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

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

Postby Arana » Mon Jul 13, 2015 4:19 pm

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Introduction

It has been three hundred and thirty years since the Conquest of Aegon Targaryen, which saw the kingdoms of Westeros brought under his rule. All except for one: Dorne, a land of deserts, mountains, and almost constant intense heat. This kingdom, descended from Andal adventurers and the people of the Rhoynar Queen Nymeria, lasted a century and a half after Aegon's Conquest, finally subdued by his descendant, Daeron the Young Dragon. Thousands died taking the southernmost kingdom of Westeros, only for it to rise in rebellion before a full year had passed, taking five times as many lives in the process as the original war had. After Daeron's death, his brother Baelor finally managed to bring Dorne into the realm, marrying his cousin to the Dornish Princess Mariah Martell. Since then, Dorne has been a part of the Seven Kingdoms, under the rule of first Targaryens, then Baratheons.

Now, for the first time, a Martell is on the Iron Throne: the fifteen year old Trystane I. The son of Trystane Martell and the former queen, Daenerys Targaryen, Trystane is a true Dornishman, similar to both his grandfather, Prince Doran Martell, and his great uncle, the Red Viper Oberyn Martell. Needless to say, this has angered many in Westeros, especially the lords of the Reach and the Stormlands, who have fought the Dornish for centuries. Similarly, many of the more pious lords have taken note of the fact that Trystane shares many of the aspects of Dornish culture that go against the Faith's teachings: hot bloodedness, sexual licentiousness, and more open views on sexuality in general (Trystane, like his great uncle, is bisexual). The cultural differences between the young king and many of his vassals has led to division in the kingdom, and the Faith is far from supportive of him.

Now, in the year 330 AC, Westeros is in a time of crisis. Support for the crown is slowly but steadily dropping, and king is constantly being pulled back and forth between the influence of his family and that of his Hand, a member of House Tyrell, appointed in order to keep the Reach from rebelling. Rivalries between the various lords and regions have begun escalating. Slavers from Essos have begun raiding coastal areas, bringing captives to be sold in the Free Cities and in the cities of Slavers Bay. Religious divides have caused conflict among the followers of the Seven, the Lord of Light, the Old Gods, and the Drowned God. Dark forces, thought to have been defeated in the time of Daenerys, have begun gathering beyond the Wall once more.

In this time of turmoil and conflict, who will you be?


History

Daenerys's Conquest (301 AC - 303 AC)
In 300 AC, Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen emerged victorious from her many wars in Slaver's Bay, ruling over the newly emancipated cities there and dealing a critical blow to the entire slave trade. Her wars of emancipation completed, the young queen and khaleesi began preparing to return to her homeland, in force. In 301, an army of thousands of Dothraki, Unsullied, sellswords, and former slaves departed from Meereen by ship, accompanied by Daenerys's three dragons. Early that year, the invasion fleet landed at Sunspear, where a deal was struck with House Martell; in exchange for a betrothal between Daenerys and Trystane Martell, Prince Doran would swear fealty to Daenerys, and Dorne would join the war on Daenerys's side. In order to take the Iron Throne by surprise, while the Martells were calling their banners, smaller Dornish armies in the north began launching raids against the marcher lords of the Stormlands and the Reach, who were off fighting against Stannis Baratheon and Euron Greyjoy. The raids were a great success, taking Houses Baratheon and Tyrell completely by surprise, and allowing House Martell time to gather their forces.

Near the end of the month, the Martell and Targaryen armies began their march north up the Prince's Pass before splitting up. With the Tyrell armies in the Crownlands and their vassals occupied fighting against House Greyjoy, the Martell forces were able to easily pass through the Reach, laying siege to Highgarden and taking it after only a few weeks. The Targaryen forces marched on the Stormlands, capturing Blackhaven and several minor towns and castles on their way to Storm's End. Here, Daenerys's army met with the army of her supposed nephew, Aegon Targaryen, which was currently laying siege to the Baratheon stronghold. Hoping to avoid battle with a possible family member, the two Targaryens began negotiations, which eventually fell apart, leading to a three-way battle for Storm's End. During the battle, the Storm's End garrison and its commanders were nearly wiped out, and Aegon Targaryen was badly wounded, forcing the Golden Company to retreat to Griffon's Roost. Following the surrender of Storm's End, Daenerys pursued her nephew's forces to Griffon's Roost, forcing them to retreat once more to Rain House, and finally back to Essos.

With the Stormlands under control and Highgarden occupied by the Martells, Daenerys began to march on King's Landing, her army now including the forces of the subjugated storm lords. In early 302, the dragon queen's army arrived on the outskirts of the city, defended by the armies of House Lannister and House Tyrell, as well as of the lords of the Crownlands. The siege and battle that followed came to be known as the Great Blaze, officially the Second Battle of the Blackwater. The battle began early one morning, when Daenerys's army made an assault on the King's Gate, while her dragons set fire to the royal fleet in the Blackwater Rush. The city defenders were able to hold the gate until the end of the day, and responded to the burning of the royal fleet by using wildfire against the Targaryen fleet. On the second day of battle, the defenders of the city forced the attacking army to fall back from the gate using more wildfire; however, the winds changed soon after, causing the fire to blow back towards the city and forcing the defenders to abandon the King's Gate. With the King's Gate inaccessible, Daenerys's army launched simultaneous assaults on the Lion Gate and the Gate of the Gods. Reluctantly, the young queen used her dragons, breaking through at the Lion Gate and leading her army into the city. The fighting within the walls was brutal. The two armies fought viciously, and wildfire and dragonfire burned through the streets. By the end of the third day of battle, thousands had died in battle, and a raging red and green inferno had consumed King's Landing. Defeated, and in fear of burning to death, the Lannister and Tyrell forces threw down their arms, and joined their enemies in trying to extinguish the blaze. This was all in vain... attempts to put out the fire failed, and the city was left to burn to the ground.

With the enemy armies surrendered and the former capital a smoldering ruin, Houses Lannister and Tyrell were forced to submit to House Targaryen. By this point, southern Westeros was almost entirely under the dragon queen's rule, with the only exceptions being small pockets of resistance in the Reach, as well as lands captured by the ironborn in that area. With winter worsening, Daenerys decided to give her forces time to rest before marching north, instead sending letters to the lords of the Riverlands, the North, and the Vale demanding they swear fealty to her. Most of the Vale submitted, but many of the lords of the Riverlands and the North refused, remaining loyal to Stannis Baratheon or to the Bolton-Frey alliance. During this period, the capital city was moved to Plankytown (renamed Queen's Landing), and a new castle began construction there, the old one being destroyed. Towards the end of 302, the Martell and Tyrell forces were able to drive Euron Greyjoy out of the Reach, and back to the Iron Islands. In the last month of the year, bolstered by armies from the Vale, the Crownlands, the Stormlands, and the Reach, Daenerys launched a direct assault on Pyke, devastating the ironborn forces and killing Euron Greyjoy in the process.

Seeing that the rest of Westeros had fallen, the Freys and Boltons approached Daenerys with a deal: in exchange for their fealty, House Bolton would remain lords of the North, and House Frey would be named lords of the Riverlands. Houses Manderly, Blackwood, and several others made their own deals: they would swear fealty only if Daenerys could bring justice to the Freys and Boltons for the Red Wedding and the Sack of Winterfell. Under the pretense of accepting their oaths of fealty, Daenerys agreed to meet with Roose and Ramsey Bolton at the Twins, only to turn her dragons on the castle when they arrived. House Bolton was extinguished, and much of House Frey was destroyed along with their keep. Her last major opposition destroyed, Daenerys sat down to negotiate with Stannis Baratheon, who, having lost nearly all of his support and occupied with the situation north of the Wall, agreed to relinquish his claim to the throne, provided he was installed as Lord of the Stormlands. With the kingdom unified, Daenerys Targaryen was crowned queen at Sunspear in 303 AC, bringing an end to the Second Conquest.

The consequences of the war changed Westeros forever. Following the destruction of King's Landing, Cersei Lannister, Jaime Lannister, and Tommen Lannister were taken prisoner by Daenerys. With their capture, Myrcella Lannister's captivity in Dorne, and the rest of House Lannister captured, in hiding, or in league with Daenerys (Tyrion Lannister was one of her advisers during the invasion), the house which was formerly the most powerful in Westeros was crushed. Many of its members were executed, with the exception of Tyrion, who was given control of Casterly Rock (but not the Westerlands), and Tommen and Myrcella, who were legitimized as Lannisters and put into their uncle's custody. With the destruction of King's Landing and the creation of the new capital in the south, the old Crownlands were dissolved, with the old lords either swearing fealty to the lords of the Stormlands or joining the newly formed Lordship of the Claw. Dorne was greatly rewarded for their part in the war, being granted control of large swathes of the Dornish Marches, and the Reach gained a huge new market for exporting food. It was a new age in Westeros. An age of dragons.

The War for the Dawn (300 AC - 310 AC)
The War for the Dawn began in late 300 AC with the Battle of Castle Black, in which the forces of the Night's Watch and Stannis Baratheon fought off an attack by an army of wildlings under Mance Rayder. The wildlings who survived the battle split into two groups: one which allied themselves with the Watch and took residence in several of the abandoned castles along the Wall, and the other which fled with one of their leaders to the abandoned settlement at Hardhome. This would be a decision they'd come to regret. There, the wildlings were starving, forced to resort to cannibalism, and found themselves surrounded by wights in the forests and sea. An initial relief effort by sea, led by Cotter Pyke, failed horribly, prompting the severely injured Lord Commander Jon Snow of the Night's Watch to dispatch the supposedly dead Mance Rayder with another relief force, this time travelling over land. The night that the force arrived in Hardhome, an army of wights descended on the settlement, slaughtering thousands. Much later, the few dozen men who survived the slaughter, still led by Mance, returned to the Wall, many of them near death.

In 301, the Night's Watch started sending out smaller rangings in order to gather whatever supplies or survivors were still out there, each one coming back to the wall with fewer men than were sent out. By the end of the year, the driving snows had made it near impossible to go very far, and by mid 302, there were wights lurking just outside the Wall, attacking anyone who tried to pass through. At that point, it became clear that it was time to prepare for the worst. By early 303 AC, the armies of Westeros began their march north, stationing themselves both at the various cities and castles of the North as well as in the abandoned castles along the Wall. During this time, the peasants of the North began to evacuate in huge numbers, with most either heading to the Neck to reach the relative safety of the Riverlands or to White Harbor, where the forces of Lord Manderly, at the time the most powerful northern lord, could defend them. In case the North was overrun, three defensive perimeters were set up as well, at White Harbor, Barrowton, and Moat Cailin. It was deemed that should these measures fail, the North would be doomed, and the rest of Westeros would be nearly defenseless against the coming assault.

The first assault south of the Wall came in early 304. A huge force of wights and white walkers poured over the Bridge of Skulls, while a smaller force emerged from the sea on the eastern coastline. The Shadow Tower and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea soon fell, and one by one the castles along the Wall were overrun, with only Castle Black still standing. Even that didn't last for long; by the end of the year, it too had fallen, and the remainder of the Night's Watch fled south, the wight hordes following closely after them. In early 305, the defensive perimeters around White Harbor and Barrowton came under attack, but were very narrowly able to defend the two settlements, fighting with fire, obsidian, and Valyrian steel. Save for pockets of resistance, however, everything north of Ramsgate had been overrun. In the middle of that year, the definitive battle for the North began when a huge wight army, accompanied by a never before seen number of white walkers, launched an assault on Moat Cailin. The battle for the ruined fort lasted several days, with only the presence of Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons allowing the forces of Westeros to keep the fight going. Finally, after almost a week, the battle came to an end. The wight horde was decimated, and Westeros was safe, at least for the time. The cost was high, however. In that battle alone, thousands died, including two of Daenerys's dragons, Rhaegal and Viserion.

The next five years of winter were spent slowly pushing the undead back, with thousands coming to fight under the command of Jon Snow, Stannis Baratheon, and Daenerys Targaryen. With fire and sword, the North was freed, with every destroyed wight giving new hope. By 306, Oldcastle, Ramsgate, and Widow's Watch were relieved. By 307, humans once again occupied Torrhen's Square and Castle Cerwyn. By 308, the ruined capital at Winterfell had finally been reclaimed, and the undead had been purged from the Dreadfort. The Wall was retaken in 309, and the year after, spring finally came as the armies of the living marched throughout the lands beyond the Wall. If any white walkers managed to survive, they fled to the Lands of Always Winter, leaving the realms of men at peace once again. In order to ensure that the realm remained safe, a new lordship was formed by order of Queen Daenerys and King Trystane: the Wilds. This new territory stretched from the southern edge of the New Gift to the edge of the Lands of Always Winter, bringing the free folk into the realm. Control of the Wilds was split between the Night's Watch and the newly appointed Lord Paramount, in this case Gerrick Kingsblood, the supposed 'King of the Wildlings' declared by the would-be Queen Selyse Florent. To ensure the realm was prepared, Night's Watch garrisons were set up beyond the Wall, with each new settlement having one.

The aftermath of the War for the Dawn changed Westeros even more than the Second Conquest had. For one, the Wildings, for the most part at least, dramatically changed their way of life. With the creation of new settlements beyond the Wall, the people there began to live more like those to the south, including the use of noble titles. The hunter-gatherer lifestyle of the Wildlings largely stayed the same, although some began to use agriculture as well. While most Wildlings reluctantly accepted this new way of life, some continued with the way they had lived before, and often raided settlements in the Wilds and the North. South of the Wall, there was a noticeable increase in followers of R'hllor, with many claiming that the victory against the Others was his doing. However, there was an interesting divide within R'hllor's faith; while some believed that Daenerys Targaryen was the reincarnation of Azor Ahai, sent to save them, others believed that it was Stannis Baratheon. In the present, since both are dead, the support of the faith is split between the descendants of Daenerys and the descendants of Stannis.

The Essosi Wars (307 AC - 312 AC)
With the defeat of Aegon Targaryen in Westeros, the remains of the Golden Company fled back to Essos to regroup. For a few years they returned to their old business, forging contracts with the various Free Cities to fight in their wars for them. By 306 AC, they had returned to their former strength, and regained much of their wealth. However, they had a longing to return to the kingdom that had been promised to them. The Company's leadership, however, knew that this would be impossible. Instead, they convinced their young prince to forge a new kingdom for himself. While Westeros was too powerful to take, there was a much weaker, and potentially much richer, target to go after in the east: Slaver's Bay. During her wars, Daenerys had forced her enemies in the east into submission, setting up friendly governments in Yunkai and New Ghis, securing alliances with the Lhazareen, and rebuilding Astapor. When she headed west, however, she had left them without much defense; after all, her enemies had signed treaties not to fight with her, and they were trustworthy enough to be believed.

The Golden Company seeing this weakness, quickly fell upon Slaver's Bay, taking the cities there off guard. Within two years, all of them had fallen except for Meereen and New Ghis. Yunkai, Astapor, and Lhazar were declared to be the new 'Gold Republics,' with societies much like the ones that had been there before Daenerys arrived, except with Aegon as king. Of course, his control was far from solidified. Dothraki hordes and sellsword companies roamed the countryside attacking supply trains. The Mother's Men, Stalwart Shields, and Brazen Beasts established by Daenerys conducted sabotage in the conquered cities. Slave rebellions occupied the Golden Company's attention. Spies reported enemy movements to the armies in Meeren and New Ghis. However, the Golden Company, augmented by Ghiscari nobility, was too strong to be defeated easily, and New Ghis fell in 309.

In 310 AC, fresh from her victory against the undead in Westeros, Daenerys Targaryen arrived in Meereen at the head of an army, riding her remaining dragon. In the field, the dragon queen won victory after victory, forcing the Golden Company to hide behind their city walls. However, despite the tremendous victories in the field, the cities of Slaver's Bay remained under Aegon's control. In order to fight them there, Daenerys would have to turn her dragon on the city, bringing harm to those she saw as her children. In 312 AC, the dragon queen sadly agreed to peace with her nephew, deciding that the people of Slaver's Bay were better slaves than dead. However, she refused to simply abandon them. Even after she left, Daenerys continued having contact with a large network of spies within Slaver's Bay, as well as the Mother's Men, who nearly tripled in size in the first two years of peace. Much of her former khalasar remained loyal to her as well, although many returned with her to Westeros, and continued to harass the armies of the Gold Republics. One day, Daenerys promised, she would return to see her children free.

The Dragon's Three Heads
During her reign, Daenerys Targaryen had three children, one trueborn and two bastards. The first of these children was born to one of the dragon queen's sellsword captains, Daario Naharis. Born in 311 AC during the Essosi Wars, the eldest son of Daenerys, Daario Targaryen, was given to his father to be raised in secret, supposedly the son of Naharis and a Lyseni whore. His true identity was not revealed until the child was five years old, looking too much like his mother to be a mere coincidence. After his mother's death, Daario, along with his father, returned to fighting with the Stormcrows in Essos. Following Daario Naharis's death in battle in 328, the younger Daario took control of the Stormcrows, and as of 330 AC is in Lys, awaiting another contract.

The second son of Daenerys Targaryen, Viserys Targaryen, was, like his brother, both a bastard and born during the Essosi Wars, this time to one of the dragon queen's bloodriders, Rakharo. Born in 312 AC, shortly before the dragon queen departed Slaver's Bay, Viserys returned to Westeros with his father and his mother's khalasar. Viserys, however, grew to despise Westeros as he grew older. While his other brother was also a bastard, and also the son of a foreigner, at least the Westerosi were familiar with Tyrosh. Viserys, however, was Dothraki, and the people of Westeros viewed Dothraki as little but savages. After his mother's death, and his father's ritual suicide shortly after, Viserys traveled east to the Dothraki Sea, where he took leadership of his mother's khalasar. As of 330 AC, his khalasar has grown to twenty thousand strong, and frequently launches raids against the Gold Republics.

The third, and most well known, son of Daenerys Targaryen was, unlike his brothers, trueborn. Born in 315 AC, Trystane Martell, the first of his name, was born between Queen Daenerys and her husband, also named Trystane Martell. Trystane, unlike his bastard brothers, was raised to one day rule the Seven Kingdoms. A fiery Dornish boy, Trystane is much like his great uncle, Oberyn Martell, so much so that many in the kingdom are concerned. It doesn't help that Trystane has been significantly influenced by Oberyn's children, nicknamed the Sand Snakes. Trystane has always been friendly with his two older brothers, although they have both always been a bit jealous of him. With the death of his parents, Trystane was crowned king, with Arianne Martell as regent. As of 330 AC, Trystane is seeking a bride, and preparing to rule his kingdom.

The Death of a Queen
In 323 AC, the realm was robbed of their queen. In the middle of the night, an assassin snuck into the Black Keep in Queen's Landing, somehow managing to evade the guards. The king and queen had their throats slit by the assassin; according to rumor, the queen's blood caught fire, although this is most likely a story made up by the red priests. Supposedly, the assassin also planned to kill Prince Trystane, but was slain by Obara Sand, who happened to be walking by the prince's chambers when the assassin was there. Ever since, countless accusations have been made as to who was responsible, the most common being House Tyrell and House Lannister, although no proof of either's involvement has ever been found, and countless other theories exist that are equally as likely. What is certain is that the likes of Daenerys would not be seen again, and that the stability of the realm suffered a great blow with her death.
Last edited by Arana on Mon Jul 13, 2015 4:19 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Novae Vitae
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Postby Novae Vitae » Mon Jul 13, 2015 9:54 pm

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


It was a great effort to walk, but he would face Arianne Martell standing. Queen Regent she may be, but he was Hand of the King, and only the fragile alliance that he had offered kept the realm from tearing itself asunder. The thought amused him. Only a crippled old man held the realm in one piece.

"Father, let me help you," Garlan offered to the crippled man. Willas smiled. The boy--though by all others' accounts a man--was tall and strong and well-versed in the arts of war, and to help that crippled man holding the realm together would be nothing.

"I think, for once, I should stand on my own terms," Willas replied. A brace was attached to him arm, which in turn attached to a staff, which in turn attached to an almost flat piece of wood that was curved by the slightest so that it rolled forward on his momentum. It was an unbalanced, shaking way to walk. But it was walking.

"At least let me seat you before Lady Martell," Garlan said. "Father, if you fall--"

"I have practiced this walk for neigh on two fortnights," Willas said, so lightly that the whisper barely reached Garlan. "I shall manage. And around this corner, Garlan, will be Arianne Martell's guards. So leave. I must face them alone."

Willas rounded the corner until he was before the bedchamber of Arianne Martell. The sun was just peaking over the Dornish coast; Willas knew that Arianne could be no where else, and held her to that.

"Sers," Willas called forward, "I must needs speak to our Queen Regent."

Lady Margaery Tyrell
Queen's Landing


The ship rocked steadily as it crested the waves; it had an odd way of being shifted slightly right or left, but never so much that it dared to brush the surface of the water, dared to throw the valuable passengers from the ship and into the sea.

Margaery would not have died. She knew how to swim, of course, but she thought that regardless of that the sea would not swallow her whole. She was in her youthful prime, of seven-and-ten years, with a full bosom and doe eyes and a beautiful cascade of hair that was not so long, so that people did not think she was a savage, but was not so short that people dared to mistake her for a septa or some misguided peasant girl.

The ship continued in its rocking, as the sun rose on the Dornish horizon. "I don't like this," Loras said beside her. "I don't like anything about coming here. Why did Father fetch us? He has Garlan, surely that's enough."

Margaery looked over to her brother, whom was leaning over the rail of the ship with his knuckles clutching it white and fierce. Her careful hand reached the mild of his back, while the other slipped like a serpent behind her own.

"Fear not, brother," Margaery said. "I am sure Father has his plans." Margaery had already put them together. Her father was oft-times hard to understand to outsiders, but to Margaery he was the easiest book to read in the world. And the Dornish would appreciate another Tyrell knight in their midst. Loras looked better in his armor anyway, though he did not look anything but beautiful when he lacked it either . . .

Control yourself, a stern voice in-toned. Remember the Lannisters. Remember the debt they now must needs pay, Seven have mercy on that. Margaery pulled her thoughts to the docking of the ship, to the rising sun of Dorne, and to the tight fist she made with her hand as it was so carefully hidden from Loras behind her back.

It was not long before all three hundred of the knights accompanying the Tyrells had departed with them and from there they had made their way to the Black Keep.

They awaited the boy that the smallfolk called Grace.

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Phalnia
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Postby Phalnia » Mon Jul 13, 2015 11:01 pm

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Lord Monterys Velaryon
Queen's Landing


The ocean waves lapped against the side of the ship. Her hull was strong and free of barnacles, as this was the maiden voyage. The ship had been constructed in the dry docks at Queen's Landing over the last year and had been set to the sea more than a week ago. At the bow of the ship stood a stern man. His silver hair falling to his shoulders and his hand resting on the hilt of the sword about his waist. The man was Lord Monterys Velaryon, Master of Ships to King Trystane Martell. Monterys looked between the sea ahead and the crew as they went about their tasks. On their starboard side Queen's Landing had come into view. He had last seen the city when he began his voyage to Ghaston Grey and back.

He had made the voyage many times in the past. It was his preferred route for the testing of ships and their captains. The seas about Ghaston Grey were overflowing with rocks, hidden sandbars, and wild currents. The perfect challenge for weeding out the unworthy. It was his duty as Master of Ships to ensure the ships were in fine order and their captains capable. Thus far the captain and the crew had performed well enough, though Monterys wasn't sure of the captain as a man. He was a bastard from somewhere in the Red Mountains. The Dornish were much more lenient when it came these types of men, than Monterys.

As Lord Velaryon observed the captain ordering the sails drawn and the men prepare to dock a sight caught his eye. The harbor of Queen's Landing came into view and among the sigils adorning the sails was the Velaryon seahorse. It was the Green-Haired Lady, the greatest ship out of Driftmark, dipping four-hundred oars. A smile crept across Monterys' face as the ship and its' figure head finally came into view. It depicted a mermaid her hair long and wild, an homage to his lady wife. As he stared fondly at the figurehead and thought of Wylla, his attention was called to the other side of the port.

The sailors were watching as a great number of men came ashore. Monterys did not recognize the ship. It must come to Queen's Landing rarely. Monterys scolded the men, sending them back to their duties. As he was doing so he recognized the gold flower of the Tyrells.

"What are you planning, Willas?" Monterys muttered under his breath. The Reachman was not beloved to Monterys and this recent development was troubling. As soon as the ship had docked and the gangplank lowered Monterys hurried from the ship, bidding the captain a curt farewell. He made his way through Queen's Landing towards the Black Keep accompanied by a dozen knights from Driftmark who had met him at the dock.

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Majestic Draconia
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Postby Majestic Draconia » Tue Jul 14, 2015 12:40 am

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First in Battle


Lord Dickon Tarly
Highgarden


Lord Dickon Tarly stood on the innermost wall of Highgarden. He observed the activities of the people below. An army of servants tended the unending gardens, pools, and briarmazes throughout the immense castle. From somewhere out of his sight, Dickon could hear the sounds of harps and pipes accompanied by a lady's singing. Dickon descended a flight of stairs from the wall to the central keep. The castle was strong with its' high walls and strong towers, though Dickon found the luxuries a distraction. Hopefully, he would be able to return to Horn Hill in the near future.

Dickon had been summoned to HIghgarden at the request of his lords the Tyrells. Lady Margaery and Ser Loras had been summoned to Queen's Landing and with Ser Garlan and Lord Willas already at court, a strong hand was needed in Highgarden and Lord Dickon had been titled Lord Castellan, until such a Tyrell returned to Highgarden.

With the realm at peace the title offered little more then headaches as every little concern in the Reach was laid at Dickon's feet. Lord Tarly set his second son, Randyll, in charge of his own lands while he held court. Dickon would have placed his eldest Garth in the position, had he not accompanied the Tyrells to Dorne along with his sister Meggan. Meggan's twin Melessa had wanted to travel with them, but Dickon had forbade it, fearing the unscrupulous Dornish ways would only send his daughter deeper into promiscuity. He had brought her with him to Highgarden, to keep her fro shaming herself and house Tarly at Horn Hill.

In the great hall Dickon sat on the throne of Highgarden, Heartsbane held at his side. The hall was filled with lords and smallfolk fro across the Reach, coming to beseech something. Dickon signaled the first of them to come forward.



Ser Garth and Lady Meggan Tarly
Queen's Landing


Ser Garth stood at the stern of the ship his head hung low over the railing. His face was sickly and his stomach churned with the tides. After several moments Garth stood straight again and brushed his hair out of his face. He surveyed the deck of the ship, he spotted Ser Loras and the lovely Lady Maragaery among the faces. However, he could not spot his own sister Meggan. She had joined them as a member of Lady Margaery's retinue, just as Garth had joined as a sworn bannerman.

The ship had finally docked and the rocking ceased, Garth uttered a silent prayer of thanks. As he disembarked he found Meggan. She smiled as they crossed the dock together. "Are you still together, Garth?" She asked, his face still a bit pale.

"I believe so. Seven I hate the seas." They went along with the grand Tyrell party near the front. "How did you fair, sister? I didn't see you on the deck."

"I prefer below. The sea air is to harsh for my taste." They continued to make small talk among themselves and others from the Reach, until they entered the Black Keep where Garth and Meggan took their places to await the King.
A nation of Dragons and Wyverns.

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Elepis
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Ex-Nation

Postby Elepis » Tue Jul 14, 2015 9:29 am

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House Baratheon-Donddarion of Storm's End


Renly Baratheon-Donddarion

Crash, the Dornish scimitar collided with Lord Renly's heater shield. Through the visor of his black enameled Burgonet helm, he saw the curved steel blade rise in the sunlight and crash down again. His opponent moved fast but Lord Renly was just as fast and blocked the lightening blow with his battered Crowned Stag shield. This time he pushed back against his turbaned opponent, pushing suddenly on his round metal shield, forcing him over. Renly kicked away the man's flailing arms and brought his great battle axe down on the other man's head, sending sickening shock waves through his opponents light armour.

"Ha!" The young lord shouted, punching the air with a mailed fist. He reached to his head and pulled off the black helm, resplendent with its stag antlers. He threw the helm at one of the waiting servants and took a skin of water from another, gratefully guzzling the cool drink as some of it poured down his breastplate. He turned to his vanquished opponent who now stood smiling and offered him the skin. "Many thanks M'lord" the man said, while throwing his scimitar on the ground. "It is I who should thank you" the black haired Baratheon said, smiling "Wetseros is a dangerous place at the best of times, without friends like you, I would have died many years ago".

Renly turned back around and went through an open door, leaving the practice yard and reentering the massive fortress of Storm's End, and of cause he was followed by a long trail of lords, knights, merchants and messengers. He hurried along, through the circular corridors to his own private rooms where the following petitioners were band from entering, blocked by two Baratheon men-at-arms with halberds. Renly opened a second door and entered his bedroom and started tacking off his golden armour. Inside, on the large bed, surrounded by tapestries depicting wars and hunts lay Renly's lady wife, Elinor Baratheon, formally Tyrell and first child of Lord Willas Tyrell. On the blankets, which came to just above her breasts, lay a copy of King Daeron's The Conquest of Dorne. She moved her electric blue eyes to meet Renly as he entered, unbuckling the back-plate of his armour. She smiled as he pulled on his court clothes and reached to a side table, grasping at a goblet of water. "Whats on the agenda today?" she asked, twirling her long black hair around one finger.

Renly, placing a short gold and silver chain around his neck, turned and smiled. "Oh, only the Gods know. Expanding the walls of some town or marrying off some lords lesser daughter. Or perhaps the Martells have finally decided to put themselves out of their own misery and are marching an army of men up the Boneway, perhaps Stonehelm is under attack as we speak." He smiled and walked towards Elinor, kissing her forehead. He then turned back and exited the grand old room. He turned, his gold and black cloak swishing behind him as he did.

Leaning on the wall outside Renly's room, peeling an apple with an old knife was Edric Donddarion, Lord of Griffin's Roost and rightful lord of Blackheaven. If any other man had been standing there, Renly would have been shocked but Edric and he were close friend and he was used to the man suddenly appearing. In contrast to Renly's stylish half cloak, green slashed doublet and silver wrist bracelets, the Lord of Griffin's Roost wore a breastplate, whose only decoration was a proud purple lightening bolt, and all black and purple fabrics.

The two men walked in to the Storm's End throne room and Lord Renly climbed a small flight of stairs to a high backed but plain black wooded throne. Throne was the correct word as well, it was not just some Lord's chair but a real throne, used by King Stannis I Baratheon during the War of the Five Kings and subsequent wars. Renly continued to call it a throne, but not his throne, in one of his many small rebellions against Martell power. When Renly was seated, he smoothed his half cloak around one shoulder and wave on the first petitioner.
Last edited by Elepis on Tue Jul 14, 2015 12:19 pm, edited 6 times in total.
"Krugmar - Today at 10:00 PM
Not sure that'll work on Elepis considering he dislikes (from what I've observed):
A: Nationalism
B: Religion being taken seriously
C: The Irish"

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Arana
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Founded: Dec 13, 2013
Democratic Socialists

Postby Arana » Tue Jul 14, 2015 6:58 pm



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King Trystane Martell

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

Queen's Landing



Like most days in Dorne, it was unbearably bright. The sun shone down on the streets of Queen's Landing, casting its light on all its citizens. Except, of course, for any that found themselves in the huge black shadow falling across much of the city. Far above, the source of that shadow rocketed through the air, its roars shaking the ground below, and jets of black and red flame erupting from its mouth as if it were a volcano. On its back, unseeable from the ground below, a young man clad in scaled copper armor covered by a flowing white robe and wielding a Valyrian steel longsword and a shield bearing the sun and spear of House Martell rode, minuscule compared to the beast he was riding. Anywhere else in the world, this would be an astonishing sight... to the people of Queen's Landing, however, it was a near daily occurrence.

The dragon circled above the great city, diving down over the waters surrounding it. From up in the air, the young dragonrider watched the ships sailing down below, looking like toy boats from his altitude. They were everywhere, as usual, and of all types and origins; cogs, galleys, and dromonds, with distant ports of call such as Volantis, Braavos, and the Summer Isles, or closer ones such as Oldtown, Lannisport, or White Harbor. One ship in particular caught his eye today, a ship bearing the golden rose of House Tyrell. His interest was further piqued when three hundred knights disembarked from the ship and began towards the Black Keep. Diving down, the black dragon swooped over the waiting knights before flying back around. Flying back to the newly built dragonpit (this one much, much larger than the old one in King's Landing and attached to the Black Keep), the young rider dismounted, hugging the great beast around the neck. In truth, the two were more than dragon and rider... they were more like brothers than that. In a way, they were though, both brought into the world by the Mother of Dragons.

As the young man exited the dragonpit, he removed his helmet, long dark brown hair spilling out from it and draping over his shoulders. Not wanting to keep the new arrivals waiting, he hurried through the Black Keep, tying his long hair into a braid as he walked. Before long, two knights of the Kingsguard fell in behind him, with the Lord Commander, Ser Daemon Sand, on his right, and his cousin, Dame Dorea Sand, on his left. Both of them had been chosen for the Kingsguard by his aunt, for both their loyalty and the fact that they were by far two of the best warriors in Dorne. That, and the fact that they were two of the few people that the young king felt comfortable confiding in; Daemon, in particular, was one of the only people he felt comfortable discussing his bisexuality with, as the Lord Commander had at one point been in a relationship with the king's great uncle, the man Westeros knew as the 'Red Viper', Oberyn Martell. Before long, the three arrived at the area where the party from the Reach had gathered. Stepping forward, the young king greeted the new arrivals with a smile, directed in particular towards the Tyrell and Tarly siblings. His eyes lingered a bit on Margaery, and for a moment, although he tried to hide it, on Loras as well.

"Welcome, my lords and ladies. I hope there wasn't any trouble on your journey. Please, make yourselves comfortable... the journey from Highgarden and Horn Hill is quite far by sea."



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Princess Arianne Martell

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

Queen's Landing



The Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms sat in her bedchamber, a map of the realm spread out in front of her. The sun was only now rising, but she had been up for some time already, unable to sleep. As she looked over the map, a sense of dread came over her. At the moment, her family had more enemies than friends in the Seven Kingdoms, with only their weak alliance to the Tyrells through the crown and a few loyal lords in the Westerlands preventing them from being completely outnumbered. And yet, even these alliances might not last for long. Within a year, the king would have his sixteenth name day, and her regency would come to an end. As much as she loved her nephew, she feared that he would not be ready to rule the realm on his own, something that would make the crown's enemies bolder and their allies more scarce. Already, the major lords took advantage of the crown's weakness; Lord Hardyng had been depriving the crown of money from Gulltown merchants for the last eight years, and Lord Dondarrion seemed to believe that he was a king himself. Her thoughts were interrupted when a knock came at the door.

"Come in."

Ser Andrey Dalt of the Kingsguard opened the door, sticking his head through.

"My lady, the Lord Hand is here. He wishes to speak with you."

Rising, Arianne nodded, and gestured for Ser Andrey to let the Hand into her chambers, ready to assist him if needed.

"Good morning, my lord. Please, come in."
Prophet of Lavanthulhu -- A Proud Portal Nationalist -- Bet on Bernie 2016

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And all your stupid rhyming.
Haiku master race.

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Seventeen year old probably straight Christian socialist from New England.

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Givious
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Founded: Apr 23, 2010
Ex-Nation

Postby Givious » Tue Jul 14, 2015 7:21 pm

Lorent Marbrand, Brother of the Kingsguard
Queen's Landing, Crownlands
Day 0

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Lorent looks over the bay from the Black Keep, seeing the Tyrell ships pulling into port and the King in all his splendor riding his dragon to meet them. He didn't trust the Tyrell's, but then again he didn't trust anyone. The Queen had been murdered before he was able to defend her; he would not let the same happen to his king. As he walked from the ramparts, he entered his quarters in the Kingsguard barracks, putting on his Kingsguard armor. It was heavy, especially in the burning hot south, but it was his uniform for his position. The last thing he donned was his greatsword upon his back, his helm staying under his arm. As he walked the halls of the Black Keep he watched as people started their day, his having started hours ago. He reached the Throne room, and looked upon the Throne of Queen Daenerys and Trystane. He would wait for the King to return, his shift soon to begin.




Jaime Marbrand, Heir to Ashemark
Road to Ashemark, Westerlands
Day 0

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Jaime ducked as the blade passed his helm and stuck his blade into the bandits side. As the man fell from his horse Jaime spurred his own out of the fray. A large group of bandits had attacked him and his men on their way back from The Crag with the northern taxes; a week ahead of when they were supposed to. Jaime scanned the battle; they were outnumbered but his spearmen around the baggage train had broken the enemy cavalry charge, leaving only the numerous but badly equip men on foot. Jaime spurred his horse, waving his longsword in the air and bringing it down on a bandit as he screamed in pain. As he wheeled around a spearmen caught his shoulder, the spear head bouncing off of his armor but throwing him to the side. One of Jaime's men ran towards him, stabbing the attacker with his own spear, killing him in one blow. As Jaime re-balanced himself he saw the enemy fleeing from the battle; some sixty men lay in the mud from either side. As Jaime dismounted he approached his Sargent at Arms.

"Report?"

"Ten men dead sir, another fifteen wounded."

"Enemy?"

"All dead." One man moans below them, and the Sargent lifts his foot, bringing his steel boot down on his skull. "Very dead sir."

"Good, make sure that gold makes it to my father. Every last Stag. MEN! Back to Ashemark."




Addam Marbrand, Lord of Ashemark and Castamere
Ashemark, Westerlands
Day 0

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Addam listened to the clashing of steel below. He watched as Tywin trained with three men in the area below, his son becoming a better and better swordsman by the day. Behind Addam he can hear a man approaching. He turns and sees its his Captain of the Guard, Torren. He holds a letter in his hand, handing it to his lord.

"News from our men. Nothing new on the assassination, but some word from the cub." Addam opens the letter, reading through the words, he crumples it up and throws it in the fire.

"More money. More men. If I was a different man I would think he is preparing to usurp my position."

"Sire..."

"You need not say it Torren..." Addam was cut off by the sound of hoofs clattering as the horsemen drew near to the castle through the town. His son was home. However the moment he saw Jaime he knew something had happened. He ran from his chamber down into the courtyard where his son dismounted, the wagon rolling in behind him.

"Father," Jaime points at the wagon. "The Northern taxes."

"Son, what happened?"

"Bandits father. A few on horseback, most on foot. Nothing my men couldn't handle."

"No bandits would attack a train with our sigil..." Addam takes his son into the hall. "No one would attack us without protection... But whos?"
Last edited by Givious on Fri Jul 17, 2015 2:27 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Imperial Givosion State

“Patience is power.
Patience is not an absence of action;
rather it is "timing"
it waits on the right time to act,
for the right principles
and in the right way.”

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Novae Vitae
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Founded: Nov 26, 2014
Ex-Nation

Postby Novae Vitae » Tue Jul 14, 2015 7:33 pm

Ser Loras Tyrell
Queen's Landing, before the Black Keep


So this is the king? Loras wondered. He was not as keen as his sister Margaery at reading people, but he had noticed the way His Grace's eyes had lingered. Perhaps he had imagined it. Loras bowed in the saddle as Margaery gave forward the formalities. Looking up from the bent position of his back, he decided that the king did not look horribly bad. And being a dragonrider was no small feat.

Margaery was doing the speaking on behalf of House Tyrell. "Your Grace, I thank you. I believe my father has prepared accommodations on the behalf of House Tyrell and House Tarly in the Tower of the Hand. Yet I must ask Your Grace--is there room in your barracks for three hundred knights? If not, then my brother shall have to see them to an inn where they can bed the day."

Loras watched as Margaery flashed one of her ravenous smiles at the king. It was no secret that the king liked both--and for that Loras decided he would give the young boy a chance--but looking at Margaery Loras had a feeling that the king's eyes would not spend much time lingering.

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


"Thank you, my lady," Willas said as he walked, rather slowly, into the room. "Ser Dalt, be so kind as to leave us." It was not a request; the Dornishman left. And how could he refuse? Each and every Dornishman in the city knew that Willas Tyrell was what kept their city from being a pile of ashes as Baratheon and Hardyng and each and every other Lord Paramount save perhaps the Velaryons thought of pouring down on them. So they obeyed his simple orders. Willas had no doubt that one day they might shove a spear through his back.

"All Trystane's," Willas said, pushing more than walking his way over to the table Arianne looked over. Once he had reached it, his hand grasped the side and he thanked the gods for firm grips. His other arm had gone numb.

"My lady, I will be frank. House Tyrell is the only thing holding the realm together. Renly Baratheon--my goodson, I would note--sits on a second throne, and I should think that they are held back in no small part because my daughter Elinor sits beside that throne. Yet where is my family's reward?"

Willas shifted. "I promised to be frank. Either your nephew will make my daughter his queen, or the realm will split like glass thrown against the floor when I tell Lord Baratheon that I am Hand of the King no one."

Willas paused and looked into the regent's face. "So are we agreed? At least once wed, House Tyrell will be firmly planted in both camps, a better standing that most lords would give you."

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Krugmar
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Postby Krugmar » Wed Jul 15, 2015 11:10 am

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Robb Tully
Lord Paramount of the Riverlands
Riverrun


"Rest now father, rest" said Robb, sitting beside his ailing father for the last time. The old man wheezed and looked around, his eyes fluttering in confusion. He had not understood where he was for years, he had not talked sense for even longer than that. A depressed man, broken by the murders of his sisters and nephews. Tragedy had tormented him, failure destroyed him. He had kept it all inside, tearing him apart as he restored the Riverlands to a prosperity not unlike that under Hoster before Robert's Rebellion. Yet in this past decade his mind had snapped, and rule had fallen to Robb.

His eyes stopped darting about, and the light seemed to fade from them. Robb gently closed them and turned to his siblings. Brynden held a stony face, as if he were carved out of rock, and did not shed a tear. Yet this was not out of hate for their father, but a love which drove him to be as strong as he could. Minisa attempted to hold herself together, but burst out in tears and left the room to grieve in her own time. Robb and Brynden left the room soon after, leaving the silent sisters to attend to the late Lord Edmure.

~several hours later~

Robb sat upon the high seat belonging to the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, before him stood a few of the minor lords of the Riverlands who were nearby to Riverrun and had arrived several days previously. Brynden stood among them with his wife, Tani Marbrand, dressed in full armour befitting his station and role. He stepped forward and knelt before the new lord.

"Brynden Tully, in my capacity as Lord Paramount of the Riverlands and in the name of Trystane Martell, King of the Andals, Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, I create you Lord Brynden of the Crossing and grant you the Twins and the surrounding lands. You are to retain your title of Warden of the South Marches, giving you military authority above all the Riverlords bar myself." he said, with an aura of authority that had been lacking within the halls for years. Brynden rose, a small smile breaking out across his usually emotionless face. He was about to return to his wife before being called over for a private chat to his elder brother.

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Brynden Tully
Warden of the South Marches
Riverrun


Brynden tore away from the beaming smile of his wife, likely thrilled to have such an opportunity given to them, and made his way to a small room that had served as Robb's study during his regency. "You wanted to speak my lord?" he inquired.

"Yes... Lord Brynden" said Robb, his face cracking into a smile. Visitors to Riverrun had noted that neither of the brothers were very emotional, their hard upbringing had taken a lot of joy from their lives and left them dispassionate about most things. Yet with each other they felt a brotherly love which overcame any such detached state, or with their wives who they both got on with very well. "It is common knowledge that there is a definite rift between Storm's End and Queen's Landing. My position on this feud is neutral, I don't care about these petty fights over the throne. If they fight, they will likely bring their damned war to the Riverlands. Any excuse to pillage and burn our lands and they will take it, as they have always done." said Robb, pointing to the weakest points of the Riverland on a map.

"We are in a weak position geographically, wedged between four of the Paramountcies, but we can use the rivers to our advantage. Fortify the various crossings, charge the local lords with their maintenance and garrison and give a subsidy to entice those who cannot afford it or are unwilling. A subsidy will require a ward however, of some kind." proposed Brynden, earning a nod from his brother.

"Our alliance to the Marbrands can secure us several loans needed to undertake this work, as well as a few plans I have for Fairmarket and Lord Harroway's Town. I have had legal documents written, creating them as cities. All we need now is the approval of the King. That, coupled with a loan from the Marbrands, will enable them to become cities after the refusal of the River King's of old." explained Robb, calling in a servant and handing several letters to him. "Now go, enjoy what I have given you, and make sure the various lords arrive safely"

To His Grace, Trystane Martell

I write to you with sad news, my father, Lord Edmure of the Riverlands, ever your faithful subject and defender of your family, has passed away. Here dies one of the last heroes of the War of Five King's and the subsequent conflicts which plagued our lands before peace was restored by her Grace. I have assumed my rightful place as Lord Paramount of the Riverlands and Lord of Riverrun, and I have given the Twins to my younger brother, a man of great courage and piety who will wash away the filth of the Red Wedding from those halls. Though pressing matters keep me from making the trip to Queen's Landing, I pledge to you here my loyalty and service to your Grace, and that of the Riverlords.

I have also enclosed several legal documents. Charters for the towns of Fairmarket and Lord Harroway's Town to create them cities and grant them the privileges that they so require to expand and bring wealth to a region so troubled by war and pillaging in the past.

I wish you the best of health, and a long reign.
signed, Lord Robb Tully of the Riverlands


To his Lordship, Addam Marbrand

I write to you with sad news, my father, Lord Edmure of the Riverlands, has passed away. I know that he strived hard to repair the damaged relations between the Riverlands and Westerlands, and that with your help a link between our regions was created. I hereby invite you to the funeral, where you will be given the honour of sending the boat into the river with a few other selected individuals. Afterwards we will feast in his honour, and to a new era of relations between our families and regions.

I also have several propositions to put forward to you, and look forward to your reply.

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


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Ariphos Merryweather
Captain-General of the Company of the Rose
Magister Helphio's Palace, Pentos


"You made us march all the way from Lys thinking that you had a contract for us, instead you have empty promises and your good will" barked Ariphos at the pudgy old man. He was not in a good mood, he hated fat old men who tried to push false authority and influence upon him. Titles meant little without swords to back them up, and this magister was relying upon his swords. Now he had the insolence to ask them to fight for him without any form of deposit. He had not even lavished gifts upon them as most Essosi would.

"I will have the money, once you recover my stolen goods from those Myrish brigands!" he wheezed, lurching forward and grasping for Ariphos' shoulder. He did not find it, as it was withdrawn quickly, and he fell to his knees.

"I was promised a hundred gold dragons simply for meeting with you, and it costs a thousand dragons to hire us. Pay me the attendance fee" order Ariphos, watching with displeasure as the man was pulled back into his chair by several indentured servants.

"You know I don't have the money, I invested everything into that damned merchant caravan. It would have made so much-" started the fat merchant, before being cut off by the burly mercenary.

"I don't care. Failure to pay has consequences. Where did these Myrish brigands go?" he inquired.

"The few who escaped said they went to Vaerosh, a small inland town north of Myr. It is a haven for brigands, but nominally ruled by Myr. Does this mean you are making a contract to find my goods?" asked Helphio, a broad smile appearing upon his face.

"No, your goods will be payment for the wrong you have done me" replied Ariphos, pushing himself to his feet, "Take what you want from here men, payment for the attendance fee" he ordered as he turned to the small group he had taken with him. With delight they set about grabbing anything that looked like it was worth a few coins, including a few of the slaves to take with them. Helphio was pushed to the ground as they left, complaining and shouting.

Outside were quite a few thugs, having been warded off by the Rose banners held by a few guards outside. They rushed in as soon as Ariphos and his men left the manse, obviously Helphio owed quite a bit of money to the wrong people. "Inform the men that we leave at dawn, straight to Vaerosh. Tonight they can rest and celebrate, we can-" he started, before pausing. He had heard no screams, nor the death cry of the fat man. "Kill Helphio and the thugs, make sure it looks like they committed the murder. I'll send an envoy to the prince explaining the tragedy" he ordered, a few of his men charging back into the manse. The clashing of swords became a distant sound as he made his way to their encampment outside of Pentos.
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Elepis
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Founded: Jan 05, 2014
Ex-Nation

Postby Elepis » Wed Jul 15, 2015 12:19 pm

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House Baratheon-Donddarion of Storm's End


Renly Baratheon-Donddarion

Renly Baratheon breathed heavily and deeply as he climbed the endless spiral staircase of the Drum Tower. Up and up it went, reaching like a great stone fist in to the sky, challenging the authority of the storms and the winds. At the base of the Drum Tower lay Lord Renly's own apartments and from their he had come in the early, cold morning so he could look at the lands he controlled and protected. He paused, almost at the top of the tower and took in a deep breath, expanding his muscled chest several inches out. Lord Renly was a fit, athletic, healthy man but even he struggled up the small, steep, spiral staircases of Storm's End.

Finally, after what seemed like an age he reached the top. The fast gale winds swirled about him but Storm's End and the Baratheon were built to withstand the endless onslaught of Shipbraker Bay. Renly's green cloak flew about him, whipping his eyes as it was pulled out, towards the Rainwood to the south. Luckily, the young lord managed to clasp the cloak around his neck with a golden broach before it took flight south.

With his cloak under control and his purple doublet wrapped tightly around him, Renly looked across the Stromlands, surveying the lands he controlled. To this south lay old allies, and even older enemies below the Marches. From the top of the Drum Tower, a second castle, on the neck of Cape Wrath could be seen, and, if you had good eyes you could see a banner flying in the destructive gale. That banner showed a twin forked purple lightning bolt, on black field speckled with four-pointed stars. The banner was that of House Donddarion, one of Renly's strongest and oldest supporters, and the castle that of Griffin's Roost. The Lord of that castle, Edric Donddarion was Renly's hallf brother and closest friend. Griffin's Roost, like Storm's End was neigh impregnable. With a strong, semi-circular outer wall on the landward side, and a narrow causeway across a stretch of seas, protected by a strong barbarian leading to the main keep, any attacker would be decimated before the conquered the castle. Griffin's Roost also controlled much of Cape Wrath, giving it a respectable sized army. House Donddarion was in fact, along with House Tarth, the joint third strongest Stormlord house, after Baratheon and Swann.

Looking east across Shipbraker Bay, Renly felt he could see the Sapphire Isle. With it's calm water and fertile ground, the Lord of Tarth, the Evenstar, was among the most powerful Stormlords. He could raise a force of men only beaten by the Swanns and Baratheons and his fleet which controlled Shipbraker Bay, was the second largest in the Stormlands. Lord Tarth also had a strong castle, Evenfall Hall, on the Narrow Sea.

Further south still was House Swann, a Stormlord house rivaled only by House Baratheon in its strength and wealth. Controlling the River Slayne, a major trade route north in to the Stormlands, House Swann's land is blessed with fertile fields and even a good sized town below the walls of their castle. Their castle, Stonehelm was a behemoth. While smaller than Storm's End, it was larger and stronger than any other, except perhaps, Griffin's Roost. The Swann's had been given a new title during the reign of Lady Shireen Baratheon, the "Lords of the Marches". It was the job of the Lord of Stonehelm to protect and guard the passages from Dorne in to the heart of the Stormlands and if the Dornish did invade, it was his job to coordinate the defenses of the Marches before a larger Baratheon force came down from the north.

Looking north east Lord Renly could see the King's Road , travelling North to Harrenhal, the Twins and eventually Winterfell and the Wall. Situated on the King's Road was the castle of Bronzegate, home to House Buckler. House Buckler had become rich off the north-south trade on the King's Road and Bronzegate is surrounded by many small towns. North of Bronzegate, at the most northerly point of the Stormlands, at the tip of Massey's Hook lay the castle of Sharp Point, the seat of House Bar Emmon. While the Hook at little fertile ground, the Blackwater Bay to it's west was calm and offered excellent fishing grounds and that is how Lord Bar Emmon made his money, by fishing. Bar Emmon, thanks to its position, also controlled the largest of the few Stormlord fleets. Eight ships in fact which, although very small when compared to the fleet's in other kingdoms was might in the Stormlands. Lord Bar Emmon flagship was the mighty Swordfish, named after the animal on his sigil. Swift and well armed, with three hundred oars, it controlled the Hook and was feared by smugglers and pirates across the Blackwater

Renly was thinking on this, and the strength of the Stormlands in general when a messenger came to him, stopping his trail of thought. "My lord" the tired man said "Lord Edmure Tully, is dead".



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House Baratheon-Donddarion of Storm's End

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

Across the realm, people weep for your dear departed father. I am not ashamed to say, I too wept for late lord Tully. He was truly a great man and one I fear we will not see the likes of in a long time. After the War of the Five Kings, Daenerys's Conquest and the War of the Dawn, the Riverlands had, unfortunately, been left devastated. However, your father, one of the survivors of the horrific "Red Wedding" showed amazing courage and enterprise in rebuilding the Riverlands. He reversed decades of decay and ruin and made the Riverlands rich and prosperous again, as well as making Riverrun a force to be feared.

The entire Seven Kingdoms will be forever indebted to Lord Edmure and I hope your reign as Lord will be just as glorious

Renly Baratheon-Donddarion, Lord of Storm's End and the Stormlands
Last edited by Elepis on Thu Jul 16, 2015 2:08 am, edited 3 times in total.
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Not sure that'll work on Elepis considering he dislikes (from what I've observed):
A: Nationalism
B: Religion being taken seriously
C: The Irish"

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Slakonian
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Founded: Nov 22, 2009
New York Times Democracy

Postby Slakonian » Wed Jul 15, 2015 1:24 pm

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Ser Robb Evins
Heir to the Seastone Isles
Blacktyde


Blacktyde, former seat of house Blacktyde; cousins to the great Iron Kings from the Hoare line but dead just like them now the seat of House Evins, his family's house, it had been months since he looked upon his family's ancestral home, he had done it before for many years. He had spent the past three years back in Harlaw, squiring for Lord Harras "the Knight". He was sad to see it end when he received his father's summons. He would miss Jasper Pyke, Creighton Volmark, Jormund Harlaw, and Morkan Harlaw. The sons & other squires of Lord Harlaw had become his brothers during his long stay.

He hadn't seen his wife either for many years as well as she had to raise their son; Balon was becoming smarter and stronger by the day just like every ironborn alongside with his brother Harren who were about the same age. Syaella Waters, bastard of house Vaegar of Mantarys was with during their stay in Harlaw. She had not choice but accept Robb's proposal as for she was his salt wife - his iron price gained through the old way of reaving, gained by iron she was indeed yet it took him years to bring her in line. Rain poured down from the sky atop his head.

Robb understood why he needed to return. He was the heir, and one day he would become the Lord Reaper of Blakctyde. It didn't lessen the sadness of him leaving. What boosted his spirits was the idea that Lord Harlaw proposed of his sons travelling to Blacktyde at some point in the future. The possibility made the departure easier to handle. Nevertheless as he was getting closer to the gates of the castle, he urged his "unicorn" to go faster, a gift from Lord Harlaw. Even Robb believed this kind of gift was too much, but such things cannot be gained through the iron price. Harlaw's unicorns are famed as the most valuable horses not just in Westeros but to the whole known world. They were well bred: tall and strong while unique to Harlaw itself as the Harlaws bred them. It is quite the rare site for someone except of house Harlaw using these steeds unless they were given; stealing them would result even to war against the house by all the branches.

Lord Harlaw had insisted he take the beautiful unicorn. Lord Harlaw told him that with more practice and training, Robb could become a tourney champion just like other greenlander knights. A boast that Robb wasn't sure he believed, but nonetheless appreciated. During his return trip, he and his steed instantly bonded, he had decided to call him Shade. Unoriginal, but fitting, Robb believed with his steed's dark coloring, great speed, and quiet demeanor it deserved the name. He knew that the unicorns will bond to one owner until the end of their lives except if you are a Harlaw.

Often while he rode atop Shade, he understood the reverence the Dothraki people had towards horses. They were majestic and beautiful creatures. The confidence that flowed through him and the sense of elation he had that only could be found when riding. Robb was certain that Shade could hold his own against any of the horses those savages. Looking back to see Shade had easily distanced themselves away from the small retinue of riders that his father had dispatched to escort him and his salt wife back home. He eased up on Shade's reins leaving his steed to pass through the castle gates at a trot. A large group of servants and soldiers had been waiting for the return of the heir of Blacktyde. A few of the guards were holding the banners of House Evins- the green Kraken on the blue northern sea and snow where his father was born.

They all bowed when they approached. It was then that he saw his father, the Lord Reaper of Blacktyde, Eddard Evins. He was just as he remembered: short dark hair, clean shaven face, pale eyes that never conveyed what he was thinking or feeling. He was dressed in dark wool, the green kraken sigil emblazoned on his doublet. His father, was one of only two who did not bow, the other was standing right beside him.

Robb couldn't help but smile when he saw his Goodbrother cousins who were serving his father. Tormund Goodbrother "the Silent" had his hands crossed, ever serious but nodding in disbelief that finally his cousin had return. While his brother Quenton smiled seeing his cousin, said a joke to a member of house Drumm who was present there as well. One of their fearless and most loyal bannermen.

After allowing Ulwryk Pyke; the stablemaster to take Shade, Robb made his way to where his father and the rest of the family were standing. When he was close enough, he stopped and bowed his head to his father, the Lord Reaper of Blacktyde. He scanned the rest of his family, he saw his wife approached and shared a warm kiss together and hugged his son Balon and his brother Harren who had grew up. Harren was a bit surprised as he had never seen his brother before. Yet he was happy to see him; even if it was the first time.

"My son," his father's voice was soft. "Let me see how you fared in Harlaw." Robb obeyed. Straightening up and raising his head to allow his father a proper inspection. He stayed still and quiet as his father's pale eyes took him in. He thought he saw a flicker of approval, but after a moment he was sure he imagined it. "Let's go inside," his father instructed, decreeing through a approved nodding that he had passed his silent inspection. "We have much to discuss."

They entered the class and climbed the stairs towards the central long thick circular on the middle of the castle. His father sat to his seat, with Maester Karrhen stood beside him giving him a smile. "it is good you have returned my lord." the maester bowed deep, out of a proper respect for his lord. Maester Karrhen was hailing from Mole's Town and a bastard nontheless yet he was given the chance to serve house Evins and he did successfully for many years thus far. He respected the man, the feeling was mutual.

His father talked first. "We have a message from Queen's Landing." he paused. Robb knew that this moment of silece meant only one thing.... "The dragon queen is dead. Good fucking riddance, apparently she died by the hand of an assassin they say only to end up dead by the spear of Obara Sand pfft." he spitted in disgust, Obara Sand was one of the many bastards of house Martell just like every house in Dorne has the habit for it.

"Who is implicated on this scheme? Do we know anything?" Robb asked.

His father smiled and changed to his stance on his seat to a more serious one. "It seems Lord Harras has trained you well I see. Good. Don't lose that son. Well most implicate the Lannisters or the Tyrells might be behind from this. I wouldn't be surprised by the Lannister but the Tyrells? I don't think so but you never know. We have been confirmed that the killer used a spear which means he was definately a Dornishman either a salt or a sand as they prefer the spears mostly; the stone Dornish prefer longswords and bows. Most of the times they use such methods but we have no proof for that. The Bloodroyals - the Yronwoods or these bloody Daynes could be even behind this just to arouse suspicion and cause war".

"So we are going to Pyke, father? To our liege lords." both the men were shrugged with this word but it true, the Greyjoys were their liege lords.

His father agreed but they will go unannounced, just to anger his overlords.
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Liriena
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Ex-Nation

Postby Liriena » Wed Jul 15, 2015 2:45 pm

As the Sunset Sea raged below and heavy rain fell from the grey heavens above, laying a futile siege on the great rock of the West, the droplets of seawater that came through the window felt oddly comforting on his cheeks.

The first roar of thunder of the day did not frighten him as much as it once had, knowing now that he was safe from such things within the walls of Casterly Rock, wrapped in a thick crimson cloak, the tip of his father's quill scraping against the surface of an expensive piece of paper. His father's writing lacked in ornaments, but it was precise, every line meticulously carved in black ink.

Tyrion Lannister's solar was austere in its decorations, not a single speck of the famed Lannister gold to be seen. Its treasures were far less ostentatious, yet just as valuable, for they held the secrets to the virtuous sort of rule that their great castle needed. This much, the boy sitting beside him understood well, and thus he barely squirmed in his seat as the hours passed, his green eyes never leaving the pages of the book before him.

With fingers longer than his father's, clad in black leather gloves, he turned a page, and his green eyes quickly resumed their exploration of Archmaester Matthar's ponderous narration of the history of the Iron Bank of Braavos. His prose was a rather cumbrous thing, stuffed full of trivial details and frivolous attempts at artistry, but underneath it all was a fascinating tale of clashing greeds and cunning machinations, all leading up to the rise of the great monolith that was the Iron Bank.

"Read it, and learn the true meaning of wealth, and the power that comes with it." His father had said while placing the book on his lap, his smile wide with warmth. "Personally, I have always believed that debt, not gold, is the Iron Bank's true currency, and the source of its power. Gold can be stolen, while debt, on the other hand, cannot. A mine can dry up, or produce so much that gold loses its value, but not debt. And the best part? A man can refuse gold as payment for their loyalty, but if you have a reputation for always collecting on the debts owed to you, even great lords will submit to you if they cannot pay you back, and they will offer you anything you want in exchange for you forgiving them. They may even beg you to give them a new loan to pay for the old one, and from then onwards you will own them in everything but name."

Most of the morning had passed since then, and Sylvester had turned over a hundred pages with continued interest, while an increasingly tall pile of letters formed over his father's table. From his side of the table, they boy could see that some were for other Western lords. The last one, as of yet unfinished, was the longest, and it was directed at Lord Addam Marbrand.

"What is that?" He asked, not trying to conceal his frown. His father smiled with amusement at that.

"A proposal for a tax reform." His father said, little fingers pressed against his temples. "No self-respecting merchant from the Arbor is coming to Lannisport so long as their Arbor gold is treated the same as Ghiscari wine, and if the lords cannot drink their Arbor gold, then Lord Marbrand cannot expect them to be particularly enthusiastic about his grand feasts."

As he spoke, he directed an amused grin at his adolescent son. "Besides, I hate Ghiscari wine."

Sylvester raised a fine eyebrow. "Why was wine from the Arbor taxed like that in the first place?"

Lord Tyrion shrugged. "To be fair to Lord Marbrand, these intricacies of taxation are seldom something Lord Paramounts are personally responsible for. I think only your grandfather ever really paid much attention to this sort of details when our family ruled the Westerlands, and that was mostly because he hated bad wine almost as much as he hated me. He couldn't bear the thought of his people getting drunk on glorified piss from Essos."

Sylvester could not help buy grin himself. "Is Arbor gold really that good?"

"Oh, it's usually the most wonderful of vintages." Lord Tyrion said closed his eyes and let out and exaggerated sigh. "It tastes just like spring blossoms and flowering maidens."

"So, it tastes like pollen and human flesh?" His son chuckled, turning another page. "Father, I worry."

"Oh, didn't you know, son? Your father is a little monster." The small lord bared imaginary fangs and claws, and growled.

The gesture would have surely frightened any other younglings, specially given how the face making it was not particularly comely, and desperately needed a nose in place of the scarred, mishappen thing between its eyes. But his father's face had never frightened Sylvester as a babe, or even during those few months when he became obsessed with nightly tales of ghosts and monsters. Now that he was four and ten years of age, he merely giggled, his amusement only interrupted by a sudden fit of coughing.

Thunder cracked over and over again outside, and the rainfall intensified, its sound like that of millions of little pebbles crashing against the Rock. His whole body shook as he sprayed the
Origins of the Iron Bank and Braavos with his spittle, and within the blink of an eye his father had jumped from his seat and waddled towards him, his small hands stroking his back soothingly.

"Do you want me to call for the maester?" Lord Tyrion asked his far taller son in an unnecessary whisper, pushing a stray strand of golden hair away from those green eyes, now wet with tears.

"No... I'm alright, father." His son answered between coughs, and the soreness of his throat obvious. He looked down at his father then, his smile weak but brimming with bravery. "I suppose... this is the sort of moment in which a cup of Arbor gold would be called for?"

His father smiled back. "Sometimes I forget that you are not a kitten, but a lion's cub."

Image
Lord Sylvester Lannister
Lord of Casterly Rock and Lannisport


Casterly Rock, Westerlands


The Sunset Sea was calm below, its waters still and almost mirror-like under the clear heavens, as the sunlight bathed his face with its warmth. It gave his pale cheeks a slight glow of sorts, making him look more alive than dead.

The joyful cries of children did not disturb the serenity Sylvester Lannister felt. All the contrary, it enhanced it, just like the softness of the grass as he buried his hands in it, or the coolness of the water as his feet rested within the pool in the middle of the garden.

A crown of poppies rested on top of his fine golden mane, just made by one of the little girls that were now playing monsters and maidens with the boys, and their fragrance also added to the peace he felt as he sat in the middle of the the gardens of Casterly Rock, surrounded by the children of the castle, his wheeled chair a few feet away, held by a smiling Ser Jaime. Ser Tyrek was standing beside the young lord proper, almost utterly impassive. Dressed as he was, in a crimson cloak embroidered with cloth-of-gold, he did not feel the uncomfortable chill that the open air was wont to cast upon his willowy self.

Sylvester could sense the coming nausea, long before it reared its ugly head and made the slightest movement torture. He always could, for it had always been as much of a part of him as his unmoving legs and his coughing fits. He closed his eyes, breathed in some air, and sighed softly, bracing himself. He would not let sickness ruin this morning. He would force his broken body to wait until after lunch, like he always did.

It was as he was resting his eyes that he heard a new voice arrive at the gardens, soft, deceptively courteous, and not quite girlish.

"I have news for my cousin. May I pass?" His cousin Myrcella spoke, and Sylvester turned to her. Their green eyes met, and they shared a wide smile and a small bow of the head.

His unspoken permission granted, Sylvester's eldest cousin walked past her twins, pressing a gentle hand on each's shoulder, and towards him. She curtsied and sat beside him with her usual feigned grace, more for the eyes of others present than his own. Some children stared at her scarred face, but that was to be expected, and neither of the two Lannisters were unaccustomed to impolite stares.

"Cousin, you look lovely today. Myrish lace?" He said, giving his cousin's dress a cursory appraising look. A red petal fell from his crown and got caught between the strands of his hair from the motion.

"Indeed. And thank you. You look quite healthy yourself, at least for a ghoul." The woman retorted, moving to remove that stray petal with a grin. The two chuckled.

"They must be truly important news for you to come to the Rock without notice." He commented as the older woman kissed the top of his head, already feeling some fluttering in his stomach. "Either that, or you received a shipment of saffron, and thought today's lunch should include a bit of it."

Myrcella chuckled a bit at that, but while doing so she produced a neatly folded piece of paper from her sleeve. "I didn't want to risk your maester or mine seeing this. I don't trust either of them."

Sylvester pursed his lips at her as he took the paper with the tip of his long, bony fingers. "They are both Reachmen, Myrcella, and cousin Margaery hand-picked them."

His cousin was clearly unconvinced. "And you trust her judgement?"

"She's a woman of House Tyrell, and the Queen of Thorns' granddaughter. It's a very safe gamble." He retorted, his emerald eyes leaving hers to read the letter. "At worst, the maesters would have told her of the contents of this letter, and she would have come up with some grand, cumbersome and ultimately useless scheme to use them to usurp her brother..."

The Lord of Casterly Rock and Lannisport paused. His eyes did not betray his feelings as they rose from his cousin's fine writing.

"What do you think?" Myrcella asked.

"Many things." He said, folding the paper again and breaking it in half. "First and foremost, if Willas Tyrell expects the king to wed his daughter in peace, then he is not as wise as his sycophants believe him to be. His folly, however, may create some interesting opportunities for others. Namely, us. And then there's Storm's End..."

He tore the remains of the letter further, a small piece of it falling into the pool.

"Second of all, whoever thought that that sort of treachery would please me deserves to be hanged. But since it was probably Ser Swyft, I will have to content myself with accidentally misplacing that shipment of Arbor gold he wanted so much. Maybe Lord Marbrand will appreciate that gift more than he."

His face still as calm as before, he held the pieces in the palm of his right hand, a sudden breeze carrying some of them away.

"I don't need more gold. Lord Marbrand can tax me as much as he wants, as is his right, but he won't keep me from paying my debts. The Rock is still as generous as always to us, Lannisport is still Lannisport, and Lord Marbrand is my liege."

There was a silence, in which many things left unsaid were pondered about by both, things that could not be spoken of even the gardens of Casterly Rock. His father had taught Sylvester long ago that not even a lord's gardens could be trusted to keep secrets, and Sylvester and Myrcella had secrets aplenty.

"As for the rest, cousin, my answers are the same as last month: good, but not good enough yet, and no, not yet" He spoke, pressing a hand against his mouth as he finished, his nausea far worse now. "More ships, cousin. Send a letter to the Saan family if you must. And don't let any of our friends think for an instant that I intend to marry any of their daughters anytime soon. Anything else?"

"Lord Edmure Tully is dead, and Brynden Tully is the Warden of the South Marches" Said Myrcella. "I learned after I had finished writing the letter."

Sylvester looked at her as she spoke, and seemed lost in thought for a moment before he spoke again. "Robb Tully was already ruler of Riverrun in all but name, but Brynden... He's more of a warrior than a lord proper, and he's married to a Marbrand."

"Should there be a Lannister at the funeral?" His cousin asked.

Sylvester pursed his lips.

"I'm not even sure we would be welcome, and I'm not interested in making friends with the Riverlands yet. If Harrold Hardying or Renly Baratheon-Donddarion were to die, however, that would be another matter entirely." He answered, raising a hand in Ser Jaime's direction, prompting the knight to carry the beautifully carved wheeled chair towards him, followed by Ser Tyrek moving to lift his liege up.

Thin as he was, Sylvester was easily carried to his chair, and once on it, it took little effort for Ser Jaime to push him towards the galleries that surrounded the gardens, away from the laughter of children, yet the crown of flowers still on his head. Myrcella followed her sons and cousin, silent as the twins conversed amicably with their lord, the crippled boy's laughter as sweet as his words.

A mummer's farce, Myrcella knew. Her uncle Tyrion had not raised a gentle, playful kitten. Before nightfall, the Lord of Casterly Rock and Lannisport would be using all the news she had brought with her to devise new schemes.




To his Lordship, Addam Marbrand

Recently, I came into possession of a shipment of the finest Arbor gold, and felt compelled to gift it to you, in gratitude for your virtuous rule over the Westerlands. The people of Casterly Rock and Lannisport have prospered under your wise policies, and their bliss is plain to see. In my hall, we shall drink to your good health, that your rule may last many more years, and renew our vow to serve House Marbrand however we can.

May the Warrior keep you safe, and the Father look over your every effort
signed, Lord Sylvester Lannister of Casterly Rock and Lannisport


To his Lordship, Robb Tully

It has come to my attention that your lord father, the honourable Lord Edmure Tully, recently passed away. I hereby offer you my most sincere condolences, and those of my family. I promise you that your lord father will be in our prayers. Despite the troubled history between our families, and the many wrongs my ancestors inflicted upon him, my late lord father cared deeply for your father, and admired his devotion to his family, as did I. If it would please his Lordship, I would very much like to send a gift to you, in honour of your lord father's memory, and offer you our house's help in whatever future endeavours you may lead.

House Lannister has many as of yet unpaid debts to your house, debts born from the dishonourable actions of my predecessors, and nothing would please me more than to help heal the wounds and forge a lasting friendship between our houses.

May the Warrior keep you safe, and the Father look over your every effort
signed, Lord Sylvester Lannister of Casterly Rock and Lannisport
Last edited by Liriena on Wed Aug 05, 2015 6:11 pm, edited 9 times in total.
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Arlye Austros
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Founded: Feb 12, 2014
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Arlye Austros » Wed Jul 15, 2015 5:03 pm

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



His horse kept pushing up the hill. Ahead, Tamard Lake, Castellan of Winterfell, awaited for his Lord. Torrhen pushed on until his brown destrier crowned the climb.

“I hope you are not getting tired of age, my Lord.” Tamard joked.
“You know very well I am not very fond of horses.” Indeed, Torrhen was a foot soldier, not a terrible rider though, but he was also carrying extra weight today.


“The walls look odd today.” Osric announced from behind his father. Torrhen had decided to bring him along for the ride.

“They do!” Tamard said looking to the heart of the North. They had reached a high spot about a slingshot from the King´s Road, and from there they could see upon the fortress from a distance. “It must be the morning haze.”

The towers of Winterfell had to be rebuilt, and his father´s efforts were largely absorbed in remaking the glory of House Stark anew. An attempt to legitimize Karstark rule that he partially succeed upon. It was Torrhen´s task to take it to the end. The walls seemed to float on a sea of ghosts.

“I feel the western side could use some repairs.” He mentioned. “They have some cracks visible from this spot.” They rode to that spot where the Kingsroad extended a limb to Winterfell, with the intention to see the first impression the guests would have. “And I wouldn´t mind these farms near the road to be a bit more active.”

“I will make it happen, My Lord. I am sure some of the folk in the towns nearby could use some work.” Tamard replied to Torrhen.
“Can I work too?” Osric suggested. Torrhen smiled.
“Then you will son. I am sure Tamard can find you some chore for you.”

“I can. You could help clearing the courtyard, Osric, as you and the other kids seem to have caused a mess there in you last week´s little joke.” The castellan smiled with an evil grin at Osric. The child partially smiled and cowered in fear.
“I told you it was all part of a battle. Roilan led the Winter Wolves and I followed. We destroyed the Lannisters and Galbart the Skagosi had to yield to us…”

Torrhen interrupted. “As I recall, all the Lannister vassal Lords in Lakeshore were killed. I suppose you didn´t killed you friend.”
“Of course not, father!” Osric answered slightly offended. He seemed to be able to lead, at least in some games with other children, and to follow, as his little joke of the Battle of Lakeshore, just lacking the lake. However he was extremely proud still. Torrhen couldn´t decide whether to encourage this or try to choke his pride, with violence if needed.

“Let us head back. Make sure the road from the Kingsroad to Winterfell is clean and the cracks filled.”
“I will, my Lord.”

Torrhen´s little expedition was one in many to the surrounding areas. His intentions were larger. The Karstarks planned a feast, one never seen since the Dawn. And he would make sure Karstark rule was amicable to everyone, and Karstark hospitality resemble that of his lost distant kin. Osric´s play gave him an idea.

That night gave Torrhen little to no rest. Lynara had decided to take part of the meeting, and the council gathered. Torrhen had also intended Osric to attend, to have him witness how the affairs of the realm were managed, but he was nowhere to be found. Lynara insisted Torrhen to leave him be. “He has plenty of time to become the Lord you want him to be. For now let the boy be a boy.”

Tamard agreed, and Maester Gregor took sit as well, between Tamard and Lyman, his steward, a man from White Harbour who showed a great management of numbers and coin.
“You have all been informed of my intentions. It is time to show the North´s recovery to everyone. I intend this gathering to rival with the Tourneys of Harrenhal and Ashford, and even Lannisport.”

“Harrenhal and Ashford were a gathering of plotters in the eyes of the Dragons. Is it safe to take such an action, My Lord?” Maester Gregor asked. He was young and reckless for a Maester, Torrhen thought. But he needed council, and fear was not a thing suit for council.
“You know better of history, Maester, so I trust your say. Yet the North needs this. We have been rebuilding alone in the cold for too long, and some time Winter shall return.” Winter is Coming. “We cannot allow the North to go back into the darkness without unity and friendship.”

“The coin we will need for this, My Lord… Its´s just too much. We already owe the Iron Bank quite a sum…”
“Remind me of it, Lyman, how much do we owe the Iron Bank?”

“Five thousand Golden Dragons…” Lynara answered before Lyman could reply. Torrhen smiled at his wife, who had studied the arts of rule in the last months. She blushed. “I am sorry, My Lord Lyman, I just spoke out the number.”
“Not to worry, My Lady. It is correct, we owe a couple of dragons below the five thousand to the Iron Bank. It is not a colossal sum, yet could cause some problems. If the Bank sees we expand our expenses…”
Torrhen buffed. “We needed that money to rebuild the North. They can´t expect we pay just now.”

“My Lord…” Tamard replied slowly. “It´s been further than ten years. You father needed the gold, yes, but I presume the Iron bank is expecting the payment soon, if not now. The debt started at three thousand, now it has grown, and if we don´t pay up soon, it will reach ten thousand by the next five years.”
Torrhen saw his plans crumbling out of nowhere.
“We need this… And we have to pay…” He muttered. Lyman cleared his throat.

“We have the money to do what you ask us to do. The castle can be readied for such a magnificent event. It won’t be remembered by the awards in coin, for sure, but it shall be magnificent nonetheless. The problem is the debt with the Bank. Either the Bank must be blinded or the debt paid or appeased. May I suggest My Lord uses his allies here?”

Torrhen laughed bitterly. “My father blessed this realm with only one Heir, and my family is young. I have no allies through marriages.”
“There are other options. Your children are young, but you could arrange the betrothal and maybe get an early dowry. Or perhaps some good-hearted lady who hold the North in the highest esteem…” He ended with a suggestive closure. Torrhen took a couple of seconds to understand.

“The Vale? She betrayed her people.”
“Sansa?” Lynara asked. “Lady Sansa? The Last Stark? You can´t be serious.”
“She has a claim to the North, yes, but the Lords chose your House, Lord Torrhen. She drifted away from the Old ways, but she must have kept Winterfell and the North in her heart. I wouldn´t throw away the option to ask for her help. We don´t need an excessive amount of money. ”
“I will see to that then… Now I wish to discuss…” Torrhen continued, but Lynara completed the sentence.

“The guests…” She was not happy, apparently. “For some reason the plans you have made, Torrhen, have leaked. House Whitehill sent a letter demanding the Forresters are kept out. House Forrester wrote not too long after, demanding the Whitehills were only allowed in if they are to pay for the loses in their Feud. Both families have ties to mine, so you see the problem.”
Torrhen saw the danger. “I am sorry you are being dragged into this, my love.”
“It is not the Feud, Husband, it’s the fact somebody out of this chamber said something.”
Torrhen could make a guess.
“DO you have anything to tell us, Torrhen?” She inquired.
“This is not the time…” Torrhen tried to be as authoritative as he could, and apparently succeeded. The conversation ended at that point.

“Whitehills and Forrester have been in a dispute for centuries. I suppose it is not a bad time to amend these grudges. If the Lord can hold them back from the blades it would show great skill and a promising future to your vassals.” Maester Gregor continued the original topic. “Call them in, sit them at some distance, and when the time is right, talk to them. With some hope and cunning you may bring peace to the Ironwood for some time.”
“I will, Maester. I don´t want my people fighting each other.”
“If that´s the case, my Lord…” Tamard added. “You have a great deal of a job ahead.”

There was a silence. Torrhen broke it, standing and placing his hands on the table.
“I suppose nobody here refuses an invitation to all the Lords in the North. Excluding anyone would be a mistake.”
“Calling the Crannogmen and the brutes from Skaagos could be a mistake.” Lynara muttered.
“Please tell, Wife.” Torrhen closed his eyes, keeping his voice calmed, then smiled at her. She was still cold, but gave him a chance to listen.

“The Crannogmen are… odd, and the Skaagosi are hated by many still. Having them there would be both uncomfortable to some, and dangerous to them.”
“I would tend to agree with the Lady here, My Lord.” Lyman said. Gregor seemed to think otherwise.
“Excluding anyone is a mistake, Lord Torrhen, and all must be involved.”
“Those people are outcasts.” Lyman answered. Torrhen cut the argument before it became one.
“They will all come. I need the Skagosi in our defence against the Wilds, should they return to their customs. And the Crannogmen. If something happens in the South… House Stark always relied on House Reed with the defence of the Southmarch. I see no reason to break that tradition of trust.” He sentenced.

“My problem, my lords, my wife, are indeed the South and the North, the Wilder North. I am not sure inviting them would be a good gesture in front of my vassals.”
Gregor played with a knife from an earlier meal that had been left behind. “They are northerners, not too far related to your own family, My Lord. They should be given the chance. And in the last years trade has become really important. Barrowtown and White Harbour are now greater trade ports as they hold the trade routes of both Wildernorth and North.”
“At least keep the Thenn out.” Lynara said.
“I agree.” Torrhen replied to his wife. Did he do it for love or reason? “There are still grudges between wildlings and Northmen. I suggest we invite those Houses we can trust. Send the invitation to House Kingsblood, I will hear his suggestions, and hopefully not be offended in the meantime.”

“The south?” Tamard continued.
“Blackwood, Royce… Houses we can relate to the North.” Torrhen suggested, Gregor nodded. “I think House Tully as well, and given our coin situation, perhaps House Hardyng.”
Lyman interrupted. “My Lord, if I may. News of this feast have already flown far and wide, even before we started. In some moon or less the Realm will be expecting the formal announcement. I don´t think denying access to some Lords would be wise.”
Torrhen watched at a tapestry in the bottom of the Hall. There Westeros Hung. The wolf of House Stark remained, crowned by a Sun of Winter, and its rays spread down to the South. The Wild was off the frame, but the Fish, the Eagle, Stag and Dragon all roamed their lands. The Lion of Lannister was replaced with a pine of Marbrand, and the Dragon of Targaryen was on Dorne, with the Sun and the Spear shining on it.

“If any of the greater Houses wish to come, do not close our gates. They may also bring the retinues of a number of vassals they may wish to add to theirs… A limit?”
“Six…” Lyman answered. “We need to make sure expenses do not grow out of this. Six Noble Houses may be a good number.”
“Great!” Torrhen continued. “It could also help them show appreciation over certain vassals. Send specific invitations to House Tully, Lord Edmure will surely wish to send his sons and maybe attend himself. He was a friend of the North. Same applies, I believe, to House Baratheon.”
“Baratheon?” Gregor raised an eyebrow.
“They always showed respect for the North.”

“Stannis betrayed the Seven, they say he killed his own brother!” Tamard objected. Torrhen simply raised a hand, but the Castellan wouldn´t stop, and simply eased his voice. “My Lord, Renly Baratheon is the grandson of a man without moral. His mere presence here will be seen as an insult.”
“You forget, Tamard, that it was Stannis who came to the aid of the North in the face of the Wights, he sought the safety of my family´s holdings.”

“He put your kin to the sword, my Lord…” The Castellan continued.
“So did Robb Stark.” This was all he needed to say. Tamard sat down. “… Renly Baratheon is invited as well.”

He sat back down and looked at them all. Lynara spoke out.
“Then it is set. We shall send the invitations to the Northern Lords, the Great Houses of Westeros and allow them to bring up to six of their vassals, and we shall also invite House Royce, Blackwood…”
“ Mallister and Mooton too.” Torrhen announced. Lynara seemed uncomfortable.
“My Lord…” Lyman started. “You are the offspring of your father and a Mooton girl… it is probably best.”

“The Queen legitimized my birth, Lyman, and House Mooton is my kin, whether we like it or not. They may come as well. House Mallister aided my father in the War, I am also in their debt.”
They were silent again. Lynara carried on. “Tully, Mallister, Blackwood, Mooton, Royce. And also to Hardyng, and Baratheon.” She counted. “All of the Northern Lords, of course, and House Kingsblood, as well for those they see fit to bring here.”
“What about the many knights that may flock here?” Lyman asked.

“Let them come only invited by a coming Lord, but it will be up to these Lords to pay for their stay. We can probably receive the Lords of the Realm, but not countless hedge knights and their squires.” Torrhen sentenced. In a few minutes they arranged the many things that would need to be done in Winterfell and the surrounding areas. Towns would probably rise by this event, and they needed game to gather in the nearby wildlands. They would commission parties of hunters to drive the animals near the castle through the next weeks. They would buy Ale from White Harbour, Pentoshi Wine, Dornish Wine as well, and above all, avoid the Iron Bank.

A letter was sent to the Eyrie that very night, written by Lynara but dictated by Torrhen.

Lady Sansa Hardyng, Lady of the Eyrie and the Vale.
I don´t think I have ever written to you, my Lady, and that comes to haunt me as I make this letter tonight. My father told me the grief for Lord Eddard´s lost in King´s Landing caused a union and fraternity among the Lord of the North never seen before. I believe him. While we managed to capture the Kingslayer and drive the Lannister back, as he said, we lost too many in the combat, and eventually everything went wrong. That should never have happened.

The disappearance of House Stark from the North was a terrible blow, and I still remember the Spring´s Night. I was only a boy in my five or six, but it was a very odd experience. Yet I feel it was not enough. I would very much like to have a Stark in these halls once more.

You may have heard the Lord of the North will gather in Winterfell in two moons. It is my intention to extend this invitation to House Hardyng of the Vale. However, given your bloodlines, I would like you came earlier, if your age and duties allow it. I will make sure a retinue of knights of the White Knife and soldiers of Winterfell receive you in the shores of White Harbour, and escort you to your birthplace, for I think there is much to talk and discuss here.

I hope read your opinions on this.
Lord Torrhen Karstark …


The next days, letters were exchanged throughout the nearby castles and settlements, and later on between Karhold and Winterfell. Alys had much to say as well, and wanted to assist too.
After half a moon passed, the ravens departed. They headed to Riverrun and Storm´s End, to Runestone and Raventree Hall, and to Seagard and the Wilderlands.


It is my intention to hold a feast in order to celebrate our peace and prosperity. Soon we will commemorate the northmen killed in the War, and also those brave who died in the Dance of Dragons. I wish to take this opportunity to bring us together.

While not a part in Northern traditions, I see no issues with organizing a tourney as well. I am sure many lords across the Realm will be glad to show their skill in combat. High Lords, Minor nobles and hedge knights may take part in the contests that will include Jousting, Melee and Archery. We will also organize hunting parties, another opportunity for the Lords to show their skills, this time in the wild.
I extend this invitation to many houses friendly to the North. The Wardens of the Realm are also invited, and they may bring with themselves six of their vassals if they deem these worth of the tourney. They may also bring unlanded knights and hedge knights hungry for glory, but in order to ensure our resources, their expenses will have to be covered by the Lords who sponsor them.
I expect this meeting will bring us great joy and new strength to old and bonds of friendship.

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



Beren the Quite.
Pentos, The Rose´s Denial.



The screams coming from inside the Manor suddenly hurled Beren back into his memory. He walked away, singing a song in his head to keep those screams away. This was the first time he had to flee noise in many months.
Yet when he returned, he didn´t cared the bloody blades quickly hidden by the members of the company. Loquorro, a soldier of the Company slightly older than him, passed in between the crowd and grabbed Beren by the neck. He kicked him in the shin and then pulled ahead. Loquorro was forced to lift a foot and that allowed Beren to make him fly over his back and into the ground. The sellsword rolled and rose. “You are getting stronger.” He smiled, barely caring for any pride. “I expected you to be close by. What happened?”

“I am sorry, I needed to get away… You understand…” Loquorro was the only one he told in detail of his experience the last six years, but not beyond. He nodded.
“I do. Perhaps it was better. Hey took some of the slaves for themselves, and I heard a woman screaming she was free, and not in servitude. They didn´t listen.”
Beren looked down, clearly upset about this. “I know I should have done something. After what you told me of the Bay I too despise slavery.” He added. Beren looked at him, trying to smile.

“Let us speak of anything else. What happened exactly?”
“The idiot who made us march all the way from Lys wouldn´t pay. The Captain saw no problem in taking his price form his property, and then he simply killed everyone inside. Not sure why, but…” He introduced his hand in a bag tied to the belt and brought out a coin of silver. “It brought wealth.” Then he tossed it up from his thumb and catched the rolling metal circle in the air as it came back down.
“Which reminds me…” He then looked in a large bag he was carrying over his back. Loquorro brought out a collar of gold and silver, it had sapphires in three central disks of gold. Beren held it in its hand and smiled.

“I am not wearing any jewellery, Loquo.”
“Of course not, you idiot!” He pushed Beren in the shoulder. “Sell it. You could pay anything.”
There was a thing sailing in Beren´s head, though he didn´t dared saying it. “I could use a new sword.” He suggested.
“Granted! There are many fine smiths in Pentos.” Loquorro seemed to think of something else. “I saw this fine blade… Where…” He then looked around. “Erzam!” He yelled, and rushed to the sellsword. Beren had to follow.

“What do you want, crabs?” Erzam was a Myrish soldier, nobody knew his real name, and he just answered Erzan cryptically. For some reason he called Loquorro and Beren “Crabs”.
“Shut up. You still got that sword you took from the Magister´s house?”
“I would tell you…” He smiled. “But you told me to shut up.”

Loquorro didn´t mind the joke. “Beren will buy it.”
“What?” He said aloud to Loquorro. “I never said I would buy it.” But Loquorro smiled and turned in time to grab the necklace out of Beren´s grasp.

“In fact, I will buy it. I offer this necklace.”
Beren was about to protest, but the man laughed and pulled out a sword from a roll of cloth he carried under his arm. The steel was about an arm and a half long, and the blade itself had a strange colour, the sun was reflected in tones of green and gold… Beren knew little of steel, but maybe bronze could have something to do with it. It was a fine sword.

“You would need three of those to buy this, Crab.”
Beren couldn´t lie to himself, and admitted in his mind he would like that sword. Loquorro saw his expression and smiled even more. “I got more, Lobster.” He answered to Erzam. “That feels good actually.” He said to his joke, and Erzam seemed clearly offended. Loquorro took out of his bag a golden goblet and two small silver bars. Beren noticed the Goblet and felt a void in the belly, but then noticed the bars and realized that was Loquorro´s, he liked having his payment unified in a single form. Clearly he had hidden the goblet from Beren for a joke, half his share.
“What are you doing, Loquo?” He asked as his friend rose from the ground.
“Well, I looked on your face when we arrived to Pentos…” he handed the things to Erzam, except the Goblet, which he gave to Beren. “… And I thought you were thinking of something.”

The Lobster looked at the bars and the necklace. “I think I will take it. Here you got.” He gave Loquorro the blade and left, Loquorro looked as if he had won a battle, and passed the blade to Beren. “You will need a scabbard for that.”

“What was I thinking? You just used about half your share in a gift.”
“Well.” Loquorro seemed to be guessing. “You are from Westeros, and since we arrived to Pentos you have been spending a lot of time looking at the docks, counting ships… That’s not normal for a sellsword, unless he plans to defect.”
Beren felt slightly offended. “I won´t defect. This Company is my life…” He finished the sentence as if he doubted. Loquorro noticed it.
“I think you are homesick.”
Beren looked at the port of Pentos just above the gardens of the Manse. The ships sailed out to the sundown. He was homesick, and not without disgust.
“My home gave me nothing but pain.”
“So did your <<not-home>>. You are running.”
“I am not.”

He pointed at Beren´s hand, the one holding the goblet. “Use it to pay your passage to Westeros. You won’t return a rich man, not as Ezram when he leaves Pentos, if he doesn´t lose it in gamble tonight… As a matter of fact, I could regain my investment… Anyway, I am drifting away.”
“Loquorro…” Beren muttered. For some reason the dothraki (for he was a dothraki in all but behaviour) knew exactly what he was thinking. “Thanks… ”
“Don´t mention it. If you decide to leave, don´t go without saying goodbye.” Loquorro headed for the gate of Pentos and the encampment.

Beren instead strolled down the dock, and with some of his saving bought a scabbard fit for his new blade. He chose to call it “Scalepiercer”, though somehow the name felt odd. He may change it later. The ships for Westeros were fewer now, but four remained on anchor. He looked at one called “Black Hooker”. It reminded him of the ship that brought him to Essos, and that made him shake inside his mind. He looked at the captain, and was relieved to see a man different to Aguerro, the slaver who made himself pass for a trader of Braavos. If he had seen him Beren wasn´t sure if he would have left running and shaken or if he would be strong enough to just run and kill him.

The night was crawling to the sky from the east, and Beren walked fast to the camp of the company. Loquorro was gabling, and Erzam seemed to be losing. But Beren stood outside the tent of the Captain, and waited there, just waiting for himself to make up his mind. In the end he walked to the entrance, and requested the guards an audience with the Captain.
Arlye Austros, the New South. In the Nibaru Expense. -Future Tech-
Patagonia and its regional neighbours are dominated by the Frankish Kingdom of Argentina and use Modern tech for their affairs. -Modern/Post Modern Tech-

Chilean-Argentine, Pro Union of the Americas (all three). Anti Chavism, anti other stuff. Conservative, but not in extremis (hope so).
Pro Stark, Impeach Tommen

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Phalnia
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Founded: Nov 20, 2010
Ex-Nation

Postby Phalnia » Wed Jul 15, 2015 7:18 pm

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Ser Corlys Velaryon, Lord Regent of Driftmark
High Tide, Driftmark


Corlys stood in the center of the great hall at High Tide. The Velaryon looked rather splendid in a fine jerkin dyed a sea-green with a cloak of blue draped over his shoulders. The room itself was large, with hearths lining the walls. Despite the half dozen fires, the chill of the rainstorm crept down Corlys' spine. He pulled the sides of his cloak, wrapping it around himself as he walked from one end of the hall to the other. The rain pounded against the great stone castle and pattered on the high window overlooking the hall. The rain clouds allowed for little of the morning light to trickle into the hall.

Corlys simply stared at the window mesmerized by the simple repetitive sound and a scene depicted in stained glass. Soon enough the serenity was broken as the heavy oak doors swung open. His mind was brought back to attention as he swung around. His eyes met that of his mother, her ever present smile greeting him. She was radiant in a silk, purple gown lined with silver threads reminding one of waves on the open sea. Despite her years, or perhaps because of them, she carried herself with grace and determination.

In the next moment Corlys looked to his mothers feet. Trailing behind Lady Wylla were Jon and Allysane Waters, Corlys' beloved children. Corlys knelt down as he saw them, his scabbard tip striking the carpet covering the cold stone. They rushed past their grandmother and into their father's arms. He rose to his feet a child in each arm, no small feet as each had grown quickly over their three years. It was only after placing a kiss on each child head that he realized they were soaking wet and their feet covered in mud.

"Playing in the rain, eh?" He asked a small chuckle accompanying.

"Yes, Septa Mysa found them hopping in puddles behind the sept." Wylla answered walking towards them.

"Well, children will as children will." Corlys replied as put the two down. "Wynn!" He called out towards the hall.

An elderly woman entered the room curtsying as she did. "M'lord?"

"Take Jon and Allysane and see them out of these wet clothes." He pushed the twins towards the woman who took each in hand. "And have someone get this mud out before it sets." He added gesturing to the tiny prints crossing the hall.

"Of course, m'lord." She nodded as she took the two children from the hall, stopping another passing servant in the hall.

Corlys turned to his mother as the children left. "How are you this morning, mother?"

"Well enough." She was unfazed by the cold, having the blood of White Harbor in her veins. "We missed you at breakfast."

"I had already eaten. I was up with the sun." He turned to look back out the window. "At least I think I was."

His mother smiled and brushed aside a strand of hair from his face. "You mustn't let your duties distract you from yourself. But, it's no matter now, we have visitors."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Representatives from the merchants guilds in Hull and Spicetown."

"Ah, then we're in for excitement." He crossed towards the head of the hall, were the Driftwood Throne sat. It was a magnificent thing, a solid piece of wood with knots and gnarled bits throughout. He sat upon it the seat worn smooth from countless years of use. Corlys never mentioned it, but he was sure he could smell smoke whenever he sat on the throne. He nodded to the guard at the door who opened the great oaken barrier and called for the guildsmen.

The day had grown long, though the heavens continued to empty over the island. Corlys sat in his chambers a series of candles illuminating the room. The man's head hung over a book his eyes crossing the page as the fires flickered. The text was an old one, penned by maester Gyldayn and recorded the events of the Dance of the Dragons. As Corlys was warm and dry inside the castle, not all were so lucky.

The sound of beating wings was drowned out by the downpour of rain. Visibility was low, but this creature had eyes that could pierce the night and a homing instinct comparable to no other creature. Soon enough the darkness was broken by a speck of light. Soon the speck grew, before splitting into individual points of light that made the shape of the castle that was High Tide. As it passed over the walls its figure became visible, a raven as black as the night itself.

Of the seven towers that stood over the walls the raven homed in on the second tallest. The window of the highest point on the tower was left open even in this rain. The raven flew through the window, landing on a large perch among a number of cages containing sleeping ravens, a few opened their eyes at the entrance but quickly closed them again. The new arrival fluffed out its feathers, shaking off the water from its wet trip. Seeing no one come to greet him, he let a shrill, impatient cry. A commotion sounded in the next room as a candle was lit and the door creaked open.

An old man in a thick night coat entered his chain clinking against the door. He quickly undid the scroll around the ravens neck and tossed him a piece of meat from a small bowl. The bird greedily took the bit tearing it apart. The maester unrolled the scroll reading over it. He rushed out of the room and down through the halls.

Just as Corlys was preparing to close his book a rapping came at the door. Corlys rose to his feet and spoke. "Enter." The door was pushed open and the aged maester entered the room.

"My lord, forgive the lateness of the hour, but a raven has arrived with grave news." He handed the scroll to the young man who unrolled it and quickly rolled it back up. "Lord Buckwell is certain of this?"

"His is the closest keep to the Riverlands. The smallfolk crossing the border are speaking of it."

A troubled look crossed Corlys' face. "We'll wait for word more certain than the rumors of smallfolk. Goodnight maester."

"Goodnight, my lord."

"The air up there in the clouds is very pure and fine, bracing and delicious. And why shouldn't it be? - it is the same the angels breathe." Mark Twain
“Don't feel entitled to anything you didn't sweat and struggle for.” Marian Wright Edelman

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Krugmar
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Founded: May 06, 2012
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Krugmar » Thu Jul 16, 2015 4:12 pm

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Robb Tully
Lord Paramount of the Riverlands
Riverrun


It was quite cool within the study, the doors to the balcony were open and the fading light shone upon the river visible. Robb sat at his desk, reading several letters that had arrived while his brother sat opposite him marking down several plans. The Lannisters had sent a letter, essentially begging forgiveness for the crimes of their ancestors. Robb cared little for pleasantries, knowing that all of the other houses viewed the Tully's simply as irrelevant fish to be caught and devoured by the other animals of the kingdoms. Perhaps there was a genuine feeling of regret in the letter, though Robb held it in suspicion.

"You look troubled, who is that letter from?" inquired Brynden.

"The Lannisters, they seem to want better relations with us. I won't get dragged into any Westerlands conflict, and any support, however limited, would be given to the Marbrands at this stage. Still, I shall pursue friendly relations with my former captors" he replied, writing his reply out quickly and injecting into it false pleasantries. He couldn't remember his time of captivity in the Rock, he had been far too young, but his parents had. They had been treated as guests, albeit ones who could not leave, but relatively well. Still, neither had had fond memories of that time.

The other letter was from the North, a region Robb strangely had little interest in. He had studied the exploits of the King in the North, his namesake, marveling at his tactical genius and strategic brilliance but despairing at his political ineptitude. Now it was ruled by the Karstarks, Starks in all but name it seems. He had little interest in taking part in the Tourney, or forming an alliance with the region. He held little interest in the game of power that tore men apart. His focus was entirely upon the Riverlands which was the reason he had vowed to keep his family out of the court, and out of any wars that might break out. Unfortunately the other regions rarely understood the option of neutrality, unless you were the Vale with mighty stone mountains to ward off any potential intruders. Friendships, not alliances, must be made.

"Brynden, you will serve as regent while I am gone. The question of the Lordships of Darry and Harrenhal will be solved in this Northern tourney. The knights who prove themselves worthy will receive the castles which have been manned by castellans for all this time." said Robb, receiving a nod from his brother. Harrenhal had been given to a minor family in the region, but the curse had wiped them out a year ago. Darry had been inhabited by Lady Amerei Frey-Lannister for most of her life, though she had never remarried and instead taken several lovers and produced several bastards. Brynden had wiped out most of the 'Gatehouse' clan when they had tried to take the castle for themselves instead of waiting for his verdict on the new lord.

To his Lordship, Sylvester Lannister of Casterly Rock and Lannisport,

Your words are kind, and I heartily accept this offer of friendship between our two families. Know that I do not hold you responsible for the actions of your ancestors, just as I do not hold myself responsible for the actions of mine. I would happily accept any gift, though the current state of the Riverlands prevents me from reprising this action.

I should like to invite you to the funeral in one week hence, though I fear it might be a hard ride to make it in time.

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


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

I shall attend this event myself, to revive the old friendship between the North and the Riverlands. I shall bring with me six of my greatest and bravest knights, and together we will represent the Faith of the Seven and show a mutual respect between our faiths. I shall of course cover their expenses.

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


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


The meeting with the Prince of Pentos and several of the leading Magisters had been short and sweet. Bribes had passed hands many times, and Ariphos had come away with his reputation intact after having Helphio murdered. The other Magisters had not seemed too worried, most of them were relieved that the army outside was not besieging them and was instead, for the moment, quite friendly. Gifts were given and talk of a future contract was thrown around.

Now he had retired to his personal tent, looking over a map of the Myrish area and readying plans for the siege of the small town where the goods, likely worth a bit of money, were being held. He was sipping on some Arbor Gold as one of his guards entered, informing him that one of his soldiers, named Beren, had requested an audience. He sighed, putting down the goblet, and waved at the guard to let the man in. He had been hoping to retire for the night, but he always had time to talk with some of the common soldiers.

The guard left the tent, and in a gruff and abrasive manner grunted "You can enter now", before returning to his post.
Liec made me tell you to consider Kylaris

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Novae Vitae
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Founded: Nov 26, 2014
Ex-Nation

Postby Novae Vitae » Thu Jul 16, 2015 4:42 pm

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


Having been left by his father, Garlan had made his way back to his study, which for a point of courtesy was not located in the Tower of the Hand. Margaery and Loras would be there soon enough, though like as not Margaery would soon spend her time in the king's bed. And, Garlan thought, perhaps Loras as well. Twins, history seemed to prove, were dangerous creatures.

Garlan did not share Loras' taste, nor did he besmirch his brother, but it would have made things easy on the lot of them had Loras not been so inclined. Men were wont to whisper, and while this may have been Dorne, outside the reaches of the Dornish Marches there were men that would spit up anything the younger Tyrell and king might have had.

It made no matter, though. It could be dealt with when the problem arose. For now, there were other matters to address. Letters would be written.

To Lord Paramount Torrhen of House Karstack of the North,

On the behalf of House Tyrell, I thank you for the invitation to this tourney. While I believe that my father may be too occupied with matters of state to attend (I regret to say that he has little taste for tourneys remaining), I imagine that it will be within my capacity to attend in my father's place, Lord Karstark. If this is acceptable to you, I will make preparations for this shortly.

You have House Tyrell's thanks for the invitation regardless.

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


The next letter Garlan prepared for less; there was kitchen gossip that the king had received a letter stating the death of Edmure Tully, a man Garlan had learn little and less of.

To Lord Paramount Robb Tully of the Riverlands,

Greetings Lord Tully. Word has reached House Tyrell that your father has died. Well you hjave the written sympathies of House Tyrell, they can be poor-voiced on parchment. I plan to attend Lord Karstack's tourney in the North, and perhaps I can express my sympathies in person there, Lord Tully.

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

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Arlye Austros
Minister
 
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Founded: Feb 12, 2014
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Arlye Austros » Thu Jul 16, 2015 7:18 pm

Beren The Quite.
Pentos.


Beren was allowed in and walked to the place the Captain awaited. Beren always thought of him as the “Stout Egg” because of his bald head, but he held no grudges against the captain.
“Sire, I am sorry to disturb you.” He started muttering once inside, yet managed to raise the level of his voice by the end of his phrase.
“Just be quick and no damage will be done.” He said without any sign of humour nor anger. Perhaps a captain of a mercenary company had to develop a distance from any emotions, yet he had heard the rumours of the Captain´s relation to the slaughter of the Magister.
“Right… It is my intention to leave your service. It´s been two years in the company, but I think I wish to cross the sea, return home.” He couldn´t avoid his own doubts about this decision. “I don´t want to be called a coward or a deserter by just leaving, so I supposed it was right to come and tell you, Captain. I have saved enough and a couple of ships here in Pentos are bound to cross soon.”

He expected the Captain would not make a fuss over a soldier leaving. Not even a soldier, Beren had hardly taken any part in combat, and his tasks usually involved aiding in the logistics of the company, moving supplies or people, either injured or dead.

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Torrhen Karstark, Lord of Winterfell and Karhold.
Winterfell.



Almost a week after the ravens departed to the south the replies started to return in the black wings. By then Torrhen had seen the inside of the castle being cleaned out and repaired. The kennels needed an urgent repair, and a tower had the upper roof almost about to collapse. Yet the work carried on fast and on schedule.
Slowly but surely, the supplies that they could store for a long time arrived to Winterfell. Ale barrels and grain were stored in the storages, and more people was hired. As if winter approached, Wintertown was slowly returning to a life not seen in years, and about a thousand people resided there for the event. Torrhen expected many lords and the knights who would come would take residence there as well, and was making arrangements for inns and houses considered suitable to nobility would be reserved for them.
“The first replies, My Lord.” Gregor handed the scrolls to Torrhen. A handful of messages that he refused.
“Leave them in my room, Gregor, I will read them in an hour.”
The maester walked away as Torrhen watched his son sparring with the skagosi boy. The heir to Winterfell showed quite a prominence with the sword for his age, and while it was a ridiculous sight to see them both beating each other while wearing an ironwood vest and a leather full helm that made them look like fruits with legs, Torrhen still considered his son rather skilled.
“Perhaps he would be a good archer as well.” Lynara suggested by his side.
“Perhaps, you say I should push him too fast in his education, but I suppose trying the bow won´t hurt him.” He walked forward, as Galbart, Osric´s foe, lost his balance and dropped over his shoulder.
“Here, let me help you.” Said Torrhen as he helped the boy get up. “Well done you both. Osric you need to watch your upper guard. Galbart, keep working on the grasp of the sword, it is still weak, it’s rather obvious.”

Both nodded and resumed their fight. Lynara approached as Torrhen stepped back. “Why fostering a skagosi boy in Winterfell?”
He muttered barely moving his head to answer over his shoulder. “I intend to keep good terms with them. If they ever turned on us they would threaten our line if the Wildlings attacked…” It was ridiculous. “Also, Osric and him seemed to be friends when his father passed by.”
“It´s alright. We need to see those messages.” She walked away and Torrhen had no choice but to follow.

He crossed the open door and closed it behind, but as he turned into the chamber he was surprised to see two dresses. Alys stood over the wooden round table that sustained the scrolls with the replies from many lords.
“Aunt, I wasn´t expecting you, I am sorry.”
She walked forward smiling and embraced her nephew. “It is alright boy. It´s been a while.”
“I am not a boy, aunt.” He said while the hug lasted, a bit embarrassed, and they drifted apart, allowing Torrhen to look at his wife.
“I am as surprised as you are, Love. Alys I suppose you are tired, I will make sure a chamber is ready for you. I will leave you two alone for now.”

They both thanked at her and Lynara retreated off the room. Torrhen moved a seat to the table and offered the place to Alys. “Anything to drink?”
“Oh, forget that. I have been drinking plenty of water, all I need. Wine will come later. For now I am intrigued about those letters of yours.”
He grabbed a scroll and opened it. “If you insist… Lord Manderly agreed to help us. Wine from Pentos and Dorne. Not bad. He will come too.” Another scroll. This one held the Trout of Riverrun... he raised an eyebrow.
“What?” Alys asked, smiling, probably amused at her own guesses.
“The answer from House Tully is signed by Robb Tully, Lord Robb Tully of the Riverlands… Has Lord Edmure passed away?”
Alys was serious, but her look was also strange. “It is impressive I am with spies where you should, nephew. Edmure Tully indeed passed away. I received the message only a day ago, while camping in Dawnforest.”
Torrhen for some reason remembered she was married to the Magnar of Thenn.
“A terrible loss then. One of the last vestiges of the War.”
“I am one as well. And I have heard there are a Stark or two still.”

The Lord of Winterfell sighed. “They are no threat. I would love not to hear about them all the time.”
“You better get used to it.” Alys smiled. “The wolves reigned here far beyond our own House´s birth, and the North remembers. Their memory will haunt us forever.” She spoke softly.
“I don´t mind their memory, is the people always speaking of those still alive.”
“Lord Commander Snow has no intentions to take Winterfell if that´s what they mean. If he tried, the entire realm would see it wrong, and maybe even the Wildlings would seize the chance to kick off the Watch. It would be chaos.”

The chatted a bit more about the Starks, until Alys noticed a rose.
“The seal of Tyrell?” She extended her hand and grabbed the scroll, opening the bright red and ripping the rose apart.
“Ser Garlan Tyrell will come on behalf of his father. That´s somebody I´ve never heard of.”
“Master of Laws. It will be uncomfortable to have a finger of the Crown here, but we must not shut our gates. A young noble with a terribly outgrown ambition. I have been reading about the Roses. His father is Hand, so it will be like having the King himself, none the less.”
Alys opened her eyes wide at him and smiled, laughing only once. “I am impressed, boy. I think I will take that wine.”

After he poured the cups they continued. Mootons and Royce would send their own members too. Most northern Lords had already replied or confirmed personally they would go. Lord Forrester would come a few days before the Whitehills, each promising to eclipse the other.
“These Whitehills. I recall my father always ranting against them.” She said slowly and clearly disgusted by the odds of seeing the sigil of House Whitehill in Winterfell. “I honestly hope the Forresters get to revenge that boy… Ethan.”
He never heard of such thing, and Alys explained Torrhen a bit about the feud for the Ironwood after the Wedding. A horrible story.

“You need to calm down, nephew.” Alys stood up and walked to the door without warning. “Don´t get paranoid, and I suggest you invite Lord Commander Snow. He is a good man, and maybe he can ease your doubts. I fear my brother worked to deeply in you with his own paranoia.”
Torrhen was left alone with his business, and personally wrote a message to the Wall.
Lord Commander.
I know we have never exchanged words, but on my sister´s suggestion I hereby write, and I don´t oppose the opportunity.
You are the son of Lord Eddard, and as such I believe it is only fair to extend an invitation for the Night´s Watch to a tourney to be held in Winterfell within the second moon. It shall be a grand affair and the entire North seems to be ready to gather. Seeing you here will be a great sign for all of us, and especially to me.
I expect your confirmation.

Lord Torrhen Karstark L


He stroke out the following part. Somehow it didn´t felt right.
Arlye Austros, the New South. In the Nibaru Expense. -Future Tech-
Patagonia and its regional neighbours are dominated by the Frankish Kingdom of Argentina and use Modern tech for their affairs. -Modern/Post Modern Tech-

Chilean-Argentine, Pro Union of the Americas (all three). Anti Chavism, anti other stuff. Conservative, but not in extremis (hope so).
Pro Stark, Impeach Tommen

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Phalnia
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Ex-Nation

Postby Phalnia » Thu Jul 16, 2015 8:49 pm

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Ser Jacaerys Velaryon
North of Castle Black, The Wilds


Steel clashed against steel as Jacaerys swung his blade. He landed blow after blow on the man. The wildling could parry the blows, but his swordsmanship and stamina were lacking. Jacaerys landed a final blow knocking the sword from the raiders hand and sending him to the ground. Ever tenacious the beaten man lunged for Jacaerys, who side-stepped and brought his blade down on the man's neck.

He looked about the field. Half a dozen of his brothers still stood as the last of the wildlings lay dead or dying. Jacaerys sheathed his sword and nodded to the men. Now began the distasteful business following the battle. They collected the blades of the dead and slit the throats of the dying, delivering a final bit of mercy. The swords they found were of good quality, not like the trash Mance Rayder's army wielded, an ill-effect of the opened borders and the incorporation of the Wilds into the realm.

"Ser, their done." Eddard, a man of nearly twenty, spoke to Jacaerys.

"What's the count?" He asked looking about the small clearing, where they stood.

"A dozen wildlings. Ten men, two women."

"And our own?"

"Tanek has a cut to the leg. He'll need to see a healer." They both looked to the one called Tanek. He was being held up by another man. His black trousers darkened by the wound.

"Can you ride, Tanek?" Jacaerys called to him.

"Yes, ser. I'll make it." He grimaces as another brother wrapped a piece of linen tight around his leg.

Jacaerys took a step closer to Eddard, and spoke softly. "Stay close to him, make sure he stays on the horse." Eddard nodded and moved to help Tanek to his horse, that stood off to the sides with others near a stand of trees.

After nearly an hour of riding, which seemed to be taking its toll on Tanek, the gate of Castle Black was in sight. Jacaerys heard the call of a horn from the Wall, signalling the return of the rangers. They rode through the gate and into the massive Wall. Jacaerys felt at peace.

The six men emerged from the passage into a large courtyard, welcomed by a number of men. Jacaerys dismounted, handing the reins of his horse to a steward. The man moved to help Tanek from his horse, his face pale and his breathing heavy. Jacaerys moved to allow two other men to take Tanek on their shoulers.

"Take him to maester Samwell. His leg needs mending." Jacaerys said, though it was unnecessary. The two men were already on the way, with Tanek in tow. Jacaerys watched until they were out of sight. Satisfied he turned to the rest of the men, they clapped each other on the back and spoke for a few minutes. Giving two of the rangers the task of taking the recovered weapons to the armory, but not before removing one to show the Lord Commander.

Jacaerys climbed the stairs of the Commander's Keep. It was relatively new, the old one having burned down in the early days of the War for the Dawn. As he reached the height of the stairs Jacaerys thumped on the door, awaiting an answer from inside.



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Ser Corlys Velaryon, Lord Regent of Driftmark
High Tide, Driftmark


The sun rose to the east, and Corlys watched as it did. The rains of yesterday had cleared and the sun's rays shone over the wet stone and mud. His mind was aflutter, two more ravens had arrived in the night and brought news from afar. The rumors from Buckwell had proven correct, Lord Edmure had truly passed. Though in practice nothing had changed it was fairly well-known that Robb had ruled in his father's stead for years. But, it was grave news none the less. The other raven brought word from the North. The Karstarks were hosting a grand tourney at Winterfell. The Karstarks were newly placed as Lords Paramount, as were the Velaryons.

Corlys looked down on the courtyard. He had already spoken with his mother on the subject. She would journey to Winterfell to represent the Claw and the Velaryons at the tourney. It would be opportune, her heritage would give her an inside advantage. Meanwhile, Corlys would travel to Riverrun to honor the passing of the lord of the Riverlands. Lord Edmure was a good man and it was only right to honor the man. Though, Corlys thought it appropriate to await a reply from Lord Robb before arriving at his door.

From his vantage point Corlys could already see the sails of the Bright Day fading in the distance, it carried his mother and a number of knights to compete in the tourney. It would make port at Claw Island, where it would take on retinues from the Velaryon's bannermen, before reaching White Harbor.

Corlys' own ship would depart with word from Riverrun and sail around the claw and ride the rest of the way. Varian Wern would hold High Tide in his absence. A good and dutiful man. Corlys turned from the balcony and entered his chambers he sat at his chair, opening the large book that sat before him.

To his Lordship, Torrhen Karstark

Your message was well received. Though I relish the thought of attending a tourney at Winterfell, I nor my lord father shall be able to attend. His duties as Master of Ships keeps him in Dorne and matters in the Claw demand I stay near. However, in my place my lady mother shall journey north with six knights of the Claw, who will represent my father, myself and all of the Claw. They shall make port in White Harbor and ride for Winterfell. New and old gods willing they shall arrive in a timely manner.

Ser Corly Velaryon, Lord Regent of Driftmark

To his Lordship, Robb Tully

News of the passing of your father brings grief to myself and all in the Claw. Your father was a good man and endured more than his share of tragedy. Prayers were said for him this morning and candles will be lit for a fortnight in his memory.

If it pleases your Lordship, I would wish to attend the ceremony. I feel the need to honor a man such as your father in person. I await your raven on the subject.

Ser Corly Velaryon, Lord Regent of Driftmark

"The air up there in the clouds is very pure and fine, bracing and delicious. And why shouldn't it be? - it is the same the angels breathe." Mark Twain
“Don't feel entitled to anything you didn't sweat and struggle for.” Marian Wright Edelman

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Arana
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Founded: Dec 13, 2013
Democratic Socialists

Postby Arana » Thu Jul 16, 2015 10:13 pm



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Brynden Woods

Heir to the Wilds

The Haunted Forest



Above the trees of the Haunted Forest, a raven soared, gazing down at the world below. From its point high above the ground, the raven could see everything there was to see: deer darting between the trees, birds in the branches taking cover from the snow, and, most importantly, a small group of humans trekking through the snowdrifts, some of them armed, others with their wrists bound. The humans called themselves Free Folk, but were known to the rest of the world as Wildlings. What they were called, the raven didn't care; all it knew was that the humans with the weapons had recently attacked a small village not far from Hardhome, killing the Night's Watch garrison there, burning homes, and taking prisoners. The humans with bound wrists were some of these. When the humans who were part of the Hardhome Watch garrison had failed to find them, they had gone to Lord Kingsblood, who had promised them that the boy would help. Taking note of the surroundings, the raven flew swiftly back to the boy, who was sitting in the snow, his eyes closed. The raven landed on the boy's head and nestled into his hair, hoping to avoid snow.

At that moment, a wolf nearby, at the time feasting on the corpse of a dead deer, looked up from its meal and began running to the place where the raven had seen the humans. As the wolf ran, still warm blood dripped from its jaws, steaming when it hit the snow. The wolf's feast on the deer may have been interrupted, but a greater one awaited it. Before long, the wolf could smell the humans nearby, and not long after he could see them as well. After following them for awhile, it seized its opportunity. Lunging, it took the human furthest from the others by surprise, ripping out its throat before it realized what was happening. The next closest died soon after, unable to see where the wolf was coming from in the driving snow. Before long, they had all been killed, and the wolf began to feast, his failure to eat the deer he had hunted completely forgotten. Only when the dead humans were little but bone did the wolf depart. Soon, he found the boy, sitting waist deep in the snow. Sitting down next to the boy, the wolf licked his cheek, leaving a smear of blood on it.

The touch of the wolf's tongue seemed to wake the boy, his blue eyes opening. Rising and shaking off the snow, the boy scratched behind the wolf's ear and headed off toward the human city.

--


By the time Brynden had returned to Hardhome, the snow had let up. The wolf strode closely by his side, occasionally licking his hand. The coppery taste of blood lingered in his mouth, and a smear of it remained on his cheek. As he reached the gates of the town, the guards smiled, recognizing him immediately, and allowed him to enter. As he walked down the roads of the town, the smallfolk living there acted the same way; many of them knew Brynden well, and he was well-liked by most of them. The only people in town who didn't like him were the members of the Night's Watch garrison there, who, despite his status as the son of a lord, still saw him as just a Wildling, and worse, a skinchanger as well. His father's people, however, loved him. As he arrived at his father's castle, he shook the snow off of himself and ran inside. The wolf, also well known by the townspeople, followed him in; the raven had long since flown off to search for food. Arriving at his father's solar, he saw Lord Gerrick Kingsblood sitting at the table reading a letter. When the lord saw his son enter, he smiled, and tossed a bone from his most recent meal to the wolf.

"I trust the hunt went well?"

Wiping the blood off of his cheek, Brynden nodded. Since the Free Folk had started becoming more active, his father had begun allowing him to help fight them, using his abilities to do what Lord Kingsblood's bannermen and the Night's Watch could not.

"Good. I received a letter earlier with some interesting news... Lord Karstark is holding a feast at Winterfell, and it seems we've been invited."

"Are we going Father?"

"Yes, we are. Please, fetch me a pen and some ink... I should respond soon."

To Torrhen Karstark, Lord Paramount of the North and Lord of Winterfell,

I have received your invitation, and would be honored to accept. My son, my wife, and I will be arriving as soon as possible, with a small honor guard just in case. The Wilds, despite my best efforts, are still a dangerous place to travel. If I may, I would also like to ask if my son, Brynden, could come and foster at Winterfell with your own children. It would be an excellent opportunity to increase relations between the Wilds and the North, and I believe he could use the experience.

Lord Gerrick Kingsblood, Lord Paramount of the Wilds and Lord of Hardhome




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King Trystane Martell

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

Queen's Landing



"Wonderful. I will have a guard show you there, then, unless you would prefer to see the city first. In that case, myself, Ser Daemon, and Dame Dorea would be glad to escort you."

The whole time he spoke, his eyes stayed on the Tyrell twins. They were beautiful, both of them... but he tried to push those thoughts aside. If he was seen to be lusting after Margaery, it would be scandalous... if Loras, it would be a nightmare. Looking back at Ser Daemon for support, the Lord Commander gave him a knowing smile, well understanding what the young king was feeling. Smiling back, Trystane looked back to the twins.

"As for your knights, I will have somebody see as to whether we can house them."



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Princess Arianne Martell

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

Queen's Landing



She would have been outraged. She would have asked him how he could dare to be so arrogant when speaking to her. She would have done many things. That is, if he wasn't right. House Tyrell's armies kept the realm safe, and their lands kept the realm fed. They had family ties to powerful lords in both the Stormlands and the Westerlands. By far, they were the most powerful single region in Westeros. And yet, she still wanted to refuse. She almost did, until a thought came into her head. What would father have done? Prince Doran would likely have consented immediately... and all the while, he'd begin plotting how to steal power back from the arrogant roses. But if they gained so much power so fast, could she do anything to turn the tide back in their favor?

"Bold words, my lord. And yet... you may be right. I have no doubt that my nephew will be a capable ruler, and yet, he has many enemies. It would certainly be wise to further secure the friendship between the Reach, Dorne, and the Crown."

Taking a deep breath, she looked Lord Willas in the eye.

"I will discuss your proposal with His Grace. I assume your daughter is already aware?"
Prophet of Lavanthulhu -- A Proud Portal Nationalist -- Bet on Bernie 2016

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And all your stupid rhyming.
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Seventeen year old probably straight Christian socialist from New England.

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Elepis
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Founded: Jan 05, 2014
Ex-Nation

Postby Elepis » Fri Jul 17, 2015 7:03 am

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House Baratheon-Donddarion of Storm's End


Renly Baratheon-Donddarion

The young lord Renly stood in front of a small, but somehow imposing mahogany door. Each panel was divided in to two sections and each section showed a different form of knowledge and learning. The top right quarter showed a man with a burning torch cauterizing an amputated leg, the bottom right showed a small, bearded man hunched over a pile of book, a small candle burning beside him, the top lefts showed two armies facing off against each other and the bottom left showed a man counting a pile of tiny coins. Renly looked at each of the section in turn before knocking on the door at the point all four quarters met.

After waiting for a number of seconds, the door opened and out came a small grey man with grey eyes and hair. He wore a robe of grey wool with voluminous sleeves. The man's eyes brightened when he saw the lord looking down at him, and in turn Renly too smiled. The man was a maester, evidenced by the large chain around his neck containing no more than sixteen metal links, in fact small Maester Aelfric wore every link awarded by the Citadel in Oldtown showing that he had studied everything from economics to astronomy and warfare to the strange "Magic and the Occult".

Stepping through the threshold in to the Measter's Apartments, Renly spoke "I hope my son Stannis is progressing in his lessons?" he said as he reclined in to a leather backed chair, embroidered with a Baratheon Stag wearing a measter's chain. Measter Aelfric looked up, a smile widening across his elderly, wrinkled face. "Oh yes My Lord, he is coming along very well." Renly nodded at that, not to surprised. As the measter poured a goblet of wine, Renly was impatient to get on to the real reason for his arrival at Aelfric's door.

"Dragons...." Renly began, swirling the wine in his goblet. "What about them My Lord?" Aelfric said, looking up from a role of parchment. The Baratheon lord took a drink of wine before he continued "They fly, they breath fire, they have teeth like swords and claws to match. Balerion the Black Dread's fire melted the walls of Harrenhal, a castle matched only by Storm's End in its strength and impregnability. A dragon is a dangerous foe, but is there anyway for those of us who do not have dragon's to stand against, and kill them?"

The measter was slightly confused by this question, but he had been expecting it. Everyone across Westeros new of the rift between Queen's Landing and Storm's End, non more so than Measter Aelfric. There were two forces holding Renly back from raising the banner of Storm's End and marching on the Capital, the Tyrells... and Dragons. If one of them could be neutralized or brought away from the Martell's, Renly would be ready to fight, and win, a second Baratheon uprising.

"Technically..." the measter said "Technically many things can kill a dragon. Daggers, spears, clubs, rocks, any weapon could kill a dragon. Many years ago the people of King's Landing killed many dragons in the Dragon Pit using makeshift weapons and tools. However, as you can imagine, if the dragon is out in the open and being ridden, it is hard to kill one with a hammer or axe." The measter paused, picking up a fallen quill.

"Range weapons can kill dragons" he continued "During the Dance, a Lysini fleet brought down a dragon using crossbows. It took along time but eventually the dragon was brought down. There are also reports of Dothraki horse-archers using bows to bring down dragons, but this too takes along time.

A quicker way to do it would be with ballistae. A ballista bolt is a lot larger, heavier and has a lot more force behind it than an arrow or crossbow bolt, meaning ballistae bolts can easily tear through dragon wings and bring them down much quicker than other range weapons. However, one would need many ballistae so other can fire while some reload, if you just had one or two ballisate, the dragon would quickly overwhelm and burn the machines. Even with massed ranks of ballista it would be hit and miss. However, if one had Repeating Ballistae it would be easier to obtain a much higher rate of fire and thus bring down the dragon faster".


Renly nodded, he then stood up and wen to the window, looking over the semicircular courtyard and over to the southern wall and Drum Tower. "Do such repeating machines exist?". Aelfric nodded "Indeed they do My Lord. They are widespread in the East, across Essos. The Pentoshi, Myrmen, Volantenes and Ghiscari all use them to defend forts and walled towns against Dothraki warriors, to good effect. They are not used much here in Westeros for reasons I do not know. "

Renly smiled at this news "Good, very good in fact. Do you designs for such a machine on you good Measter?" . Aelrifc stood, walking over to a vast bookshelf. "I do somewhere, in my copy of 'The Essosi Wars and Bleeding Years'." . Renly clapped his hands once at this and said "Good, find these designs and send them to the Armoury, tell them to start making as many as they see fit to defend the castle. Send orders to the Marcher Lords and Blackwater Lords to do the same." Renly paused, reaching in to his pocket. "Another thing, I want you to send this letter to Riverrun" he said, handing over a sealed piece of paper.

As the lord turned to leave, the Measter shouted behind him "My lord, a raven form Winterfell arrived half an hour ago". Aelfric handed Renly the letter and after Renly had read it he said "very good, send a reply to the Karstark's saying we accept their offer. Know that I think about it, send one to House Chauston, requesting to stay in Black Harbour for a night before we sail up North."


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House Baratheon-Donddarion of Storm's End

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

As I said in my previous letter, I am so very sad for Lord Edmure's death. However, unlike last time I write for what I hope are more happy reasons.

I have a sister, Lyanna. She is a bright, happy, intelligent and beautiful nine and ten year old woman, she has long been happy at Storm's End but both I and herself believe she needs to be married soon. Thus, I think it would be beneficial to both of us if your son Hoster were to marry the Lady Lyanna.

This marriage will be mutually beneficial, not only will Lyanna and Hoster be happily and peacefully married but the people of both our lands will be better off. The Riverlands will have the friendship and defense of Storm's End to call upon, meaning it will have another 30,000 swords to defend it in the event of war. The Stormlands will also have the support of the Riverlands in times of war and conflict. This will not only make our two lands safer but will also increase trade between us, making both our peoples better off.

I look forward to receiving your response,

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



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House Baratheon-Donddarion of Storm's End

To: Torrhen Karstark, Lord of Winterfell, Lord Paramount of the North

I shall attend this event myself, to revive the old friendship between the lords of the North and the Stromlords. The Stormlords have not forgotten how the North came to our aide during Robert's Rebellion or how King Stannis I Baratheon saved the North from the forces of Mance Ryder as well as the Others. I shall bring with me five of my greatest and bravest knights and lords. I shall also bring forty or so guards for myself and the other lords. I cover their expenses.

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



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House Baratheon-Donddarion of Storm's End

To: Lyric Chauston, Lord of Blackrock Watch, Lord-Mayor of Black Harbor, and Protectors of the Blackwater

I and a retinue of two hundred knights, lords and men-at-arms shall be travelling North in around five days to meet the ships of Lord Bar Emmon and sail north to White Harbour. It will honour us if you let me and my party stay in Black Harbour for one night before we split, the lords going North, the men-at-arms back south.

I hope you agree to house us for one night,

Renly Baratheon-Donddarion, Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount Stormlands
Last edited by Elepis on Fri Jul 17, 2015 8:36 am, edited 7 times in total.
"Krugmar - Today at 10:00 PM
Not sure that'll work on Elepis considering he dislikes (from what I've observed):
A: Nationalism
B: Religion being taken seriously
C: The Irish"

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Delsola
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Founded: Nov 29, 2011
Ex-Nation

Postby Delsola » Fri Jul 17, 2015 11:05 am

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The heat of the midday sun bore down on the men of the Golden Company assembled at the forest tree-line. Numbering eight-hundred men-at-arms armoured in the Westerosi fashion and two-hundred Unsullied, accompanied by five score mounted troops. Most laughed heartily at a job well done, as their contract to Lys had that day been fulfilled; five-hundred bandits, suspected mercenaries hired by Myr or Tyrosh flying false banners, had been crossing the Disputed Forest to the Lysene trading post on the other side regularly for three moon cycles, raiding cargo and taking slaves back north. Now, the bandits were dead. But although the men laughed, their unease was apparent to Lord Roose. For where the men stood, the ground was wet and marshy with blood and the air thick and metallic to the taste, despite the battle taking place some distance inside the forest amongst the sprawling roots and uneven ground. Roose thought this good. Soldiers should fear their betters. Lest they forget their loyalties.

It was apparent to any who knew the Leech Lord that this Roose Bolton was his father's son. The image of his father in his youth, Roose had inherited the eyes that had struck fear into men and kings, cold and pale as the Moon in midwinter. Over his golden armour he wore a pink cloak, lines with red, the colours of house Bolton, sopping wet with fresh blood. But it did not take knowing his Lord father to recognise young Roose. Tales had spread as far north as Braavos of the Tanner. Flaying had not been common in Essos until Roose had decided to remember the words of his ancient line. And it was this very practice that had stained the ground below, so far from the battle. First he had flayed the bandit leader. Personally. The whimpering wreck had told the Company everything they needed to know; the names of who hired them, where the stolen goods were, even how much they had been paid to do it. But it didn't help. For a mile East and a mile West, five-hundred flayed men hung from the tree-line, rotting in the Summer heat. Carrion birds already circled overhead, ready to feast. Those that had escaped were like to return, and when they did they would know that the Tanner had skinned the Disputed Forest.

As fresh blood dripped from the last-hung bodies, some still moaning in the last minutes of agonising life, a bannerman displaying the quartered twin towers and bridge of the crossing, and the golden skulls of the Golden Company rode to his commander. Walder Frey, known as Brown Walder for his mixed Ghiscari heritage, shared the weaselish features of his forbearer, the Late Lord Frey. Roose turned to attention. This particular Frey had been his squire before being knighted the prior year, and had been left in Lys as an assurance of loyalty to the city.

"Ser Walder," Roose began, his voice both soft and authoritative, "How strange of you to ride out and find us. I trust all goes well in Lys?"
"It does, my Lord" the Frey responded, his eyes constantly darting between his commander and the sickening tapestry just behind him, "I come with a message from the capital. You and your host have been summoned by King Aegon to court in Meereen as soon as possible. Here, my Lord, the message carries the King's personal seal." He handed a roll of parchment to his kinsman.

Roose scanned the letter and confirmed its contents, sealed in red wax showing a three headed dragon and composed in Aegon's personal neat script. "Then we leave for Lys immediately," he commanded, rolling the parchment back up. "Find you kin. Tell them to get the men into formation."

The march through the Disputed Forest was not a long one, taking eight hours at the most for the well-drilled Golden Company. Along the way, Brown Walder heard tell of Serjeant Bolton's strategic marvel. The mounted men had approached from the North across the plains, making a great hoopla as they marched. The encamped bandits, out of formation, retreated into the woods to blunt the charge, coming over a steep ridge that the horses could not run down easily. As they barrelled down the hill they had blundered straight into the Unsullied spearwall, a trap set by Roose, before the men-at-arms sprung from the trees on either side. The jaws of the encirclement closed. Unable to retreat easily up the hill, most of the bandits were killed or captured, with many of those that escaped facing the cavalry still in the plains. All those that did not escape died in the forest, or were flayed. Brown Walder was sure the Lysene would pay quickly.
Last edited by Delsola on Fri Jul 17, 2015 1:12 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Givious
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Posts: 761
Founded: Apr 23, 2010
Ex-Nation

Postby Givious » Fri Jul 17, 2015 4:18 pm

Addam Marbrand, Lord of Ashemark and Castamere
Ashemark, Westerlands
Day 0

Image


Addam sat in his study, reading a letter sent to him by Robb Tully dealing the death of Edmure Tully and him being invited to the funeral in Riverrun. Addam was skeptical, as the last time he had been to Riverrun he had been a besieger. Although he was married to a Bracken, his son married to a Blackwood and his daughter married to a Tully, he knew that he was hated in the Riverlands for the sins of the Lannisters. He also knew however that this was his best chance at keeping relations from boiling over, and he needed that to keep power in the Westerlands. As he looked over his letters he heard a knock on his door.

"Come in." One of the Marbrand Men at Arms enters. "What is it?"

"Your son Cedrick approaches mylord."

Addam rises quickly, walking to the courtyard and seeing his son ride in at the head of a large column. Walking out to his son, he holds his arms open for a hug as Cedrick dismounts. Both laugh as they embrace, behind them Addam can hear Jaime and Tywin approaching from the battlements.

"Son, welcome home." Addam whispers in his sons ear.

"It is good to be home father... far too long."

"Brother!" Jaime approaches with an embrace for his brother, looking back at the wagon following his brother. "And what might that be?"

"Gold from the mines of Castamere, alive once more... as well as this." Cedrick hands his father a letter, Addam scanning the contents. "The Lannisters send their regards" Cedrick says, almost mockingly.

"Watch your tongue Cedrcik," Addam snaps at him, looking at the baggage brought with Cedrick. A full case of Arbor gold, something held in a very prized position.

"Load it on the baggage train Cedrcik."

"Father?"

"I have been invited to Riverrun, I will take it with me for the funeral. Jaime will be Lord Paramount while I am away, Tywin will go with me."

"And I will return to my little hole in the ground," Cedrick smiles, a little hint of anger in his gritted teeth.

"No son, I need you here, helping your brother with the running of the realm. With your gold that makes the final shipment from the north, all that remains is the southern shipment which should be arriving within a week. We must prepare a shipment for Queen's Landing."

"I will have it done father." Cedrick turns around, knowing full well what was coming.
Imperial Givosion State

“Patience is power.
Patience is not an absence of action;
rather it is "timing"
it waits on the right time to act,
for the right principles
and in the right way.”

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Dernland
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Posts: 1713
Founded: Jul 15, 2014
Ex-Nation

Postby Dernland » Fri Jul 17, 2015 6:31 pm

House Ardnell
Conquered By None
Feared By All


Day Four of the Reign of Willem Ardnell


Lord Willem Ardnell sat at a small round table with the members of his council. "M'Lord, are you sure that's wise?" His master of coin, a frail, thin man who spent his day in his study, pouring over various solutions to his late Lord's debt. "Nothing else you have given me has seemed to work, no matter how wise things may have seemed. I want every other blacksmith in the city to be set to the work of making weapons and armor, and I want as many fields that can be spared to be prepared to bear wheat. A war is brewing and people will need tools of war and food, if we can supply these then we can recover from my Father's ill deeds." Willem stood, gesturing to the man. "You have your orders Master Lauen, now see to them. Maester Robb, how are the people reacting to my Father's demise?"

Maester Robb was a fat man, with a wisp of dark grey hair on his head and another trailing from his chin. "The small-folk seem to be taking it well." The man chuckled, "Not to insult your father's memory, but the people are dancing in the streets. They hope that you will fix their problems, and if you do not, they will likely kill you." The fat man stopped his laughing when he saw the serious look that Willem was giving him "I know very well that my life is on the line here, that is why things are changing, NOW. You're all dismissed." Willem collapsed into his chair, holding his head in his hands. "Master Paeter, why are you still here?" The man in question was a young man, of an age with Willem. Paeter was Willems master of whisperers, and a relatively poor one. "Sorry M'Lord, but your mother is outside. She has several Ladies from around the area that she is going to try and set you up with." Willem looked up with a grim smile. "Thanks for the warning Paeter. Tell her that I don't have time for any lady. This Lordship is falling apart and we don't have the money to even have a wedding."
I am a Mormon

I have no wives
I love jello


I don't hate homosexuals
Potatoes are a staple of my diet, but only because my family's Irish


I'm not rich.


TG me any more stereotypes and I'll see if they fit.

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Liriena
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Posts: 60885
Founded: Nov 19, 2010
Ex-Nation

Postby Liriena » Sat Jul 18, 2015 1:52 am

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Lord Sylvester Lannister
Lord of Casterly Rock and Lannisport


Outskirts of Lannisport, Westerlands


Even from afar, the Rock was a breathtaking wonder, large and tall and golden in the light of sunset. The caves carved into the stone were still visible, the Lion's Mouth gaping wider and taller than all the others, great feline fangs sculptured long ago on its rim, its eternal roar silent yet still awe-inspiring.

Light clouds were forming on the horizon, but over his house's lands the heavens were clear, their light comfortably warm, and the breeze was gentle, barely a soft sigh on Sylvester Lannister's pale skin. Now that they were miles away from the sea and its winds, the air lacked its usual coolness and saltiness. Instead, there was only the aroma of the grasslands and hills, dry and fragrant. Soon, Sylvester found himself closing his eyes and taking deep breaths, feeling strangely invigorated and nostalgic as he filled his chest with air.

The saddle his father had made for him showed little wear, now that he sat upon it once more, after years of riding inside gilded carriages. Even if his red mare's every step made him feel a little dizzy, he was as comfortable on it as he had been the last time he had ridden, returning to the Rock from Silverhill, suddenly orphaned and enthroned. The harness that kept him upright was not too tight, and it was well concealed beneath his crimson cloak, along with his Braavosi blade and some pieces of paper.

The Lord of Casterly Rock and Lannisport did not ride at the fore of his retinue, but at the heart of it, and thus he was surrounded by the sound of hooves, which muffled the many voices of his companions. Four and ten Lion Knights of the Rock had ridden out of the Lion's Mouth with their young liege, all of them hand-picked by Ser Jaime and Ser Tyrek, who were riding with him as well, one at each side of him. Along with them had come three dozens of men from the City Watch of Lannisport, courtesy of his cousin Myrcella, to watch over the baggage train and the servants, selected by Sylvester himself.

That Robb Tully had responded at all was a victory in itself, Sylvester thought as they passed by a group of peasants working in the fields. All saluted when they saw his house's sigil, crying their blessings from the Seven with what Sylvester recognised as utmost sincerity. He smiled at them and waved from between his Lion Knights, his eyes searching amongst them for a face full of freckles, with pale blue eyes and long red hair. He did not find it, but his smile did not falter.

As they carried onwards, leaving the peasants behind, Sylvester continued to gaze upon the fields, wondering if he could remember the exact place in the grass where he had once sat with his father, after hours of riding in his new saddle, feasting on lemon pies and watered wine as they watched the sun set behind the Rock. Sylvester had been three and ten, and a mere three months had passed since the day he had woken up a cripple, but on that singular day he had been content. His father had spent hours telling him of his past adventures, finally trusting his son to be old enough to hear the most unsavoury parts of his tale, and finding that his son loved him still despite it all. They had been alone but for their guards nearby and some peasants working in the distance.




It was at the end of his father's tale, with both their eyes glimmering with tears, that Sylvester first glimpsed that face full of freckles, with pale blue eyes and long red hair. He thought it was as youthful as his, yet far more handsome, lacking his own's sickly paleness and bony angles.

The face belonged to a peasant, the eldest son of a large family that had been working these fields for generations, going as far back as Gerold the Gold's rule. He himself had been in those fields since before he could walk, and now was cautiously approaching the two Lannisters, together with a dozen others. They were all eager to see their liege, to loudly praise him and meekly plead for his favour, and to offer him pigs, chickens, rabbits and armfuls of freshly picked vegetables as gifts. Their manner of speech was unrefined but polite, and even if they had had no maester to teach them of House Lannister's history, their memories served them well enough, as they told his father of how much harder things had been during the War of the Five Kings, and how much happier they were now that he ruled.

All of them stared at Sylvester and his father far more than was courteous when they were not speaking, and one of the children caused a flurry of apologies when he asked why their lord did not have a nose. But none of their looks, however morbidly fascinated, affected Sylvester nearly as much as the one those pale blue eyes gave him. He saw a sweet yearning in them, the likes of which he had read of in poems, and it made something inside him flutter. When that freckled face braved a small smile to accompany bowing in farewell, Sylvester returned the gesture with frantic haste, and between nervous stutters asked each of those gathered for their names, and committed the smiling one's to his memory as he climbed back on his saddle, the heavens darkening above.





A hand was pressed against his left shoulder, plate of the gauntlet cold enough to be felt through his cloak, eliciting a small shiver from the young lord. He turned quickly, attentive as always once he was broken from his reverie, and smiled warmly at Jaime.

The young knight's mouth was hidden behind his helm, but Sylvester could see his eyes, green as his own, and they were smiling back.

"Just making sure my lord is not falling ill at the very beginning of our journey." The knight said. "I promised Ser Tyrek a golden dragon if we had to get you off your saddle before nightfall."

"I think it is far more likely that Ser Tyrek will make us stop to relieve himself before nightfall." Sylvester retorted, turning to the other twin. "No offense, ser."

Tyrek seemed to smile as well, if only for a moment, but soon there was concern in his eyes. "My lord, why is the red priest coming with us?"

Sylvester almost pursed his lips at the question. Others had already questioned him about it, including the red priest in question, and his response had changed each time, an air of nonchalance the only constant. It was feigned nonchalance, and it was a necessity. A more heartfelt answer, one that actually expressed his feelings and thoughts, would have caused a storm within the Rock, even if spoken in the intimacy of his solar.




"Cousin, at least take a septon with your retinue as well. You must think of how this will reflect on you and your house." Tommen pleaded with the saddest, most pitiful expression a man of his age and size could muster, leaning down on him, a hand on Sylvester's stack of unsent letters. Behind his ever sweet cousin, the equally ever sweet Margaery stared intently, pursed lips hidden behind an apple she was pretending to eat. Olenna, on the other hand, was sitting by the window, lost in her reading, softly humming a tune.

Sylvester smiled up at both from his chair, placing a hand on his cousin's, and cooed softly at the older man. "Don't worry, cousin. I am bringing two septas to accompany your daughter."

"I beg your pardon?" Margaery's voice pierced through the air like a rose's thorn, deceptively gentle as always. "My daughter?"

"Olenna." He said, nodding to her, and his smile suddenly turned mischievous. "The ugly one."

"Says the cripple." Scoffed Olenna, grinning back at him.

"You are not taking my daughter to Riverrun." Margaery spoke again. The lack of courtesy in her words, though expected, still sounded foreign to Sylvester's ears. It was a rare occurrence for Margaery Tyrell to lose her composure like that.

"Your daughter is a woman grown, and she asked to come." Sylvester said, hand raised in Olenna's direction, serving as her cue to interject.

"Someone from the family must accompany him. Someone who can be trusted, and who knows how to make friends." Her manner of speech was concise, a monolith that would not tolerate further discussion, even if it was warranted. "And I might find a proper suitor there, hopefuly from the North. I hear that Northmen are very hard fellows, very straight-forward."

Sylvester carried on speaking, not letting anyone linger on her last words. "I thought of asking your son to come with us as well, for Olenna's sake, but then it ocurred to me you would object to that as well, so..."

"Why do you even have to go yourself, my lord? Tommen would gladly go in your stead." Margaery interjected, prompting her husband to smile back at her with the most loving devotion, and nod enthusiastically. That made Sylvester feel a bit of longing and jealousy, but not so much that he would have shown it.

"Yes, but then I would have to bring you as well, and our retinue is large enough as it is." He said, lacing his words with a near imperceptible bit of mockery. "Besides, I've never visited Riverrun before, and as much as I love your husband, I would never leave our long overdue reconciliation with the Tullys in his hands, specially if Lord Marbrand is going to be there. Our good Tommen is an exceptional castellan, and that's what I want him to be, not my emissary."

His cousin's still very lovely wife took a rather large, and clearly angry bite out of her apple. After she crushed it with the full power of her jaws and swallowed without tasting, she spoke again. "What about Myrcella?"

"With or without her bastards?" Sylvester retorted with a deliberate, slow inflection, but still playing the mummer's farce that were his gentle voice and warm smile.

For once, both Tommen and Margaery were silent, and Sylvester sighed, fingers patting the back of his cousin's hand.

"I don't give myself illusions, cousins." He said, and his smile was as sincere as it looked. "They are going to stare at me and my wheeled chair and my red priest. Some will even comment on it behind my back. But only until I start showering them with sweet smiles, wholehearted compliments and lavish gifts. Because nobody really cares about how red a priest is, or how crippled a lion is, if the two come with arms full of gold, saffron and Myrish lace."

Silence did not get an opportunity to reign again in the solar, as Olenna spoke from beside the window once more. "And if he gives Myrish lace to the right maiden, our own crippled lion may return to the Rock with a cute wife of his own, hopefully not from the North."

The two shared a grin then, and all talk of the red priest ended for the day.





"I don't want to leave him alone in Casterly Rock." Sylvester answered simply, not looking back at the man in question, a few horses behind them, silently riding in his loose red robe. It was harder to lie to Jaime and Tyrek. It had always been harder to lie to them, the men who watched over him day and night.

"For the Rock's sake, or his?" Tyrek asked.

"The Rock's." Sylvester said, and his tone, along with his raised eyebrows, strongly implied that it was the only answer that could possibly come from him, that the other option was preposterous. "I am keeping it free of the Red God's corrupting influence, and safely in the hands of the Seven. And who knows? Maybe we will find a more accomodating liege for him in Riverrun."

Tyrek was not satisfied. "Everyone attending Lord Tully's funeral worships the Seven or the Old Gods. Do you truly intend to ride to Riverrun with a red priest by your side?"

"Technically, ser, you are the one riding by my side." He said, smiling again.

Tyrek moved closer, and placed a hand on Sylvester's arm, before he spoke again. "People may think ill of you if they see you with him."

The young lord moved to hold the knight's hand, and his smile softened, before he retorted. "Tyrek, I'm a Lannister. People have been thinking ill of me since before I was born. What's one red priest against my house's legacy?"

"Besides, once they see me doing the finger dance, those lords will forget about the red priest." Said Jaime, with laughter in his voice, and it was not clear whether he was jesting or not. His brother groaned.

"You are not doing the finger dance." Said Tyrek, his feigned exasperation barely hiding his amusement. "You'll probably lose your own bloody cock trying, and then mother is going to cut mine off for not stopping you, and I intend to keep using mine."

"Oh, but he is so good at it, ser! You must allow it!" Sylvester laughed, his joy only interrupted for a moment by a coughing fit, gone as abruptly as it had come, which left his throat sore. Even then, he laughed with the twin knights.

The stars had begun to shine bright in the heavens when their jesting and conversing finally died down. Behind them, Casterly Rock had become a vast black monolith, its enormity covered by the hundreds of bright red stars that were its caves and windows, in which fires had now been lit.

Now, most of Sylvester's retinue spoke in whispers, save for the knights, who were now on their guard, keeping an eye on the darkness that was now surrounding them. While the twins looked elsewhere, the young lord took the opportunity to glance at the red priest, and found the tall man's black eyes staring into his like still black pools. The man called Shiren was smiling placidly, as he was wont to do in most circumstances, and when Sylvester nodded at him, smiling himself, the man approached on his own red mare, until he was riding between him and Jaime.

"Did you wish to speak with me, my lord?" Said the red priest, his accent barely noticeable, but still there. It sounded strange to Sylvester's ears.

"Did your fires tell you anything about this journey?" Sylvester asked in a whisper, leaning slightly towards the red priest, gloved hands holding the reins of his mare tight.

"The Lord of Light has shown me a burning boat floating down a river..." The priest began, only for Sylvester to interject with what anybody else would have considered uncharacteristically harsh nonchalance.

"That's a typical Tully funeral."

The red priest paused, looking intently into the other's eyes, before he began again. "The Lord of Light has shown me a burning boat floating down a river, and your banner flying alongside another, the wind moving them closer and closer to one another, until they meet and become one."

Sylvester raised his eyebrows, looking sideways for a moment before speaking. "And what house does my future wife belong to?"

"I know not. The flames won't let me see..." The red priest answered, smiling again. "Nor do they let me see if the person to whom the banner belongs is a man or a woman."

The last part made Sylvester sigh. "So, probably not a wife, but a highborn paramour. The Dornish will love me, at least."

"I have also seen Queen's Landing crowned with flowers and thorns..." Shiren continued without hesitation, but once again Sylvester spoke up.

"I wonder, is it really a prophecy if it's already happening?"

The red priest seemed genuinely amused. "Would my lord care to hear the whole prophecy before judging?"

"I would very much rather you told me the part you know I truly care about." Responded Sylvester, not even pretending to share the other's amusement, and showing instead a very honest and almost child-like intrigue. "Tell me about the lions."

"The lions will step outside their caves, but not to conquer." The red priest said, nodding reverently. "They will whisper at first, soothing the other creatures into complacency, feeding them treats. Then they shall rise, mighter than ever, to defend the Lord's chosen. Their roar will be heard from the Riverlands to Dorne as they tear into the throats of the Great Other's thralls. I have seen you, my lord, sailing on a great ship, sword in hand, with countless other ships rallying to your call."

"I will be leading the retreat, like as not." Sylvester quipped, his blade suddenly feeling awfully heavy on his belt. "At least I can rest easy knowing I'm not Azor Ahai reborn yet again. I hate fire and smoke. Now, was there anything else relevant to my visit to Riverrun?"

"No, my lord." The red priest said, his smile wavering.

"What about... my father?" Sylvester asked, hesitant.

Shiren's voice was gentle as the breeze as he answered. "The same as always, my lord... I saw the vial in the assassin's hand, and I saw black drops falling into your father's cup. I saw that same assassin anointed for his foul deed, and from your father's grave I saw a great tree rise and burn..."

"Addam Marbrand did not kill my father." The Lord of Casterly Rock and Lannisport snapped at him, his grip on the reins suddenly so tight it hurt, and for once there was an unconcealed darkness in his eyes, an impotent fury and undying sadness that were always there, lingering. "You are a false prophet."

"Then why do you keep me by your side?" Shiren enquired, seemingly unaffected by his lord's reaction, although Sylvester could plainly see that it was a farce, just like his own smile often was.

"Because you saved me." Sylvester whispered, gazing deep into those black eyes, and smiled. "And my father taught me to be grateful."
Last edited by Liriena on Tue Jul 21, 2015 10:22 am, edited 4 times in total.
be gay do crime


I am:
A pansexual, pantheist, green socialist
An aspiring writer and journalist
Political compass stuff:
Economic Left/Right: -8.13
Social Libertarian/Authoritarian: -8.92
For: Grassroots democracy, workers' self-management, humanitarianism, pacifism, pluralism, environmentalism, interculturalism, indigenous rights, minority rights, LGBT+ rights, feminism, optimism
Against: Nationalism, authoritarianism, fascism, conservatism, populism, violence, ethnocentrism, racism, sexism, religious bigotry, anti-LGBT+ bigotry, death penalty, neoliberalism, tribalism,
cynicism


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if you passed biology and know
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I disown most of my previous posts

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Elepis
Powerbroker
 
Posts: 8963
Founded: Jan 05, 2014
Ex-Nation

Postby Elepis » Sat Jul 18, 2015 2:48 am

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House Baratheon-Donddarion of Storm's End


Renly Baratheon-Donddarion

Renly Baratheon sat on his high backed Throne, his hand grasping at the stag head on the right hand arm rest. Wearing his gold enameled armour over a green doublet, he looked over the assembled mass of Stormlords. As he prepared to speak he could feel the presence, like he always did when he sat on this Throne, of King Stannis I Baratheon. "As you know, I and a number of Stormlords shall be travelling North to Winterfell for a tournament in honour of Lord Karstark. This event will keep me away from my beloved lands for two months or so and during that time I will not be able to administer the affairs of the Stormlands. Thus, until I return, my brother, Ser Davos Baratheon-Donddarion shall be named Lord Regent of the Stormlands." He paused then, looking at each lord in turn, reading the expressions on their faces.

"In the event I die during the journey, my son shall inherit Storm's End and the Stormlands. However, until he comes of age Ser Davos shall remain Lord Regent. I here by ask you all, my loyal lords, to swear the following oaths. That during my absence you shall follow the commands of my brother as dutifully as you have followed me. If I do not return from the North, you shall recognize my son, Stannis as Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Lord of Storm's End. You shall also recognize Ser Davos as Lord Regent until he comes of age. The final oath is that if I am murdered or assassinated, you, the Lords of the Stormlands shall hunt down the culprit and bring him or her to justice, no matter how high or low he is. "

When he had finished, Lord Renly raised his mailed hand to signal the lords forwards. In turn they grasped his arm and swore the oaths. They came in order of power and influence, first Lord Baelor Swann of Stonehelm, then Edric Donddarion of Griffin's Roost, then Lord Jaime Tarth of Tarth. Other lords who came forwards included Lord Caron of Darkhall, Lord Buckler of Bronzegate and Lord Estermont of Greenstone. However, by the end of the ceremony all the lord's faces had blurred in to one fuzzy black haired noble blob.

Renly stood, his breastplate clunking as he did. "Thank you My Lords, I will rest easy knowing my wife, son and brother have such noble and honourable men protecting them while I am away." The assembled lords then barked in unison "Long Live Lord Renly! Long Live House Baratheon!" To any outsider those two phrases might have seemed out of place in a Lord castle, and instead more at home at the court of a King. Indeed, that was what was interned, to create an illusion of Baratheon monarchy. Like the Throne and the Crowned Stag, shouting "Long Live Lord Renly" was meant to imply that the Baratheon's were the true royal family of Wetseros.

When the ceremony had finished, Lord Renly lead the other Lords and Laides outside the gates of Storm's End, to the military courtyard. There awaited two hundred men-at-arms, most of whom were armed with Halberd's and swords. Each man wore a sallet open-visor helmet and had a short gold cape, emblazoned with a Crowned Stag . At the front of the column were eight riderless horses and four standard bearers. The front two men carried large Baratheon sigils on long poles, the two men behind carried bugles which they would play to announce the column and to keep the men marching in step. The nine horses were for the five nobles who would travel north, Renly, and his sister, the beautiful raven haired nineteen year old, Lyanna.

The five nobles, Ser Hal Swann, Ser Lyo Caron, Lord Smyth Buckler, Ser Jon Tarth and Lord Kyle Mistwood. The sixth noble joining them would be Ser Eddard Bar Emmon on his brother's Dromon of War, Swordfish. The nobles climbed in to their saddles first, then Lord Renly helped his younger sister in to her saddle and finally he climbed on to his war horse Smoke. Renly kicked his horse forwards, and as he left his family's ancient stronghold, the assembled servants, men-at-arms, knights and lords once again shouted "Long Live Lord Renly!". The party would travel today too Bronzegate to spend the night there, they would then of on to Black Harbour and eventually Winterfell.
Last edited by Elepis on Sat Jul 18, 2015 7:46 am, edited 2 times in total.
"Krugmar - Today at 10:00 PM
Not sure that'll work on Elepis considering he dislikes (from what I've observed):
A: Nationalism
B: Religion being taken seriously
C: The Irish"

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