Co-OPs: Krugmar
The snow descended from above as it always had. Faint spheres of white from the sky, painting the land that was its canvas. Betwixt the pines and oaks of ages, taller than the structures that they had built; their ragged camps of bone and hide, their homes of felled wood and crudely cut stone, marched the out-lookers of the Magnar of Thenn.
They were veterans all, armed with bronze-tipped weirwood spears created by the smithies of the Magnar. They were veterans all, clad in shirts of bronze-discs that shone the sun back into the heavens. They were veterans all, hard men with battle-scars that made their spearwives swoon. Some had missing fingers, some had chunks of shoulder carved clean by brutish axes. The head of this patrol of these veterans himself was missing an eye and in its stead was a polished stone from the mountains far beyond any maps and books could tell you. Over it, sometimes, was worn a leather boiled patch that had a colour reminiscent to that socket when the stone wasn’t there to fill it.
Their spears swayed in the light breeze as they walked through those forest-paths that some had designated eons ago, though most were worn away, covered in the endless blanket of the snow or demolished by fallen trees or tides of rain. Yet they pressed on, scouting forth for the Magnar’s ever growing troop and settlements. He was the King of the Land of Always Winter. Unlike the other wildlings, he considered himself to be civilised, civil, with laws and honour and rules and metal weapons. He did not concern himself with some wall and the people beyond it. He cared for the here and now.
And so his men had advanced through the snow and cold, trekking across the land. Their boots imprinted in the ground, their breath left their mark in the air and their light fires and make-shift campsites dotted the landscape in half-a-hundred places. In the night the woods shone bright orange and plumes of black smoke, whitened by the snow that descended down, reached into the sky as if they were ethereal trees themselves.
Yet despite all this, through trial and tribulation, along the great river that flowed from the Magnar’s lands, they had found solace and safety.
As it grew dark once more the party of warriors halted, forming a small semi-circular camp with its mouth facing the freezing banks. It was done in ‘record time’ as Bolmyr had declared. Four large tents, of wood and bone and hide had been erected and within their centre came a great flame. Spits were brought up and with speed unseen did others, such as Sragvar, disappear into the deep woods to hunt.
When he returned with the carcass of a great deer dragging behind him in the snow did the patrol cheer, for tonight they would eat a feast. The procedures were done as normal, cutting across the carcass with metal and bone knives, skinning and gutting and all the activities that made men.
“It fucking stinks!” Orell, the youngest, declared, wiping down his knife in the snow – painting it an odd shade of crimson as the blood seeped into the ground.
“Of course it does.” Quort, their leader, declared. He was a tall man with the physique of a boar, arms like tree trunks and his beard was well kept, segmented by rings of bronze into two distinctive prongs that made him resemble a walrus. His armour was heavier than the rest, the discs were thicker, wider, made possible due to his robust physique. He claimed to wear two of those metal shirts yet had “never been struck” in raiding parties. “It’s a dead animal, Orell, but that smell means its fresh – good eatin’ tonight.”
“You bet its good eating.” Torwyrd, nodded. “Not as good as mammoth, never will be, but good eating.”
At this Orell looked forward, puzzled. He squatted down, hands in the snow and stared up. “You haven’t eaten mammoth before.” He ran his tongue along his cold lips, before bringing a hand to his face and scratching the stubble that formed the remnants of his beard.
Torwyrd made a face that expressed mock-offence and he furrowed his brow. “Course I have. Rite of passage in my village; gotta go sneak into a giant’s herd and kill one. Big event, all the young boys and potential spearwives work together, bring it down, snack on it. Don’t do it, or get caught, the giant’s crush you up and use your bones for their porridge.”
Orell made a move to respond, pointing his finger at the older man. There was a creak and remaining two warriors, Ryk and Ragwyle, turned to that direction. Their spears were poised ready, the bronze shining in the light of the fire behind them. Their shadows were cast onto the forest, telling the tale twice as they danced in the light.
Yet it was nothing but another stag, raised on a small rock in triumphant stature. It looked on, its eyes peering forth from the foliage at the group. Ryk lowered his spear, thudding its butt into the ground and the stag gave another graceful rear of its head before it leapt off into the depths of the wood.
Bolmyr gave an uproarious laugh, slamming his stomach with his gloved hand and wheezing into sky. “Gonna fight a bloody stag now, are you? Real manly, fighting a stag.” Ryk in his gaunt visage turned to Bolmyr and gave him a stare that was cold as the snow around them, yet the burly man only continued to laugh.
Ragwyle was different. He merely sat down by the fire, resting his palms in the direction in gift of warmth before them. His spear was embedded in the ground, its head hooking into the soil. He reclined in comfort and the others began to follow suit around the fire. First Orell, who had helped heave the stag onto the spit first, sat upon a stump. Bolmyr followed, still wheezing and laughing and wiping the tears from his eyes. Ryk sat opposite him, his eyes still fixated on the smirk and joy emitting from his lips. Quort manned the spit itself, occasionally turning the stag as it cooked above that fire. Like his old mother had taught him, he would collect leaves and crush them in his hands over the fire – letting the flavours of the forest mix with the meat of the earth.
“I need to take a piss.” Torwyrd announced idly. He stood on the perimeter outside the campsite, holding his spear against himself. The wind had slightly picked up now and the fire grew, cooking the stag. The smell picked up on the air.
“Well, go take one then. We’ll wait here.” Quort responded, prodding the meat with a pronged stick for tenderness.
Torwyrd grunted something and made his way over to the river they had plonked their camp next to. It wasn’t frozen over, but it was getting close. The banks were thick, with islands of ice floating up and down and bobbing with the current.
He grabbed his trousers made of furs and tugged it down, before he began to make water into the river. He looked down, noticing a fish. He believed it was a salmon and his mind wandered to catching it. With his manhood still out, he reached for the spear that he had imbedded in the ground alongside him. He grabbed its hilt, raising it on the high.
Yet there was no sound of him spear-fishing. All that happened was he yelped, thudded against the ground and fell into the water.
“Torwyrd?!” came from the camp.
“Have you fuckin’ fallen in, you milkdrinker?” Bolmyr yelled, laughing once more.
Yet there was no reply from the river bed. Only the sound of something coming out of the water, immense splashing. Ryk grabbed one of the spits they had not needed to use and burnt its edge aflame in the fire, holding it like a torch.
“Torwyrd?!” Ragywle called, advancing closer. Ryk followed behind, lighting the way with his torch. Orell, Quort and Bolmyr reached for their spears, advancing behind. “Frostfang boys, it’s gotta be. Cunts out here messing with the Thenns. We’ll get em.” Quort announced, authoritatively. Orell looked on in confusion; for he had never seen a s ‘Frostfang boy’.
Ryk waved the crude torch forward and the fire painted the land orange. The river lit up in yellows and reds, and the snow was painted pink and maroon from the fire. All that was left was the spear, itself almost in the water.
“TORWYRD!” Quort yelled. “WHERE ARE YOU?!”
There was no response. Ragwyle looked concerned and he clutched his spear tighter. Ryk waved the torch around to no avail. Orell, in his youthful curiosity, crouched by the riverbed. He stared at the water, intently.
Two blue gems of eyes stared back at him.
He screamed, falling on his back and kicked away. The others turned to him, calling him a woman and a bed-wetter.
“You don’t understand!” Orell retorted, slowly climbing back up his spear onto a standing position. “I-i-in the river, e-e-e-yes they stared back at me.”
Ragwyle snorted, in an attempt to brush it off. “You’re seeing thin-.”
Splashes came from the river once more and a great white hand pressed itself on the black banks. Another one followed. A hunched back surfaced from the water next and soon enough this white figure, whose very body looked like the winter, stood on the banks.
Without a second of thought, Ryk waved his torch at the monster. Yet that did naught, for the fire extinguished before it struck it.
Ragwyle tossed his spear, the bronze tip aiming sharp and true with the colours of the sun embedded in it.
And it shattered. The spear splintered at the touch.
As Orell said, once the creature looked up to stare at them, two blue eyes pierced their very souls.
They were veterans all, here in the woods. They were veterans all here by the river. Yet that didn’t matter.
The creature stepped forward, undeterred, the cold in its eyes piercing through the very resolve of the men of Thenn.
House Lannister
Hear Me Roar!
Tywin Lannister
Hand of the King, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West
King's Landing
298 AC
Hear Me Roar!
Tywin Lannister
Hand of the King, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West
King's Landing
298 AC
Tywin Lannister inhaled sharply and wrung his hands together before returning them to his sides. His dress was superb, a purple overcoat that clutched to his slim but broad-shouldered physique in a manner that made him appear edged. Around his neck hung a golden chain, in which his badge of the Hand was attached. It was designed differently to his original when serving Aerys; this one was a golden circle and within it was held the images of an outstretched palm and a closed fist, respectively. He was also adorned in a red cape, clasped over his heart with a large brooch detailed with a passant Lion of Lannister.
The two guardsmen by the oaken-and-bronze doors to the Great Hall thudded their pikes against the ground as he approached and hastily made to open the doors before him. They completed their tasks and the Hand of the King descended down the steps into the great hall, his boots pressing against the carpet that ran until the Iron Throne. On marched his personal guardsman behind him, including Crakehall and Lefford, and his ever mute captain – the dread Ilyn Payne.
The crowds gathered to his left, right and before him bowed excessively as he walked alongside them. He spied nobles of the Crownlands, Dornish ladies in waiting of Elia’s flock, knights and squires including Lewyn Martell. The Dornish man had taken to using one of the pillars in the centre of the hall as a rest, given his ever-advancing age.
“My Lord Hand” was repeated numerous times as individuals bowed as Tywin walked on by. And then he approached the most Godsforsaken area, before those deemed important to speak to the King in that session of court, yet after the onlookers. What Tywin had named the “Prophet’s Menagerie.”
The Red-Keep had become a den of harlots, thieves and pestering old fools who prattled words of 'prophecy'.
Such a thing would be common in the city of King's Landing, but the Red-Keep was more than that wretched tumour of a city that sprouted around it. The Red Keep was royal authority manifest, its court a place for an iron grip and noble men. Now it had become but a gathering place for the most insane individuals man could think of, lick-spittles for Rhaegar, who claimed prophecies day and night for him. "The Dragon has Three Heads!" they would chant in unison, swaying their filth covered hands in the air. "Beware this!" "Beware that!" It was truly a miracle of the Seven that Rhaegar had not fallen prey to madness like his father. Oddly, he enjoyed these fools - hence their continued presence - and allowed them to humour him, even some he believed.
Tywin hated every single one of them. They came to the court, unwashed, unfed and clamouring of truths they could not yet see. The only one amongst them who had any right to be within those halls was the High Septon – at least he understood the notions of personal hygiene and had, on occasion, wise council to give on the state of the poor within the city.
The mere thought of those fools made Tywin’s blood boil. He ignored their attempts at civility and their attempts at prophetic nonsense; some had spoken of ‘truths’, “Beware, beware the garden of the many!”, “The cat’s eyes are clouded and he does not see or the feel the mice!” “The Hand is but a puppet suspended on the air!” At that, Lord Roland Crakehall’s third son, Ser Merlon, reached for his sword. Payne halted him with a hand and in his discipline he halted his advance. It was quick, decisive, and none had seen – good for the Hand.
He approached the Iron Throne, bowing to Daenerys and Rhaenys, and then proceeded to climb up the steps, each footstep echoing in the Hall loudly, until he sat down upon the sword-seat. His guardsmen split their rank and file, half moving to the right and half to the left at the base of the throne, flanking it from its base in a sort of arc. Then up came Pycelle, the age old master, who advanced half-way up the steps, performed a bow that caused his chain's links to rattle furiously and waddled off to his seat to the right. Lord Connington came up next, his heavy beard of fire dominating his facial features. He too bowed, with a little less enthusiasm and sat at a chair on the left. The other members of the Small Council had opted out of this introductory session of dealing with Rhaegar's court; a procedure required ever since the man had departed North. They were to wait in the Tower of the Hand, where Tywin had chosen to take meetings in Rhaegar's absence due to its familiarity. There was silence, dead silence, save for Pycelle shuffling a few scrolls and letters.
The Warden of the West shut his eyes for but a moment and tightened his grip on the pommel of the Iron Throne. “This session of court will now begin. As per usual, the Court will listen to the grievances and requests brought before us. We shall answer in the name of his majesty, Rhaegar Targaryen the First of His Name, King of the Andals, of the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”
A shuffling of feet and an individual stepped forth, draped in the colours of House Massey. He was no Lord, nor no Lord’s son, so Tywin assumed he was a footman of some sort. His surcoat was detailed in those swirls of Massey and he held his conical helm in the crook of his arm.
“My Lords” this man spoke, succumbing to his knees in allegiance. “I bring forth some do-good farmers from the lands of the Lord Massey. We have been raided and plundered by pirates from the Stepstones, monstrous men who abduct produce and cattle and burn and pillage. The Lord Massey has no fleet to defend our shores; so we request aid from the Royal Fleet, to protect us and give battle to the pirates if they return.”
The court grew silent once more, yet one of those prophets yelled out “They shall come again, these pirates from the Stepstones!” Tywin thought that it didn’t take a prophet to deduce something that obvious.
“Your request is noted.” The Hand turned to the Master of Laws who gave a lopsided smile followed by a nod. “We shall send a fleet of fifteen vessels, galleys and dromonds. When we speak to Lord Rodrik, Master of Ships, at the next meeting of the Small Council today, we shall relay this to him and he shall determine if our response was adequate or if more ships need to take to sail. Rest assured that the Crown will not let this happen again.”
“Thank you, thank you my Lords.” The man quickly shuffled back into the endless crowds.
A new man stepped forth. He was no peasant nor no sergeant. But a knight. A knight of House Blackwood. Lucas Blackwood, second son of Tytos Blackwood, Lord of Raventree Hall. He bowed before the dais in extravagance.
“My Lords. I come before you to press a claim. But not the claims of House Blackwood. No, I come before you to explain the insulting claims of House Bracken. House Bracken conspires to take land from my House, from Crossbow Ridge to Rutting Meadow, Grindcorn Mill, Lord's Mill, Muddy Hall, the Ravishment, Battle Valley, Oldfor” Lucas was cut off and to the astonishment of all it came from the Grand Maester, who began to violently cough.
The court grew silent once more, with eyes falling on the three who sat upon the dais. “Your claims are long and tenuous, but I must ask, wh-where are these lands?” the Grand Maester eventually managed.
“In Blackwood lands.” Ser Lucas replied, decisively.
Pycelle twirled his beard around a finger. “Then why would House Bracken have a claim on them?”
Lucas sighed immensely, exasperated. “That is precisely why I am here.”
Pycelle stared at him for a few moments, as if his brain were registering what was said. Tywin and Jon knew the game he was playing. “Then I must ask, why were these brought before the Court, and not Lord Paramount Hoster Tully? Surely your Lord Paramount, your liegelord, would be better suited to deal with this dispute of territory.”
Ser Lucas clenched his fists. “Because, Grand Maester, Lord Hoster is an ardent friend of the Brackens and thus would be biased in any discussions. I came before the Royal Court for decisive and fair judgement.”
Jon Connington spoke up now, adding. “The Laws of Gods and Men do identify that these lands are in a troubled situation, with the constant exchanging of hands. Could you perhaps prove that they were yours in origin?”
Lucas gave a puzzled look before continuing. “There are many of my kin buried within Cairns, one of the lands that is contended. That should manifest itself as them being in our possession for quite some time.”
Tywin’s expression remained the permanent scowl in thought that it always was. “The Court cannot decide such a thing at this moment, with the King and his own thoughts not known – however, the court shall invite the Brackens to send a delegation to discuss this with you before the court; and we shall extend the invitation to the Lord of Riverrun.”
Pycelle ran struck a bell on the ground with an instrument and off went a loud “ding”.
“This session of court shall take a break for better reflection and discussion amongst the Council.”
To the addressees,
HOSTER TULLY, Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Trident and JONOS BRACKEN, Lord of Stone Hedge.
Written by Grand Maester Pycelle at the behest of TYWIN LANNISTER, Hand of the King, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West, with the full authority of the assembled Small Council and with the assumed permission and authority of His Majesty, RHAEGAR TARGARYEN, The First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.
Lords, your presence, or that of a representative, is required in the capital, King's Landing, following the matter of House Blackwood and House Bracken conflicting claims along the Widow's Wash. To settle the matters of the legitimacy of the ownership of these lands in addition to maintaining the peace of the realm, the Small Council has decreed in Rhaegar's absence that the two sides shall put forth their claims and evidences before the Court. The Tullys are to be present due to their status as Lord Paramount and should too be allowed to given their opinion, as overlords of the lands.
