognised immediately; Jorah Mormont. That explained why the Second Sons had unexpectedly turned on the Yunkai'i. The second figure was a dwarf with dirty golden hair and a badly-trimmed beard. They shuffled to take places around the table, Jorah between two of the Freemen commanders, the dwarf between the two Stormcloak leaders. Why Ben would bring a dwarf with him to the council, he had no idea. He squinted slightly, and blinked.

He'd recognise those mismatched eyes anywhere.

"Tyrion Lannister." Barristan spoke clearly. "I did not expect to see you so far from home."

"Neither did I, Ser Barristan." Tyrion nodded in acknowledgement. "We expected to find you with Relny, Stannis, or perhaps Robb Stark."

"I decided to try and find the true Queen. I made a mistake swearing loyalty to Robert. Although I do have to ask why you brought him here." Barristan pointed a finger at Jorah Mormont. "He was a spy for Varys."

"Was, Ser. Mormont is Daenerys' now. And even if he was Varys' spy, that doesn't matter. Varys has been with the Targaryens all along it seems." Tyrion shrugged. "He's the only reason I'm here and not on a pike as my sister would so dearly love."

"I would ask you about Varys and why Cersei wants you dead, but I don't think we have time for that now."

"It's a long story involving a cup, a crossbow, a privy, a box, Joffery and my recently departed father." Tyrion shrugged. "I'll tell it to you over a glass of Arbor red sometime if you want."

"If I have time. Now, to the buisness at hand." Barristan glanced over to the Tattered Prince, who looked up. "Were the Windblown able to rescue the hostages?"

"Not... Exactly." The Tattered Prince hesitated. "We had to cut our way through one of the Ghiscari legions. The Dothraki made it back uninjured, while the Unsullied made it, but was wounded. Darrio..."

"He'd dead, isn't he?" Barristan sighed. Daenerys would be livid, but perhaps this would be best for her in the long run.

The Tattered Prince nodded silently.

"So be it then." Barristan moved on. "We may have forced the Yunkai'i back from their siege lines and destroyed their trebuchets, but they retain a considerable force with three Ghiscari legions and the Company of the Cat, one of which prevented our pit fighters from attacking the Yunkai'i rear properly. Furthermore, our scouts report the Golden Company is encamped in Bhorash-"

"They won't be a problem." Tyrion interrupted. "Although I told that idiot to go to Westeros now, I guess he didn't listen and went east instead."

"What do you mean?" Barristan asked.

Tyrion smiled slightly. "That would be spoiling things. Suffice to say, the Golden Company is here because we want them to be, not to help the Yunkai'i."

The doors slammed open, one of Barristan's squires panting as he burst into the hall. "Ser, a man called Victarion Greyjoy docked in the port in one of the longships. He demanded to see the Queen, and started in the direction of the pyramid after Red Lamb pointed him over here."

Bloody Ironborn. Barristan swore mentally. "We'll wait for Greyjoy to join us then, and explain what in the Seven Hells he's doing here."

by **Cuprum** » Sun May 01, 2016 4:37 pm

House Tyrell

The captains stepped forward, no doubt intent on discussing the upcoming battle. Beesbury paid them no mind as he moved past them to address the soldiers that had gathered around curiously.

“You all just saw what kind of men the Florents are. When they showed their miserable face, they spat at our King’s offer of peace, instead choosing to offer words of insult by allying with a traitor, an affront not only to our King, but to honor, chivalry, and to the Gods themselves! He must be cut down and humbled… And we must be the men to do it.”

Gone were his bright armor and cloak, and instead he donned a plain set of steel. The heavier metal was sure to slow him down, but a steel armor would only get him hundreds of arrows during the charge. In his left hand he gripped an equally plain shield, inscribed only with the Seven points of Beesbury's gods.

''I have a battle sword, not a battle mind''. So he had passed the command of the siege to his lieutenants, and prepared to join the fray himself.
Silence dominated in the ranks. Every now and then a prideful boast was spoken, promising to be the first man over the walls of Brightwater Keep or to take Florent’s head from his shoulders himself. Others talked in tense, low voices of the battle to come. And then there were those who prayed.

Beesbury the Swiftblade was one of those men.

“Warrior. Father. Smith. Crone. Mother. Maiden… Stranger.” Beesbury hesitated before adding the last name, usually absent from the man’s prayers. But he will be here tonight. This castle, and siege, are his. “I ask for strength. I ask for wisdom. Guide the hands of the true and honorable, and stay those of traitorous intentions. I ask this in cloaked in humbleness, ever your faithful servant. In your glorious names, I pray.”

It was just as Beesbury ended his prayer that the silent signal was given to advance towards the fortress that awaited them.

“Step softly men,” Beesbury reminded those around him. There’s no point in attacking at night if you make enough noise to wake the dead themselves.”

“RAISE THE FUCKING LADDER!” screamed Beesbury as another arrow whizzed past his face.

Beesbury sends a ram and climbs the walls of the Keep with his sword brothers, the ram is protected by a great wooden turtle covered with horsehides, to batter the keep gates, whilst his archers fire flights of flaming arrows over the walls and his forces storm the walls.

Garlan Tyrell

The engineers accorded high priority to the creation of a dockyard and a warehouse to serve the purposes of naval warfare. The dock was built on the eastern flank of the Mander. It was located away from the main current of the river to avoid silting, but provided access to ships in high tide as well. The 30,000 host were capable of handling and constructing the vessels to recapture the Shield Islands.

''Tsh... Where is Paxter and his fleet... and I haven't receive any letter from the Hightower about their results in the southern operations but I think Beesbury will join us in a couple of days with the rest of the army.''

''M'lord, are you done yet?''

''No''

ASoIaF: The Storm Rises (IC)

ASoIaF: The Storm Rises (IC)

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