ASoIaF: The Storm Rises (IC)

by **Elepis** » Mon May 02, 2016 3:50 am

House Nymeros-Martell of Sunspear

"Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken"

Doran Martell
The Sandship
Sunspear

"My Prince" came a voice from behind Doran. He has been lying back in his chair, not sleeping exactly but not quite awake. Just trying to enjoy one of the few moments in which he felt some semblance of calm. Out in front of him the Summer Sea washed up on the sandy shores of Dorne and further out a Martell Galley towed a small Cog, probably a smuggler's, in towards port. A visible reminder of the trouble brewing outside the triple walls of Sunspear. Doran blinked his eyes twice and turned his head to where the voice had came from.

"yes maester?" he said, stifling a yaw.

The young, pale and ginger head of the Maester came in to view, his perfumed and combed beard and hair glinting in the sun. The young man bowed to his Prince and began again.

"Sorry to disturb, my prince, but there are more reports of Piracy in the stepstones and Narrow Sea. The Lord of Estermont has sent word that towns on the southern side of his island have been put to the sword while he hears similar reports from across the southern Stormlands." the young maester said, his voice assured and calm.

"Pirates raid the Narrow Sea coasts all the time. It is of no concern to us." replied Doran, slightly angry at this pointless interruption.

"If I may" the young man continued, irrespective of Doran's annoyance. "These raids seem more organized than others we have seen. Lord Estermont mentions war galleys with trained sailors, not the usual cogs or raiders most pirates use. There are reports of the Lyseni Salladhor Saan being seen entering the Stepstones. It is possible that he has brought together some confederation of Pirates, though to what end I cannot say."

"Is it possible these raids could have any connection to the missing Royal Fleet? and can't Lys, Tyrosh or Myr deal with this confederation? They all have powerful fleets and they need the Stepstones open." Doran countered, his interest in the matter growing.

"It is possible that the Velaryon bastard has taken his ships to the Stepstones, there are reports from traders of large warships in the area. As for the three daughters dealing with it, I would not be so confident. They are more concerned with fighting each other than a band of unwahsed pirates."

Doran nodded slowly at this "Well, there is little we can do about it. Dorne has next to no sea power and the ships we do have are needed to protect Sunspear and Plankytown. It is unlikely Saan would attack us anyway, the northern coast of Dorne is a hard land, and a poor one. Send messages to the lords and knights on the north. Tell them to be vigilant for pirates but warn them there is little any of us can do about it."

As the maester left Doran turned over a mental map of southern Westeros over in his head. When the time came, if it came, there were two invasion routes for the Dornish armies. The Prince's Pass and the Boneway. At the moment there were five thousand riders in the Prince's Pass and another five thousand in the Boneway. The Prince's was the wider of the two and the easiest to navigate, spilling out in to the open fields of the Reach good for plunder and almost impossible to intercept the column once they were in the open. However the Reach Lords were strong and still had good reserves of men and the Stormlord at Nightsong could prove a problem. The Boneway was different, smaller and longer it emptied in to the eastern Stormlands. The Baratheon lands were poorer and less populated than the Reach but many of their houses had been bled dry in money and men and thus the land was open all the way to King's Landing. In total the Dornish force should reach twelve thousand, ten thousand Dornish and around two thousand sellswords. Twelve thousand men were waiting for Doran's word. Twelve thousand to spread fear through the north in the name of the Dragon queen. Once, if, the invasion was launched the two forces would meet up at some point on the road to King's Landing and hopefully rendezvous with the armies of Queen Daenerys. And her Dragons.

Marwyn Baker
Myr

Marwyn was a long way from home. There was no where like Myr in Dorne, the two largest towns in Dorne, Sunspear and Plankytown, would easily fit within the old city of Myr while the harbour of Myr would easily swallow the entire Dornish fleet. Luckily he was not the phased by the size and grandeur of Myr, before joining the Martell Guards, Marwyn had served as a guard on a series of Traders crossing the Narrow Sea and as big as Myr was, it was small compared to Volantis which was by far the largest place Marwyn had ever visited. But unlike his previous trips to the port of the Free Cities, Marwyn was here not as a sellsword but as a gentleman warrior and servant of a Prince.

Currently Marwyn was walking around the circular harbour of Myr, his mind focusing distinctly on two different subjects. One was his official business here, two find a sellsword company of good repute and convince them to fight for Dorne. Of course with sellswords convince meant offer more money than anyone else. To find a sellsword company Marwyn had kept his ear to the ground in the less reputable areas of Myr. Most companies including the Golden Company, the Windblown and the Company of the Cat were away on Slaver's Bay fighting for or against the Dragon Queen. The Company of the Rose, Doran's favoured company, were in the north fighting for Norvos against Qohor. So far the Company of the Rising Sun seemed the most favourable. Made up of medium and heavy infantry they would be a good compliment for Dorne's cavalry and skirmisher based army who would suffer in a siege. They were camped near My as well.
The other subject on Marwyn's mind was far less professional, he was remembering the black haired boy he had enjoyed last night with a small portion of Doran's money. Tomorrow he would try and find this Ghiscari company but today he felt he owed himself some of the worldly pleasures on offer in this slaver city.

by **Blackledge** » Mon May 02, 2016 12:33 pm

House Arryn

The atmosphere within the Great Hall was less than comfortable, strained perhaps by the newness of the sitting lord paramount. Unlike the last time the lords had met, the room was not filled. The tables and benches had mostly been put up, with only a few pulled close together before the dais remaining. On the seats and benches sat lords and ladies of the Vale with a handful of retainers, primarily kin. Few of the torches had been lit in the hall, and those that had been were focused around the tables. Each was dressed finely, yet less flashily than might normally be expected. Colors and sigils still abounded, and it would be hard for anyone present to miss the runes of Royce, broken wheel of Waynwood, arrows of Hunter, bells of Belmore or burning tower of Grafton, among others.

Harrold's fingers dug into the arms of the chair he occupied upon the dais. Smoothly, calmly, Alayne rested a hand upon one of his own. He glanced at her sideways, gaining strength from her confidence in him. No, not Alayne, he reminded himself. Sansa Stark of Winterfell.

Those gathered knew the truth now. With the lord protector now gone, some had protested his supposed baseborn daughter's presence at their new lord's council. When Harrold divulged her true identity, it had produced a shocked silence. Quickly that silence had turned to anger, aimed at those who had laid low the former allies of the Vale. Who had shed blood together in King Robert's rebellion against the Targaryens. In quick succession Bronze Yohn, Horton Redfort and Benedar Belmore had urged action in Lady Sansa's name, to press her claim to the north. In the long discussion that followed Lady Anya Waynwood had pointed out that before the gods Harrold's marriage to Sansa could not be legitimate until Tyrion Lannister was discovered to be dead, or the High Septon annulled their union. Harrold revealed that he had already dispatched Nestor Royce to King's Landing, to meet with the new High Septon to discuss this very matter. That appeased his lords. Bronze Yohn had nodded, crossing his arms and affirming it to be a just course of action.

For her part, Sansa had smiled and thanked them politely, neither taking charge of the discussion or urging them on but instead allowing them to reach their own conclusions. Her time with Littlefinger seemed to have given her a piece of his wits, it seemed to Harrold.

"Harry," she said, tapping his hand. The servants had brought refreshments, giving a reprieve to the council, but he was brought back to the now by her attentions. Raised squire, knighted comparatively recently, the weight of his new position was heavy on his shoulders. Bronze Yohn had graciously accepted his request to act as High Steward of the Vale in Lord Nestor's absence, and serve as his right hand as he learned. Lady Anya, of course, never considered leaving as long as her former ward sought her advice. It was at her advice he had sent Ser Albar Royce with one hundred men-at-arms and twenty knights to escort Lord Baelish to Harrenhal.

"We still have much to plan and consider. The former lord protector's standing advice on the storage of food for the upcoming winter. No lord will be permitted to empty a granary for merchant's silver lest he seeks to be informed that the Eyrie will mark his house last for consideration should shortages arise in winter." With Lord Grafton on board with the idea from its birth, and Lord Royce supporting Harrold's moves, so far the proposal seemed unanimous with the gathered lords and ladies.

Strong Samwell Stone served as his master-at-arms for now, helping to continue his martial training. Maesters Colemon and Helliweg had been tutoring him in the economics of preparation for winter. It was a daunting task. The support of the former Lords Declarant steadied him.

A knock came at a side door, and a knight entered. In plate armor wrought all in pale silver with the Arryn falcon and moon on the chest, he carried a helm sporting fine wings under one armor. Ser Edmund spoke up, "My lord, forgive me but Ser Donnel at the Bloody Gate has passed along a visitor most honored in these halls."

Harrold felt Sansa's hand tense on his, unsure what to expect. The lord of the Vale bid Ser Edmund approach and tell him the name. The Winged Knight, one of his eight, did so, stepping onto the dais to go to one knee and whisper the identity of the visitor. Harrold blinked, knowing the man but not truly knowing him. "Of course, any former knight of the Bloody Gate is welcome in my hall."

With Ser Marwyn Belmore before him, and Ser Targon the Halfwild behind, a very cold, tired-looking Brynden Tully entered the hall. He was ushered before the dais as the lords and ladies rose to their feet to honor the man considered a faithful servant of their former lady and a famed fighter. Servants pressed hot beverages to Ser Brynden, and brought plates of cheese and bread.

Most of the lords seemed to be expecting to be bid to leave, but Harrold stayed them. Whatever words the Blackfish had brought would be words he would be sharing with them soon regardless. Thinking carefully, Harrold called out, "The famous Blackfish graces this hall once more. I believe you're already acquainted with most of the Vale's nobility. Lord Royce, in particular, has spoken often of you."

As though reading Harrold's mind, Bronze Yohn offered Bryden his hand. "Ser, would that we had been able to ride to your side in the war that passed. Our honor, and our oaths to Lady Lysa stayed us, though. You find friends here."

Taking Sansa's hand in his own, Harrold sat up straighter in an effort to look every inch the lord the gods had made him now. "To what do we owe this visit, Ser Brynden? You of course shall have salt and bread while you stay here, and no harm shall befall you. Please, we in the Vale have been far removed from the goings on in throughout the realm." He swallowed, feeling more the green knight as added, "Why are you here?"

- Ser Brynden Tully has made it to the Gates of the Moon
- Lord Nestor Royce is already en route to King's Landing
- Ser Albar Royce is accompanying Petyr Baelish to Harrenhal
- The Vale is preparing for winter

by **Phalnia** » Mon May 02, 2016 1:16 pm

The Faith of the Seven

Waylar, Poor Fellow
Flea Bottom

It had been a few days since Waylar had been sent to find Septa Elia. He had missed her on his first day. Trough sheer bad luck he had been unable to find her. A foolish mistake, that he had punished himself that night. His back still stung and the skin had yet to heal. Yesterday, however he had found her. But, he had to be sure. The High Septon seemed most interested in her. He couldn't return with any septa. No he surely couldn't. Something seemed off today however. She wasn't alone. A man was with her handing out the bread. He looked enough like a Poor Fellow. Simple clothes. A simple club on his hip. The only thing off was the star. He didn't bear the red star so many used to identify their allegiance to the Faith and the Seven. Whoever, he was he seemed a safe enough fellow.

Waylar stood in the cool shade between to buildings. Aside from being a respite from the sun, it afforded him some sense of secrecy. As she handed the last of her bread the crowd began to disperse and Waylar got a good look at her. By the Seven she was beautiful. Her skin was fair, and reminded him of the moon at its fullest. He reckoned her hair was as golden as any Lannister. And beneath her robes he could only imagine at her body. Waylar snapped out of his lecherous thoughts. He bit down hard on his own tongue. His thoughts were impure. How could he think such things about a Septa, or any woman for that matter. As his mind cleared of foul thought and his tongue tasted its own blood he looked to the street. She was gone. Damn his impure mind. Whipping would not be enough for this sin. Hot irons would be needed tonight.

As Waylar felt at his lowest something caught his eye. Septa Elia had reappeared. Where she had managed to go and how she had managed to reappear so suddenly was beyond him. Nevertheless, there she was and she was coming this way. As she drew closer Waylar greeted her with a bow.

"Blessings of the Seven be upon you sister. Do you have a moment to speak?"

by **Lunas Legion** » Mon May 02, 2016 4:09 pm

House Targaryen

Drogon had not returned to Meereen. Daenerys had expected as much; but she could allow herself the small luxury of hoping. No, instead they flew back to the hill of jumbled rocks and thorny bushes that Drogon had made his lair in and Dany had named Dragonstone after her birthplace.

Dragonstone was deep in the Dothraki Sea; all Daenerys could see while clinging onto Drogon was the endless brown and green of plains grass stretching to the horizon. No signs of civilisation, no mountains, no large rivers or lakes, nothing. If Barristan had sent anyone out looking for her, and he would, they'd never make it to here without being killed by a roving khalasar.

When they arrived, the sun had begun to dip below the horizon, and Daenerys could see black storm clouds on the horizon. Drogon landed just outside the cave on the hill, and lowered his neck to the ground so Daenerys could climb off. She did so, and scrambled into the cave with as much grace as she could muster. The Dothraki Sea got cold quickly overnight; although not as bad as the Red Waste, it could still kill the unprepared.

She huddled near the back of the cave, Drogon eventually squeezing himself inside and coiling up. Daenerys shuffled over towards him, eventually sitting with her back on his neck for warmth. Drogon cracked open an eye, glanced down at her, and then shut it. She sighed, shut her eyes, and let sleep take her.

When Daenerys awoke she found herself lying on the floor. Drogon had moved from inside the cave to just outside it, as Daenerys could see the shadow of his head just outside the cave. A mildly-charred leg of indeterminate origin sat in front of her. Breakfast. She picked up the leg and bit into it. It tasted of burned meat, but food was food. She took several more bites as she wandered outside the cave before climbing up the rocks to join Drogon, who had taken up a perch near the top of the hill.

She sat next to him, one of his eyes briefly flickering in her direction, before going back to it's watch over the Dothraki Sea. Perhaps today she could go back to Meereen. Perhaps.

by **Senkaku** » Mon May 02, 2016 9:41 pm

Sothoryos
Delta of the River Zamoyos
Zamettar

"Why did they have to meet at dusk?"
Izembaro Derys, the corsair lord who ruled the Isle of Toads, and right-hand man to His Grace King Sayaad, thus far remained unimpressed with his hosts. Zamettar by dusk was no more pleasant than Zamettar by day, as the searing heat of the day had given way to the inky, unnerving Sothoryi darkness and a sullen humidity that pricked up sweat along his back wherever skin touched fabric. As the Dancing Daemon glided through the smooth waters, Izembaro peered into the gathering gloom. Zamettar's ruined pyramids and stone buildings remained remained as appallingly vast as ever, looming out of the darkness against the slash of red sky the sun had left behind. In the fading twilight, Izembaro could also make out shambling, splotchy-colored shapes that could only be Brindled Men. He had seen them in Zamettar before, but never in such numbers- and this was at night. Nor had he ever seen any of the city's ruined Ghiscari pyramids lit as they were now, some with normal flames, and some with an eerie blue phosphorescence that reminded him of the glow that the southern seas produced at night when stirred by oars.
However, he could hardly show any unease to the men aboard the ship, so he turned and scoffed at the pirate behind him who had muttered the comment.
"They're priest types. Probably have some stupid fucking rite or prophecy that told them to only meet us when they can't walk two steps before tripping and falling on their fucking faces."

Their ship glided further along the Zamoyos's slow-moving curves, past pyramid after pyramid, further into the city. Old Ghis had raised quite the metropolis here, but it had been a mere toehold on the edge of a vast and terrifying wilderness.
The city's great pyramid, where they had been instructed to land, was lit as brightly as a lighthouse. They'd seen the glow of the higher levels from far away, but the terraces around the huge edifice were also blazing with light from lanterns and torches. Izembaro felt a little shudder of revulsion pass over him as he gazed on the mobs of Brindled Men loping around. They all bore the mark of the Emerald Order- a green hexagon tattoo, carved into their chests- but that hardly made them any less freakish or inhuman.
Their hosts were waiting for them by the makeshift wooden pier that extended out from the great pyramid's lower terrace into the river. There were two, both wearing short white tunics and sandals. Izembaro once again marveled at the control they had over the Brindled Men. Normally, the Sothoryi would have been trying to rip apart and devour any stranger who remained for so long in their midst.

The Dancing Daemon's oarsmen were taking their last few strokes when a voice spoke out of the ethereal mixture of gathering gloom and brilliant light.

"Welcome, Izembaro of Braavos, to Zamettar," came a soft call across the water. The Braavosi pirate shivered at the unnatural way the voice carried over the water, and at the strange nakedness he suddenly felt, as if a thousand eyes had just been turned on him. His skin crawled as the the galley pulled up alongside the quay and her crew threw ropes over, to be caught by silent, scowling Brindled Men.
"The pleasure is mine," he grunted back, towards the lone man arrayed on the uneven planks. He clambered up onto the dock.
"This meeting will be brief, I am afraid. We are, after all, so busy. Do you have your letters, Izembaro of Braavos?"
The pirate lord narrowed his eyes at the tall, pale youth. "Well, a brief meeting suits me more than fine. I can't say that I do have my letters, matter of fact. But might I have the pleasure of knowin' who I'm speakin' to?"
"Another servant of the Shining One," the fellow said with a nondescript shrug. "But this one is a Curator of Zamettar by the name of Charai Altarr. I have a letter for you to bring to your king, then, since you do not have your letters."
"Sayaad is hardly a Westerosi maester."
"Have you no lettered men among you?", Charai said, soundly faintly amused and arching an eyebrow.
"Aye, we've got some," Izembaro said sullenly.
Charai took out a scroll. "It would be easier if you would simply convey this to your king. I have no interest in negotiations. This enumerates the details to the proposal that another servant of the Shining One came to discuss with you a fortnight ago and that we laid forth several months previously."
Well, I ain't gonna complain about getting to leave this place as soon as possible, Izembaro thought to himself, and extended a hand to take the scroll.
"Is that all?"
"That is all," Charai said coldly, and walked past him back towards the pyramid. "We will expect your answer in seven days."
Izembaro had begun to get back on the boat when Charai's clear voice cut back through the humid night air. "Oh, and wait a moment. I forget to give you something." Izembaro turned around, involuntarily swallowing and feeling anxious. A half-dozen Brindled Men were making their way down the pier, carrying a large chest that appeared to be made out of intricately carved ivory. They set it down in front of him, remaining silent and sullen, and opened it.
The Braavosi sucked in his breath as he looked at the pile within, sparkling brilliantly in the light of the torches.
"A gift of goodwill, and a taste of the fruits of what we hope will be a long and mutually beneficial relationship."

Izembaro picked up a single perfect diamond.

Basilisk Isles
Talon
Port Plunder
Barter Beach

The court of the Corsair King was a uniquely brutal and decadent place. Named in the ancient tradition of great pirate lairs of the Basilisk Isles, the settlement surrounded and wove through the great market at Barter Beach, where at any given time a hundred ships would be putting in or heading out to sea. This Port Plunder's central feature was the roughly-made artificial islet just offshore, a heap of sand, slag, and coral rubble at most two hundred meters in diameter, upon which had been erected a warren of shoddily-built wooden towers and hovels. This was the palace and keep of Sayaad Magali, the pirate who now styled himself King of the Basilisk Isles as other brutal and lawless men had done before him.
It was at one end of this swarm of hovels that the throne room of this self-made king of bandits lay, open to the sea breeze and shielded from the brutal Sothoryi sun by a thatched-palm roof.
"Miklaz! Read His Grace what you read to me," Izembaro called to his scribe from his low seat. Miklaz, a big, bulky Ghiscari, stood, opening the scroll that Charai Altarr had given them two nights previously.
"Our proposal to bring us together in a mutually beneficial partnership will be as such. His Grace King Sayaad will provide the Emerald Order with vessels sufficient to transport its forces to foreign lands and use of his fleets, and in return the plunder of all lands in which His Grace so aids the Order in taking shall be split evenly with His Grace and his loyal retainers. If our proposal is accepted, we ask for one year of guaranteed access to His Grace's ships before the deal can be terminated. We also offer a gift as a sign of good faith, and guarantee that even if this venture is a failure, we will provide in payment a shipload of saffron, one thousand bolts of silk, fifty stone of silver, and two hundred bedslaves."
"And what gift did they offer? I heard rumors of something magnificent when you landed, Izembaro, but you've not said anything about it yet," Sayaad said.
Izembaro of Braavos smiled wickedly and stood up, pushing the whore on his lap aside, and clapped twice. "Bring in the chest!"
The door to the room opened, and four slaves, struggling with the burden, came in bearing the ivory chest. The corsair king's eyebrows rose as they plunked it down in front of him.
"Open it," Izembaro said, and as the beautifully carved lid came off, the entire room gasped. The diamonds sparkled not just in the reflected light off the sea and in the light of the torches on the wall, but with their own brilliant inner fire. Sayaad stood up and stepped down from his makeshift throne, digging his hands into the chest and staring as diamonds rolled through his fingers.
"So we shuttle their Brindled Men around for a year and they give us a fortune? If they have so many diamonds, why do they only offer us a shipload of saffron?", Sayaad guffawed. "A ship worth its weight in gold must be a trifle for these Yeenish maegi." Then he paused, looking a bit pensive, though the diamonds' light still danced in his eyes. "Do we know they will be good on their word, though? We've seen them building ships in Zamettar, and their brindled ghouls have killed plenty of good men who made the mistake of landing in the wrong place. Not to mention their sorcery."
Izembaro, who had been practically salivating with greed for the last two days, shrugged. "I say, fuck the dead, and their ships. That there is more wealth than every ship in the Basilisk Isles will capture in a year. If they can plumb the depths of the Green Hell with their Brindled Men and have diamonds coming out the ass, that's something we should get on board with. Whoever has this kind of money is someone we want to get with."
Another corsair lord nodded. "None of us have ever given two shits about a few deaths. They may be building ships, but they do a damn poor job of it, and they can't seem to learn how to actually sail. And imagine what they could do if we got some of their ghouls over to Volantis or Meereen or Qarth or Lys or beyond. Splitting half the plunder with them sounds like a speedy way to let us make these diamonds look like fucking coppers in comparison."
"Indeed," Sayaad said, picking one of the stones up and tossing it at the whore laying next to Izembaro. "Keep that, darling." The pirate king sat back down, beckoning to a slave to bring him a fistful of stones and lay them in his lap.
"Send word back to Zamettar that we will accept their proposal."

POST SUMMARY:

-The Emerald Order has made an arrangement with the corsairs of the Basilisk Isles to ferry their soldiers over the Summer Sea.

by **Sasutary Island** » Tue May 03, 2016 5:50 am

The Whiteguard

Myr, Essos
Bedrick Vier, Grandmaster of the Whiteguard
"The sooner we get off this wretched continent the better," muttered Recruiter-General Maximilian. The man was old, from the North, and hence would never get used to the extreme heat of Essos. Max struggled on the back of his horse; he never liked horse-riding, though now on the long march south from Braavos to Myr, he'd have no choice but to endure the hundreds of kilometers of marching. The winds from the Narrow Sea brought cold air up from the sea, and for that the sellswords were greatful.

Bedrick turned his head slightly to address the disgruntled Northerner, "Most unfortunate, Mr. Max. Unfortunately, Myr is the closest Essosi port to King's Landing, and I've got to meet up with an old acquaintance of mine in Myr. Besides, I heard Myr has the best crossbows, and whorehouses."

The company had been on the march for a week, and according to the scout, Myr should be an hour's travel away. A man on horseback came back, screaming to Bedrick that 'Myr was right around the corner'. He gave strict instructions to Max, to camp outside of Myr till Bedrick came back with supplies and ships. Bedrick rode forward, with three of his personal guards. Following the scout on the path, they reached the outskirts of Myr, galloping into the walls of the old city. Its sheer scale was as awe-inspiring as the Titan of Braavos, and the four horsemen dismounted in a market square, and tied their horses near a watering hole. Bedrick led his three men towards a tavern frequented by merchants and captains. Entering the tavern, they were met with a sensation of colours, smells and noises. Men chanting heartily to the tune of a lute, merrily drinking themselves into oblivion. He took an empty cup and knocked on it with his fingers, stepping onto a table, annoying a patron by spilling his soup over, "Sailors and Captains. The Brotherhood of the Whiteguard requires ships to transport roughly 4000 men, mounts and equipment across the Narrow Sea and to King's Landing. We are willing to pay a man, 470 silver stags per boat for the crossing. If anyone would be interested, please approach us at the outskirts of Myr. Colourful men, and plain white banners, you wont miss 'em." With that, Bedrick stepped off the table, letting the men in the tavern talk among themselves. He had other places to be, him and his bodyguard stepping out of the tavern, back onto the cramped streets of Myr.

Following Bedrick and his men out was a man, maybe 40-something, and clearly sloshed out of his mind. He was rambling on about his spilt porridge and wanted compensation. When he saw Bedrick's pouch full of coins, the man drew his short-sword from its sheath, and in his drunken stupor charged directly at Bedrick and his bodyguards. Before Bedrick managed to unsheathe his sword, before bystanders could scream, one of his men had pulled out his arming sword, and in a single fluid motion from his hips to above the man's shoulder, cleft the man's shoulder blade off of the owner's body. Blood spurting onto his cuirass and face, the man, writhing in pain, fell onto the ground and into a gutter, rolling about before succumbing to shock. The bodyguard sheathed his sword and quipped, "Bloody waste of a man, eh?"

"Thank you, Marus," Bedrick commented, wiping congealed blood from his clothes and face.

TL;DR
-The Whiteguard have arrived in Myr
-A bodyguard kills a drunken fool

by **Parous** » Tue May 03, 2016 8:52 am

House Frey of the twins

The twins were lit up by a sun shrouded by dark clouds, and yet another gloomy day started. The two castles on each side of the bridge were protected by high curtain walls, heavy gates and deep moats creating a parallel structure and a reason for its naming. The very fortress itself was impressive, not only holding the strategic bridge over the crossing but being a massive fortress itself. It hosted nearly 2,000 men, as Lord Walder Frey gathered all men he could find at the twins. Many Frey soldiers still roamed the riverlands, plundering and taking what they could find. The other force was in the north, under Bolton command awaiting the arrival of Stannis Baratheon.

The majority of the soldiers Lord Frey had gathered were camped outside of the both keeps, leaving most of the cold castle unused. An army was expensive enough to feed on it’s own, in the words of the Lord himself, and warming up the sizable garrison quarters would cost a fortune. A dark autumn had reached the lands of the Frey, with punishing rainfall and cold winds striking the castle repeatedly. The Lord Frey and his family had retreated into the depths of the castle however, and had no plans to leave. They had dispatched for too many troops in the campaigns of Robb Stark and now Roose Bolton. Too many family members had been lost, and despite the complete lack of anguish and exasperation in Lord Walder Frey there was still a sense of loss.

The gates of the eastern castle opened as the messenger rode in, left his horse in the courtyard and made his way to the grand hall. Lord Walder was seated on the chair of black oak, resembling a curved shape of the two towers. Barely awake, he glanced over the hall lit up by candles and a warming hearth, with the House’s many ladies being up eating breakfast or entertaining themselves with different activities. The lord couldn’t have cared less, and was in a very much slumbering state until the door opened unexpectedly. A messenger, dressed in Frey colors and most likely exhausted walked through the hall followed by the glances of the seated. He stopped at the chair of Lord and bowed before handing over a letter. He then backed a few steps and let the lord read it. Walder Frey did not read it once, nor twice but several times. The hall had become silent quickly, and when the Lord simply put the letter down it was likely bad news. He turned to Edwyn Frey, current steward and right-hand favoured by Lord Walder.

“Aenys and Hosteen are dead” Walder shouted and the hall bursted out into heartache. These were sons of Walder himself, but he did little more then put a hand on his forehead and dry off some sweat. None of their sons or daughters were present, but the loss made some eyes wet. Two of House Frey’s most prominent knights were dead, one of them a competent commander respected by many despite the recent unpopularity gained through the ruthless and decisive revenge on the King of the North.
“We will have to inform their sons and daughters. Send send a raven to Darry, Danwell and Arwood need to now as soon as possible. For the rest of what we once called family, I believe the news will reach them in time. Get me Maester Javell and make it quick. There is a winter coming, and I do not trust any house in the Riverlands, North or the rest of Westeros by my hearth or theirs. We will let the Boltons sort out their own difficulties. Frey blood has been spilled and too many soldiers are lost to nothing. On top of that, we have not heard of Rheagar, Jared or Symond for too long. The Manderly’s are not to be trusted at all” Lord Frey spat out to Edwyn.

Maester Javell entered the emptier hall with pen and paper. It was not until three messages were written that Edwyn interjected.

"Grandfather, we discussed the demand from Ser Jaime Lannister earlier and I believe we should transport our prisoners south. You know the list of them, and I see it as less mouths to feed. You should consider it."

"As Steward I am your Lord and not grandfather, I have enough of people calling me that already around here." Lord Frey snapped indignantly. "If they want my prisoners, fine. That's more of the hate towards the Lannisters and not towards me. I have enough of that already as well. If they are to demand it from me, I demand at least five hundred Lannister troops to defend the Twins and another two thousand to ensure that the Riverland houses behave. I think that's more then fair, considering all I've given. Send the raven to the Late Lord Tywin's brother in King's Landing. I'd guess that he won't last long in the rat hole, but he should help our house in the time of need after everything I've done to them without any reward." Walder continued to rant until the maester left to send the ravens away.

The four messages to be sent where to Darry, King's Landing the White Harbour and Winterfell.

TL;DR
-House Frey recieves message about the deaths of both Aenys and Hosteen, with the return of their corpses being demanded.
-Lord Walder Frey has recalled House members from Darry to the Twins.
-All Frey troops able to fight are currently gathered at the Twins.
-All prisoners demanded by Lannisters are sent to King's Landing under escort, and a request for Lannister troops is made.

by **Of the Quendi** » Tue May 03, 2016 1:22 pm

The Seven Kingdoms
The City of King's Landing, in the Crownlands
Under the Sovereignty of Tommen Baratheon

Ser Kevan Lannister

Sighing loudly Ser Kevan Lannister put down the two letters Pycelle had brought him with a resigned frustration at the both the pesky writers and the waxing matter of the trials of the two queens. So much depended on successful outcomes of both of the trials. If Ser Robert Strong's proved a less terrifying champion then he seemed the legitimacy of King Tommens already shaky hold on the Iron Throne would be undermined and if Queen Margaery was found guilty by the judges of the Faith then the Tyrell arms maintaining Tommen might falter and abandon the crown. See Kevan sighed once more.

The regent of the king picked up the letter from Willas Tyrell again. A frown of annoyance briefly marred the weary features of the regent as he skimmed the letter. Already once he had, at great length, tried to explain to Willas's father the delicacy of the matter of the accusations against the Queen consort, yet there was no appeasing those Roses. Now Willas even made bold an petulant threats, while at the same time begging for ships. Even his sire had more tact and better sense than such insolence. With an agressive grunt, Ser Kevan began to pen a letter to the scion of Highgarden, mobilizing all his patience and diplomacy for the task of telling an angry youth no.

That done Ser Kevan turned to the missive of the High Sparrow. Like the rest of his class Ser Kevan was not enamored with the new High Septon or Cersei's misguided decision to arm his supporters. Yet nor was Ser Kevan as reckless to disregard the High Sparrow. Tommen needed all the help he could get to retain his tenuous hold on the Iron Throne. So once more Ser Kevan tactfully and respectfully wrote a letter that could have been condensed to the one word that seemed to exemplify his attempts to mollify the various supplicating supporters of his king. No.

Sealing the letters Ser Kevan beckoned for a servant to come to him. "Bring these letters to Grand Maester Pycelle." He ordered the servant, handing him the two letters. The servant bowed and left to do as bid. As he departed Ser Kevan however called out with another order. "And summon the Hand of the King. I would have words with Lord Mace Tyrell." The Lord Regent declared.

Ser Kevan Lannister, Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm, to Willas Tyrell sends his warmest greetings and best of wishes,

Most estimable Willas Tyrell. I have received in the name of His Grace, Tommen Baratheon the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, your missive requesting military assistance for the just fight of House Tyrell against the unlawful rebellion of the Iron Islands. I regret to inform you however that at the present the Crown commands no such vessels as those you wrote of. There where such a fleet but regrettable it has been seized by the traitor Aurane Waters and are thus not available at the present. The Crown have however dispatched the Master of Ships, Lord Paxter Redwyne with his ships to deal with the Ironborn threat, and I have every confidence that the Master of Ships will succeed in this endeavor with or without the warships constructed by the Queen Mother.

Regarding the most unfortunate matter of the, certainly false, accusations levied against your noble sister the Queen Consort I am pleased to assure you that you are misinformed as to the latest developments here in the capital to think her a prisoner rotting away in the dungeons of the Faith. The Queen Consort has already been remanded into the custody of Lord Randyl Tarly where she will remain until her trial. She is deprived of nothing and suffers no indignity in the gentle hands of the Master of Laws, your lord father's noble banner men and the king's leal subject.

Signed,

Ser Kevan Lannister, Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm, in the name of Tommen Baratheon First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms

To His High Holiness the High Septon, Father of the Faithful and Voice of the Seven of Earth, Ser Kevan Lannister, Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm sends his greetings,

It will no doubt not surprise Your High Holiness that I am indeed aware that accusations of fornication and adultery has been charged against the Queen Consort. As however the Queen Consort has already been handed into the custody of the Master of Laws, Lord Randyll Tarly, I do not believe it necessary that the witnesses of which Your High Holiness speaks should be handed over to the Faith for the nonce. They will of course be provided for the trial with which the Crown has every intention of cooperating fully with, but at present I consider their confinement in the Red Keep both fit and proper.

I am however not unsympathetic to the need of the Faith to interrogate these men to ascertain the truth of the allegations that they have bedded the Queen Consort and as I have no wish to stand in the way of letting justice be served and the truth uncovered I would permit the judges of the tribunal charged with judging the Queen Consort access to these men within the Red Keep. I hope Your High Holiness will find this a satisfactory compromise and if not I am of course willing to discuss the matter further with Your High Holiness.

In the Light of the Seven,

Ser Kevan Lannister, Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm, in the Name of Tommen Baratheon First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

by **Mesrane** » Tue May 03, 2016 2:35 pm

House Mallister

Patrek Mallister
Riverlands
Southeast of Seagard

Patrek rested his sword flat across his legs as he settled into the thick brush around the narrow track. A plume of breath emanated from his helm, white and frosty in the early-winter cold.

The sound of hooves grew in the distance, traveling northwards towards the Twins. Six riders . . or seven. He held up a gloved hand, and a dozen men tensed behind him. Arrows were notched, and swords loosened in their scabbards.

Swiftly, the riders turned the corner and revealed themselves. Retainers, all seven of them. The twin castle of Frey was clearly visible on their blue surcoats.

In one swift motion, Patrek sprang forward and leapt off a tree stump towards the nearest rider. His shoulder connected solidly with the man's torso, knocking him from the saddle and sending Patrek up and over the horse with him. The rest of his band quickly fell upon the Frey men, springing out onto the road and engaging the men-at-arms, who were caught completely by surprise. That Patrek's band wore no colors or heraldry did them no favors in identifying their attackers either. Arrows had slain two of them before they managed to even draw their swords.

Patrek struggled with his man in the cold mud, trying constantly to bash the man's skull with the pommel of his sword while evading his dagger. Eventually he connected, sending the man's head crashing back to the ground. With an angry grunt, he brought his sword down on the dazed Frey rider, slaying him.

The Frey men lay dead or dying, save for their captain, who stood erect. One of Patrek's men was dead at his feet, and he fended off attacks from a half-dozen men who now encircled him. Quite the swordsman. A knight, not just any retainer.

Patrek clambered to his feet and danced into the circle of men. The Frey immediately wheeled toward him and sent a thrust his way. Patrek parried that aside and launched a flurry of counterstrokes which drove him back. They traded a few more blows, but eventually one of the Mallister men surrounding him found a way past his guard and opened his calf with an axe. The Frey screamed in pain and went down on one knee, swinging his sword erratically in a desperate bid to stave off further attacks.

Shuffling past the whirling blade, Patrek slid his sword into a chink in the knight's armor. He swiftly pulled it free and leapt away just in time before his adversary's greatsword came crashing down.

The Frey knight had almost doubled over in pain. Blood poured from his chest wound and the slashed calf. Patrek brought his sword down on the knight's neck, ending his pain and the brief fight with one stroke. It was a mild disappointment that there were no actual Freys here; yet seven of their retainers was a good enough haul for his first ambush. May the traitors enjoy many more.

Ser Devron, one of the Mallister knights, spat derisively on the headless corpse. "Methinks we ought to string this lot up my lord." He pointed east. "We aren't more than ten minutes' walk from the bank of the Green Fork anyhow, and there are no major roads about. Let's put them up where folk-Rivermen, both the true and the traitorous, can see them."

Patrek surveyed the bloody scene. Devron was right; their handiwork needed to be visible. He pushed down any lingering misgivings regarding the grisly task and nodded in agreement. "Aye, let's get on with this then."

A short walk through the frosty woods took them to the western bank of the Green Fork, where they proceeded to set about the ugly endeavor of nailing the corpses to large trees, easily visible from the opposite bank. Bark was stripped from one particularly impressive oak and from it a large sign was fashioned, which they then draped across the chest of the Frey knight.

Satisfied, the Mallister men shrank away from the exposed bank and melted back into the trees, leaving an easily visible message and a gory sight for any passerby walking the Kingsroad near the opposite bank:

A toast, to our foolish friends of Frey.

They had hardly returned to their horses at the site of the ambush by the dirt road when a rustling in the brush prompted every man to draw his blade. A trio of figures, hooded and cloaked so as to conceal their faces, stepped out into the open. "Who goes there?" Patrek demanded.

by **Liecthenbourg** » Tue May 03, 2016 4:13 pm

____________The Noble League for Northern Remembrance____________

House Baratheon of Dragonstone

"Ours is the Fury!" -- "The North Remembers!"

A Cooperation Post Between Liecthenbourg and tJS
The post will deal with both things that affect us together, for example in Winterfell, and things that affect us separately, such as the Blackfish in the Vale

Stannis Baratheon had arrived at Winterfell after the fighting had occurred. The ruse had worked, his men clad in the dress of the Freys and fluttering the banner of the Twins had revealed their true nature in the morning of the arrival of the armies of the Knight of Deepwood Motte, Robbett, whom had had his own ploys with the Lord of the White Harbour, Wyman Manderly. The confusion and treachery of the ‘Freys’ had pinned the loyal soldiers to Bolton against the quite proverbial rock and hard place, an enemy army pouring in whilst one was pushing outwards from within.

Stepping over the multiple corpses around the courtyard, Mormonts, Manderlys, Glovers, King’s Men, Boltons, Clansmen and all Stannis noticed a figure amidst the courtyard. Luckily for perhaps all of the north, the Clansman Hugo Wull had survived the encounter, his axe stained red with Bolton Blood. With an uproarious laugh and arms outstretched he beckoned the snow that was gently drifting down from the heavens above.

“THE NORTH REMEMBERS!” he yelled. “DO YOU HEAR ME, BASTARD OF THE DREADFORT?” he shook the axe, blotches of blood shaking off of it onto the snow and staining the pure white into a bloody red. “NED’S GIRL IS SAVED.” Mors Umber laughed at that and as always, grabbed a skin of ale from his belt and chugged it down in celebration. Stannis seemingly silently nodded in agreement, looking upwards towards the soldiers on the walls and other defences.

“Lords and Ladies, men of the North.” he began, the rest of the men brought by him and Umber marching in through the opened gates. “The Usurping Bolton has been beaten, all that is left of their holding is the Dreadfort and their direct vassals, mere childs-play to what we have accomplished; but here at Winterfell we have won. I myself managed to capture the Castellan of Karhold, a treacherous fool in the service of Roose Bolton. He marches in tow, his men in chains, and his fate rests on the justice that you and I will give him; as we will do to Roose Bolton and Ramsay Snow..” he stood solemnly, noticing as some of the Northern Lords and Ladies above him and beside him nodded in agreement. He broke the silence, his boots crunching on the snow. “Theon Greyjoy, however, I have executed for his crimes. He came into my camp and I personally beheaded him for his treachery to the Starks, who raised him and called him his own, and the murders he has committed.”

Manderly could not but hide a smile at Stannis’ mentioning of Theon Greyjoy’s murders, having dispatched Davos quite a while ago to find one of the supposed victims .

“Justice, aye”, came a shout from the Cerwyn ranks, receiving nods from much of the northern camp.

“Death to traitors”, assented Hother Umber, almost on cue as a chained man wearing the white Karstark sun was brought in by a group of Dragonstone men.
A wave of shouts erupted from throughout the northern ranks as the men noticed the man by now considered to be almost a henchman to the greatest enemy of the north since many ages.

Order”, called the Baratheon, “The man will receive the king’s justice, not the call of the crowd”
Before the crowds could turn their wrath somewhere else he tamed them, “As will the traitorous Lord Bolton and his bastard son. And to assure justice the Lords of the North, as victims of their treasonous rule, shall attend on the jury”.This received wide applause and cheers amongst the Northerners in attendendance.

Stannis was about to continue speaking, of justice and other such matters, Wyman presumed, only to be interrupted by a cough from Ser Robett.

”Your Grace”, the heir to Deepwood spoke up, “We have something of yours we wish to return to you”. With that he nodded in the direction of a sergeant at his side, who stepped forward to the Stormlander, presenting to him the sword he had abandoned as part of the ruse.

Stannis visibly shrugged as he icily responded a “Thank you, Ser Glover”.

“Your Grace”, now Wyman himself spoke, “while the many lords around us may shrug it off, may I propose we retire for a hearth’s warmth? Even northerners may feel cold, even if we do so to a lesser degree, there is an affinity of fear towards it.”

Sheathing lightbringer into its scabbard Stannis Baratheon nodded plainly. “Lead on, Lord Manderly.” he called and began to climb up the steps leading to the Great Hall of Winterfell. Whilst he had personally never been to it, he did recall the tales that Robert had spun of the place, a vast hall where fires burned warm, the women kept you warmer and the mead had you warmest ...and food kept you filled and plenty. Stannis naturally grit his teeth. Robert may have been a fool at times, but honest he was. Seeing Winterfell in such a state made the King almost feel somewhat regretful he had never seen it in its prior glory.

“A ruin, almost.” came the quaint voice of Lady Cerwyn from behind the advancing entourages of Stannis Baratheon and Wyman Manderly. Stannis’ head turned slightly, facing the woman whom was at his left. She was a comely figure, dressed in her silks and cloths, a stark contrast in hue and attire to the woman of Alysane Mormont.

“Upon my word, Lady Cerwyn.” Stannis said. “Winterfell shall be returned to its former glory and a Stark will sit in its halls once more. I promised Lord Commander Jon Snow that as long as I lived Tyrion Lannister will never sit in this hall as Warden of the North, even with his ‘marriage’ to the Lady Sansa Stark.”

Two of Manderly’s knights stood at attention by the open doorway into the Great Hall, the doors to it having been felled in the fighting. Their turquoise cloaks with the mermaid sigil on them were fluttering in the wind and they bowed their heads respectively to the large assortment of individuals as they entered the hall.

The group entered, mainly the Lords and Ladies and the highest of retainers - much of the force remained outside in their tents or in the accommodations Winterfell had to offer. Stannis noticed the seemingly banquet like status the Great Hall had been left in; two large tables extending from the Warden’s seat downwards towards the door, food of all sorts set upon the table.

“Those are the largest pies I’ve ever seen.” Mors Umber almost gawked, his speech slurred and his breath stinking of drink.

Wyman could not but sigh. “Those,” he spoke, “are pies I think do not belong on these tables anymore. I am sure they are filled with taint.” With that he motioned for a few servants to raise and remove the fully-filled, roasted, eerie, yummy, pies. Nearly the whole nobility of the north, as well as some representatives from the south, such as Stannis and his Stormlanders, all being within the Starks’ great hall was what truly displayed its size. A hall for all the north and many more, the Manderly Lord thought to himself. Few words were spoken as lords and ladies all took seats. Some on places they had sat in recently, others and new attendants anywhere, the great lord himself headed for the dais, seating himself to the right side of Stannis. It was a gambit, he knew, but Davos was far away, of that he was sure, and neither did Stannis have his wife, daughter, or red witch in attendance. It would seem only natural for him, as the lord that handed him Winterfell on a silver platter, to take position by his side.

“The north will remember this, you know”, he spoke after his mass had been maneuvered into a chair two to the right of the throne of the Stark, to Stannis’ direct right. “The north will remember your choice of respecting our loyalty to the Starks and not deeming yourself to be in their position”. “A King does not sit in the chair of his vassals”, Stannis replied.
Manderly could not but wonder how Stannis would react once they were to bend to a Stark once more, but would be doing so to one that he didn’t legitimize. His musings were interrupted by Stannis continuing, “I offered this seat to Jon Snow.” Wyman contained a chuckle, if only he knew. “A Stark will sit in Winterfell, it is not the place of the King to sit under the roofs of his subjects and steal their seats”, the Baratheon finished.

“It is not, indeed, the place of a king to usurp his own subjects”, Wyman offered his agreement, leaving unspoken whether it is the place of a subject to usurp a king. “But speaking of places… I presume you are expecting an apology from me for your Ser Davos. I cannot but stress the necessity of preserving the mummery, for there were multiple Freys at my court, eager to whiff any hint of disloyalty to the Lannister boy or his lackey of Bolton.
Though you should probably know that Davos, most likely, still is alive”.

“Locked in a dungeon beneath White Harbour?” Stannis quipped, drinking water from a plain wooden cup. “Or did the Warden of the White Knife have another use for the Hand of the King?”. The White Knife’s Warden could not but chuckle at the stormlander’s joking, before replying, “No. I did keep him in the Wolf’s Den for a while, admittedly, but that is not where he is now.”. The fat lord stopped to take a big gulp of the wine that had been served as the lords had taken their seats and disbanded into many smaller conversations, “Now, presumably, your hand short-on-fingers most likely is somewhere on the Narrow sea or Skagos.”

“Skagos? Is he hiring Skagosi? for our war with the Boltons? Domesticating the unicorns said to live on the isle?” the King set the goblet down. “Or is there something else on that barren isle?”

“Unicorns, some say”, responded the Lord of White Harbor with laughter, “but I presume your grace would not be either especially amused or receptive of me sending of his hand to search for these mythical creatures”. The andal northerner took a bite of his food, only to continue once more, “No, I have sent the Lord Seaworth off to Skagos because word has come to me that Rickon actually has survived Greyjoy’s attempt to murder him and, with a wildling servant, has taken refuge on the isle. It seemed fitting. A smuggler to smuggle me my lord”.

“The Lord of Winterfell, then. The lawful Lord, not Lannister or Bolton.” Stannis mused slightly, gritting his teeth as he often always did. “Skagos is a land not well travelled, or so the tales in the south go. I can only trust my Hand has not been sent to his death upon that isle of unicorns and reappearing nobility.” Wyman chuckled heartily, slapping his belly. The servants brought more food to the King and the Lord of White Harbour, nourishment which both of them enjoyed. As the Shield of the Faith tucked on a pork pie and smacked his lips together in gusto he too replied to the King’s comment.

“Your Grace, I can only hope as well. Lord Seaworth is a noble and intelligent man indeed.” He continued to dine, as did the half-starved King of Westeros. The Lords and Ladies and Sers all did dine as well, and much sing and song occur from the halls in the celebration of the Great Victory. The Umber Brothers, divided by the March on Winterfell, embraced each other amidst the merry time, a reconciliation of people.

“Lord Manderly, do you feel it fitting to conduct the trial now? I feel it matters not if a Lord or two is drunk, the overwhelming judgement will remain the same. Best remove the Boltons before the cold or a man themselves decides to take justice into their own hands.”

“Your grace, drunkenness surely will make the lords attendant only more fervent in their true loyalties and decisive will for an execution”. Once more the great lord could not but stop speaking in order to increase his greatness. “That being said, mayhaps there would be a certain worth to performing the executions of the Boltons in front of their seat, to make their men brake”.

“But the trial could still be conducted here, within the Halls of the Starks, whereas the consequences of that trial may be done outside of the Dreadfort as you have suggested. Little man may quiver in their boots to see the Bastard-of-Bolton executed, but the Lord Bolton? He commands a decisive respect amongst his own house and vassals and his removal on the doorstep of his ancestral home will surely… soften the resolve of many.”
“Few, your grace. Few men may quiver. But yes, determining justice in the halls of house Stark does more than make a point.”, came the Seven-fearing northerner’s reply.

The King beckoned for one of his King’s men, a young knight of the House Penny. He came towards his King, kneeling before him. “Your grace?” He asked as he stood.

“Fetch Roose Bolton, Arnolf Karstark and the Bastard-of-Bolton from their cells and bring them here.” With that the Knight of House Penny departed, hand on his sword hilt. The King himself stood up, clinking a spoon against a now metallic goblet.

“Let us deliver justice.”

“Justice”, Wyman merely echoed. The Lords and king still continued enjoying their food and drink until at last the prisoners were brought up, triggering many a hoot from a drunk and half-drunk lord.

“PREPARE TO DIE YOU BLOODY WANKERS!” called out Mors Umber, throwing his tankard of drink at Roose Bolton. It failed its mark, hitting the floor harmlessly and rolling onto its side. Roose and Ramsay showed a level of calm and respect, but the latter was tittering and agitating himself ever so slightly. Arnolf, despite his age, begged for this mistake of his imprisonment to be renounced from the assembled host.

“Let us administer our justice here now.” Stannis returned to his seat and now the northern lords and ladies and Stannis’ lords all huddled closer, away from the longtables, to form a semi-circular ring around the accused - the end of the ring being the wall at the end of the hall and the dais upon which Wyman and Stannis sat. “Arnolf Karstark.” Stannis called out. “You stand accused of committing the act of treason against me and treason in the eyes of the north in support of the Boltons. What say you in your defence?”

“Your grace.” the man of the White Sun upon the Black Cloth started, his knees quaking slightly. “While originally I followed Robb Stark, in time I grew conscious of the fact that he was, in fact, a usurper...”, any attempts by Arnolf to continue were interrupted by the shouter of all northern lords in attendance, from the Lordly house of Manderly on the dais to the Lordly, through the fully drunken Umber brothers, to the Masterly Tallharts on the far end of the hall, all shouted down the affront to their own honor, but more importantly, to that of the north and of the Starks. The kings and their reign are gone, Wyman knew, but nearly all in this hall expected their return in the close future. At some tables Wyman even thought he saw hands reaching for hilts to their side.

“We will have order in this trial!” Stannis called. “Arnolf may be guilty in your eyes, but let him speak though his words may wound you.”
“I grew conscious of the fact that I was following an usurper”, shouts interrupted Arnolf once more, though quickly calmed, “a traitor.”, Arnolf spoke with a slight grin as the tension in the hall almost became as cuttable as the lord karstark himself. “At that point I simply could not but immediately and fully retract my support from the Stark march, especially considering the Lord Robb’s hand in the kinslaying of my nephew, Lord Rickard Karstark.”

This time Wyman was sure he saw blades leave their scabbards, only re-entered at the repeated calls of the man who saw himself king but lacked a true kingdom.
After almost using the threat of force, it seemed, the Stag managed to continue the trial, “I call myself as a witness for the crimes of Arnolf Karstark.”
The Lords of the North calmed down, to an extent, at this. Stannis then spoke once more, “Arnolf Karstark, do you deny or accept the claims that you were siding with Roose Bolton over myself and aimed to use treachery in battle to assist his forces?”
“Of course I deny these trumped up charges. I retracted my fealty from the Stark usurper and since then have been haunted by the other lords of the north, still clinging to old dreams.”, countered the man on trial.

The Stag barked a response. “There is a witness to counter your claims, Castellan Karstark.” he beckoned a knight, whom handed the Baratheon a rolled up scroll. “Your grand-niece, Alys Karstark, wrote to me of your plans to seize the lands of the Karhold - a declaration for me would goad the usurpers on the Iron Throne into executing Harrion Karstark, Lord of Karhold as of his father’s death. You then planned to force her to marry your own son, Althor, to transfer Karhold to your side of the Karstark family.”

“Lies!”, barked the old steward of Karhold, anger in his eyes, “All lies. I did plan to marry young little Alys to my son, that much is true. Not by choice, though, but by force of being shunned by all other houses of the north for our staunch rejection of the usurpers first of Stark and then of Lannister’s Bolton. But marriages still have to be arranged, leaving merely an internal one, your grace. Alys rejected the proposal and fled to the place at which she knew she would be out of my reach, the Wall. There she seems to have fabricated lies to, mayhaps, take Karhold for herself.”

“How noble of you, Ser. Your story, can it be confirmed by your maester? For your maester told me of his missing raven, Ser. The missing raven he had sent to Winterfell, conveniently before Bolton’s vanguard. I wonder, Arnolf, if perhaps your maester informed him of my army’s location. Maesters are politically neutral, or so they tell themselves. Perhaps your maester is the only traitor amongst the Karstark flock? Or were your suggestions for me to assault the Dreadfort, or the Umber Karhold.” he uttered the second particularly loud, to catch the ears of Mors and Hother Umber. “For their disunity in rallying behind, all part of this maester’s plans?”

“Your grace, I… I… confess. I retracted my loyalty from one usurper and in revenge moved it to another. All that I ask, before I receive my own judgement, is mercy on my sons and their sons, for they knew little of my scheme”, the Karstark now begged.

The Stag’s eyes narrowed and his gauntleted hand extended outwards towards the crowds of northern lords. “What does the north think of his plea? The Castellan of Karstark is of guilt, but his sons and their sons?”
“We have and had quarrel merely with Rickard and Arnolf. If the sons make oaths before hearth trees to bend the knee to the true king, to the stark rightfully lording above them, I see no reason for this to turn into a blood-feud”, Wyman finally spoke, receiving a row of concur from many of the lords in attendance.
“Hear Hear”, loudly declared Mors Umber, “‘nough northern blood already has been spilt in this infighting for the sake of false rulers”.

Arnolf Karstark was carried off back to his cell, to await his justice the following dawn. Next to be thrown against the dais was Ramsay, the Bastard of the Dreadfort. Stannis could see the hunger in the northern lords eyes, to put a criminal with such a list of crimes and next to no defence to the sword. The hearth fire crackled in hues of orange and red and some of the assembled lords began to chatter as Ramsay was brought forth to the dais.

“The trial of Ramsay Snow is to commence now.” Stannis declared. “Snow; you stand before myself and this jury to face the numerous charges against you; treason, conspiracy to commit treason, attacking allies, the murder of Ser Rodrik Cassel, the murder of Lady Hornwood, the usurpation of the titles of the Lord of Hornwood and Lord of Winterfell, the butchering of numerous girls, the observing of the banned practice of ‘the first night’, being a captain of the vile and dishonourable group of so-called ‘Bastard’s Boys’.” Stannis’ list went on, bringing up seemingly minor calls against him made by the lords of the north, each weighing in on the ever expanding list called out by the King of Westeros. He had noticed that the Lord of White-Harbour had remained particularly silent and Stannis attributed this to the aforementioned death of his cousin, Lady Hornwood. A cold silence stirred when Stannis was done and he broke the silence once more when Ramsay stood in silence and defiance. “What say you in your defence, Bastard-of-Bolton?”

“I am no Bastard!”, shouted Ramsay, attempting to spit at the lords closest to him, “I have been legitimized by the one true king of the Iron Throne and am Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell, usurper! One who does not cavort with Red-Witches from Essos or burn people at the stake.”, he was interrupted by a tide of murmurs ebbing through the northern ranks, only to continue his angry tirade, “ But you have me, your grace.” he whipped sarcastically. “I killed Lady Hornwood. I stuffed her into a tower all alone after I married her.” he chuckled madly. “And the raping. Was there raping? I don’t seem to recall… but oh I did kill her, do you HEAR ME LORD-LAMPREY? SHE’S DEAD. Stuffed in a tower to rot and wither, forced to eat her own fingers... And Rodrik Cassel? Butchered and beheaded. Child's-play. My fellow lords talk of loyalty and honour and proud family ties, but I was the one who punished Theon Greyjoy, I was the one who broke that man for what he did to the north. You may have captured him, Stag of the South, but I killed Theon Greyjoy, Prince of the Iron-Isles before you lobbed his head off with your sword. I am guilty of what you charge me, but I am neither Bastard nor traitor, Stannis Baratheon.”

Stannis grit his teeth. “A traitor you are indeed, Bastard-of-Bolton. To your liege lord, the Starks and to me by uttering the legitimacy of Tommen Lannister, borne of Incest, to my face and telling me he is the true King of the Iron Throne. I am the only true claimant of that throne. Lords and Lady of the North, give me your verdict.”
The Stag observed a few tears descending off the fat merman’s face, “Death.”, he coldly called. “Death to the rapist, conspirator, traitor! Death, for burning Winterfell and all Northern men about to liberate it! Death, for murdering my cousin Lady of Hornwood! Death, for abetting his father in their ultimate treason against the north! Death!

The call was united, a rippling wave amidst the northerners and southrons alike whom had picked up in the euphoria of the moment. “Death!” The chant gradually grew quicker as it gathered even the deepest ranks of northeners in the hall, up to the servants rushing in and out, now stopping and shouting, fists raised, “Death!”

“Justice will strike him at dawn tomorrow, men and women of the north.” the King of Westeros declared. “Ser Penny, remove him from the premises and send him back to his cell. Let loose Roose Bolton for his judgement before the north.”

Roose, whom had been standing in the Great Hall, flanked by King’s Men now stepped forward towards the dais.

“Lord Bolton of the Dreadfort.” Stannis called. The Bolton had Blundered. Stannis thought to himself, confirming what he had told his men when he was informed of their original advancing vanguard. “You are charged with treason against your rightful King and treachery against your liege lord, conspiracy, the butchery at the Twins, the resignation to the crimes of your son, practicing the forbidden ‘first night’, capturing Arya Stark, forcing her to marry under the threat of death…” much like with Ramsay the list continued, but the Lord of the Dreadfort had much more resigned crimes, those of deceit and treachery and manipulation, of speculations rather than the observable facts of the butchery of Ramsey. This was of course, save from his blatant treachery and conspiring.

Roose looked up, his piercing blue ice shards of eyes staring at those around him. He raised no voice, remained his calm and collected self. “There was no capturing of Arya Stark.” he declared. Some lords look flabbergasted, others confused in their drunkenness, others had looks of confirmation on their faces. “That girl was not Arya Stark, but a handmaiden of her sister Sansa.”

Hugo Wull fell to his knees, arms outstretched. He screamed, reaching for one of the short steel daggers he kept on his belt and aimed to charge the Lord of the Dreadfort. He was held back by some of his own clansmen, Manderly men-at-arms and the King’s Man Ser Penny, whom blocked his path with his stalwart shield. But he was not the only northener to take the news heavily. Mors Umber drunk and stared hardily at the ground in a state of unsureness and Stannis’ eyes were raised ever so slightly. Manderly sighed while other lords were seen in varying states of sadness.

There was no need for a further trial. Wull’s eventual call of “Death to Bolton.” began to resonate wildly and from their increasing chant, much like that before, the Stag of the South could only silently nod as Ser Penny took the Lord of the Dreadfort back into his cell.

Brynden spoke no words after having entered the great hall of the eyrie. He simply started forward, as if in shock. Finally, as seconds and seconds passed, he spoke, his face indicating how surprised he was, amongst a sense of sadness and happiness both. “Sansa! Grand-niece, we thought you to be in captivity or, seven forbid, dead.” At that point the blackfish simply dropped his drink, and rush forward towards the young lady, hoping to hug her, quietly speaking, “Oh if your mother only would know you were safe, amongst honorable men and women”.

Stepping back to his earlier place, he spoke once more, “I must apologize for this rather uncourtly behavior but of all things...this… this I had not dared hope.”
“But it is more serious matters that bring me here”, with that he took a further step back, bending the knee, and as he rose speaking once more, “The North and Riverlands are on the verges of liberation. Once more the Lannisters and their scum of Bolton and Frey will be purged from the lands. And it is with that purpose that I turn to you. The north is far, true, but the riverlands, those who fought by your side under Hoster and Jon, are nearby. And ravaged by the plagues of continued warfare, men lost by all sides, fields burned. But the Vale still stands proud with its prime of the knighthood. It is as such that we request your aid for our impending liberation, for the ongoing struggle in the riverlands. The Lannisters may have killed many and more, proclaimed a Frey in my ancestral home of Riverrun, but won they have not yet, Lords, Ladies, and Sers”.

He turned towards the Lord of Runestone, “Yohn, my friend, you said how you would have wished to have ridden with us…. We still ride. You still may ride with us”.

R’hllor grant me strength.

R’hllor grant me wisdom.

R’hllor grant me courage.

Three sharp knocks came at the door to the chambers of the Castellan of Brightwater Keep. “Ser.” came from beyond the wooden barrier. “The Tyrells… the Tyrells and their vassals; they scale the walls with their ladders and siege engines! They are led by Garlan Tyrell, whom is to be the new lord of the keep whence they take it.”

R’hllor smite down my enemies beneath your wrath. Cast them to the Land of Shadows, away from your eternal light and goodness. Colin Florent knelt beneath a hastily erected altar that had been dedicated to R’hllor, that strange foreign god of Asshai. In his right hand he clutched a sword, one that had been forged to have a slight curve as if a scimitar. Upon his white surcoat was the sigil of his house, the fox of Florent.

“The Lord of Light will save us all.” he chuckled, certain. “Inform the garrison to pull back into the inner keep’s walls, for this baptism of fire is upon us!” he clutched the Sergeant’s surcoat, shaking him. The man’s kettle helm clanked as he was shook and he bowed before the castellan. “The fools may have thought they can use the darkness to mask their advances, but R’hllor will not stand for this mockery and deceit. To call the forces of Brightwater Keep an army would be an over exaggeration; they were but 600 of the Florent’s men, mainly sergeants of pike and men of the crossbow versus a Tyrell host that probably numbered in the thousands, tens of thousands. Several knights did remain, but much of the Florent force had already perished, marched with Stannis or simply could not sally forth from their own minor holds due to fear of Tyrell backlash.

Colin donned his helm, an ornate piece of armour for a castellan - it vaguely resembled that of a fox’s head - and finished dipping his sword into the large cauldron of cooled oil he had called for. With this done he stepped forth from his room in the keep, stepping onto the inner walls of the keep and standing behind one of their crenellations. From this high and defensive position he stood amidst the rank of the Florent crossbowmen, he saw as the Tyrell forces clambered onto the walls and fought their way against small pike defensive lines upon the walls, the courtyards and corridors. Fools, all of them. “Keep your fire, men.” several of the crossbowmen looked uneasy, unsure but did their best. Some, lighting the bolts on the heads of their crossbows they fired downwards towards their foe. The Castellan descended back into his room, then leaving and hurrying down the flight of stairs. He collected the few knights, less than a dozen in all and they followed him down the stairs too.

Before long they had collected themselves in the keep’s stables and Colin Florent clambered aboard his modest mare and held a torch in his right hand. To his flanks rode his 9 fellow horsemen, knights of the Florents all. The tenth was told to remain behind, to keep up the fight for R’hllor and the rightful king of the Throne. And so did Colin Florent lead a charge through his own keep, ten knights all, armed with their spears and lances, swords and axes.

R’hllor, your mercy is infinite, your wisdom endless. Protect me, Lord of Light and let my sacrifice to you show my strength and determination to House Baratheon, King Stannis and the Lady Melisandre.

And so did Colin Florent’s horse gallop towards the foes, crushing some of the unfortunate Tyrell forces battling within the courtyard, that he led his knights to their glorious doom in a sortie most spectacular. The portcullis raised, the oaken doors swung open and out charged the last horsemen of Brightwater Keep. Florent swung his sword to his torch, slamming the two together and the sword caught flame.

“May the Lord of Light cast away the darkness!” he yelled, swinging the sword as he charged, his knightly Florents behind him. And then Colin’s surcoat caught fire, his armour, his saddle all, he became the instrument of R’hllor - a human torch of devoutness as he died in sacrifice for the One True God amidst his battle with the Tyrells. .

The final knight within Brightwater Keep did not, in fact, keep to his command of fighting to the bitter end. When Colin Florent had led his charge and the gates had closed behind him, the final knight aimed to keep up his resolve, but pike walls bent and crossbowmen could not fire for ever. Clad in his plate and mail he marched towards the battlements, the Florent banner cast in his hands.

“I call for surrender. Brightwater Keep can fight no more.”

Seven, I pray to thee that the Tyrells are merciful.

The man slowly approached the hooded figure. This is not what I signed up for, he thought to himself. The woman placed her hand on her damaged neck, speaking in a quite unclear voice, “Well, what news do the fires bring?”. Then again, the Freys do deserve death and more. “We have sent word for our bands far and wide to locate the Tully garrison and direct them towards the Inn at the crossroads, as well as gather up wandering bands of northmen. A considerable amount of the latter also are on their way towards us now. Tom has no reports and neither do any other of our affiliates.”.

The lady some called ‘the Hangwoman’ croaked something he could also assume to be a sigh. He looked around. Last time they visited the Godswood of Oldstones they had been more. But soon, soon they would be even a larger force than before. To that the Lady had seen without a doubt. “Wait, there is something more. A band in the area of pennytree has found four lordlings.Hoster Tully, Garrett Paege, Lew Piper and also Ser Hugo Vance. They mentioned they were taking them with them, for now.”

Now he had gained the woman’s attention. Once more she pressed her hand on her neck, and uttered out her commands to the Brotherhood, her words sick and gravel-like. It was one word, but they knew its meaning. “Secure.”

The raven had entered, swift and true to the Maester’s rookery. It had been delivered to the King of Westeros at a hasty speed and was a matter in which the lords and ladies of the north would surely need to be involved in. A wrong step, a wrong move, called for the simultaneous execution of all prisoners of the north held in the south. And so the Stag had raised his pieces upon the board of the game and now aimed to strike with his elephant in this monstrous game of cyvasse. His current moves had resulted in the execution of Roose Bolton, Ramsay Bolton and Arnolf Karstark in Winterfell’s Godswood and all three now found themselves buried in quickly dug graves, their bodies thoroughly burned, outside of Winterfell.

His elephant, of course, was a certain Lord Manderly. The Stag of the South had noted that every northern lord seemed to have their quirk, their own little trait. Mors Umber was a stinking drunk that managed to orchestrate battles correctly, Gods know how, the Boltons had their flaying, the Mormonts were supposedly bear people. Skagos held unicorns, for some reason. Stannis had realised that the northerners were a unique bunch of folk.

He found the Lord Manderly were he expected him to be, in the Great Hall, eating. This time it appeared to be another one of his pastries. Stannis walked over to him, nodding politely and quite socially awkwardly at the other lords sat upon the tables. Southerner and Northerner alike.

“Lord Manderly.” he called handing him the rolled up scroll. The Lord of Lamprey smiled a broad smile, slapping his belly as he dined. He swallowed his food and unfurled the scroll, reading the contents from House Frey.

“Deception.” he told the Stag. “Deception to the Freys will be key.”

Address To; Lord Walder of House Frey

Lord Walder Frey,
Aenys and Hosteen Frey are indeed dead, yes. We have begun preparations to move the bodies of your kin to the south, to you in the Twins, escorted by now liberated Frey and Bolton troops from Stannis’ failed siege. We understand the loss of the Frey household in my campaigns, but I can assure you Lord Walder, they died securing our hold in the North and Riverlands ever more.

Signed,
Lord Bolton of the Dreadfort, Warden of the North

“Friends”, spoke the man as they were joined by an additional four emerging from bushes. “At least so I allow myself to presume, based on that fine handiwork of yours by knotting up these Frey men up there”, the man nodded in the direction of the hanging corpses.
“Now, since you lads are too coordinated to be a bunch of common Brigands, and too many at that, I’m going to be assuming you and your companions have grown a yearning for Frey blood, as many between Neck and Blackwater seem to have, these days.”. The man took of his cap, once seemingly having been a dark green, now seeming rather brown, continuing, “Now, I’m not going to be one denying people their desire for hanging Frey’s off trees, what with having been stalking this bunch for a while and stringing up my own pair of ‘em.
Though if you really want to hurt the Old Rat of the Twins, I recommend you joins us on our march. A certain Lady, the hangwoman, is organizing a great… hunt, for your prey of choice”.

Wylis Manderly stared at the letter in his hands, over and over. When his father had appointed him to rule over White Harbor in his stead this was not what he had expected to face. He was, admittedly, partially aware of the plans his father was forging, but of course he couldn’t go around sharing that with the enemy...At last he did reach a decision on what to write to the Freys.

To: The Lord Walder of House Frey

Lord Frey,
I must sincerely apologize, but I do cannot provide you with any news regarding their whereabouts. Last I heard they left White Harbor, heading for Lord Bolton of Winterfell’s wedding. Mayhaps the blizzards that have been recently raging caught them, or maybe they are safely there and merely could not inform you of such.
Of course, I promise to keep you informed should my father send any news from the wedding or should I find something otherwise.

Signed,
Ser Wylis Manderly, Acting on behalf of Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor, Warden of the White Knife, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed, Lord Marshal of the Mander, Knight of the Order of the Green Hand, who is currently not at White Harbor.

Tl;dr: It is that long, just read it.
Special attention required from: FUCKING EVERYONE (Also Parous, Blackledge, and Mesrane, Cuprum)

by **Cuprum** » Tue May 03, 2016 5:33 pm

Liecthenbourg wrote:Burned man

After the siege, Lord Beesbury advanced on horseback past his men, planting the Tyrell batter in the soft soil, a flanged mace in his left hand. Ser Clarence sat atop his horse a few yards behind him with the heavy infantry, the young Raymond Beesbury at his side. From the Florent's emerged a man, sitting tall upon his horse in full maille save for a plate cuirass, upon which was crudely engraved a woman’s face. At his right side, a fearsome man with a burnt brown beard, his narrowed eyes staring at Beesbury with suspicion. After greetings and surrenders, lord Beesbury arranged the terms of surrender

“For the sake of peace, for I do not wish more slaughter of my fellow Reachmen, you will lay down your arms and surrender yourself - and all of your men - into my custody,” Beesbury was stern, his firmness surprising the veteran warrior. “Else you will all die here. Dead bodies shall fertilize the fields, and many roses will grow strong from it. I hope the Redwynes fleet have already recaptured the Shield Islands.”

Willas Tyrell

Willas Tyrell, Lord Regent and Lord Commander of the Reach, to Kevan Lannister sends his warmest greetings and best of wishes.
Concerned and worried about the Crown not commanding a fleet of its own. I'll be pleased if you allow the Westerlands' fleet based in Fair Isle and Lannisport to join us in this holy war against the Greyjoy. The ships will be useful to destroy the ironborn menace once and for all and to restore the royal law over the Iron Islands.

The messenger was Meereenese, a young boy with dark skin and scruffy black hair, but he spoke the Common Tongue as well as any Westerosi could. The Whiteguard came with him seeking contracts, he looked utterly terrified. “Bring this parchment to your master, carefully” Ser Willas had said as he dismounted and approached the boy.

The boy’s hands were shaking as he extended his arm and held the yellowed parchment. Willas raised an eyebrow and tell the boy:

''Tell your master to fight for us, and you shall be rewarded with more gold and glory than you have ever dreamed of kid.” After he had finished talking, one of his generals, snorted and said, “Gold and glory? I’m up for that!” The boy was sent on his way with the contract.

by **Sasutary Island** » Wed May 04, 2016 2:43 am

The Whiteguard

King's Landing, the Seven Kingdoms
Bedrick Vier, Grandmaster of the Whiteguard
After a grueling travel across the Narrow Sea, Bedrick Vier was still getting over the tossing of the sea waves. The damp conditions of Westeros was also an unwelcome surprise for the Whiteguard; Bedrick would rather dodge cutthroats and steep cliffs in Essos than walk through the mud and beggars of Westeros. Maximilian had crossed a day before the main force, and already reported that he had found thirty-three volunteers to bolster the pike line. Rejoining the company earlier this morning in King's Landing, he also reported that, Stannis Baratheon, the claimant to the Iron Throne, had won a key battle in the North, taking Winterfell from the Boltons of the Dreadfort. Having spent a great deal of time and effort into crossing the Narrow Sea, Bedrick hoped that he would find a suitable employer who would seek the Whiteguard's pikes. The Whiteguard marched out of King's Landing, heading West, where they could hopefully find a suitable field to camp and rest.

West of King's Landing, an open field
Kenneth Hill, Captain in the Whiteguard
The men had laid out the tents and dug latrines. After a day of labour, they had fortified their camp with wagons and stakes to ward off cavalry. Sentries had been posted to the outskirts, and cavalry sent out to forage in a nearby grove. Kenneth Hill was a lowborn, without a future or home. He joined the Whiteguard out of desperation and rose to the rank of Captain after the death of the previous one by the hands of the Dothraki in Qohor. It was now morning, and Kenneth sat on a bale of hay, sharpening his bill, polishing his cuirass and sallet with oils and water. His tunic was a mixture of green, blue, red and white cloth, knitted together to form intricate patterns on the entire tunic. The richer men would have a myriad of colours and delicately intricate designs. He had command of 83 pikemen, 14 Lanta Addemmagon and 4 Brethren.

The pikemen were recruits or corporals, and armed with two-and-a-half metre long pikes that would halt infantry or cavalry in its tracks. They were lightly armoured, mostly with a breastplate and leather hat. Deployed in rows of three to four, the first two rows would lower their pikes to meet the enemy while the third and fourth kept theirs in reserve, picking off anyone who came under the wall of spearpoints. Secondly were the Lanta Addemmagon, Sergeants and other experienced members of the Whiteguard, armed with Greatswords of extraordinary length, and armoured with cuirasses, helmets and shin-guards. These men are paid double of the normal soldier, as the name would suggest, and have the ability to cleave a horse into half if need be. The Brethren were lightly armoured men, armed with bucklers and bastard swords. From the day Kenneth was promoted to a captain, the 'Tree' had always thought him to use his pikes to hold the enemy off while the Lanta Addemmagon and Brethren came in from the sides and under the pikes to finish them off. This tactic had proved itself in Essos; a pikewall or line of infantry was kept at bay while the Brethren and two-handers hacked away at the enemy, if the enemy opened himself up to strike at a foe, the pikemen would make short work of him.

The narrow streets of the temporary camp were filled with drunk soldiers, steeds and equipment. In the wee hours of the morning the men had been up all night and partied, drinking away their ration of ale and wine. Throughout the night, the Brotherhood had gained 65 new members from villages around their camp, seeking employment. More often than not, the Brotherhood attracted the scowls of herdsmen, frustrated that a fertile piece of ground was taken up by the company. They would have to live with it, until a Lord approached Bedrick with work. But none of that for now, Kenneth had to get to training the rabble that had arrived at the Brotherhood's camp.

Short post coz unemployed

by **Mesrane** » Wed May 04, 2016 4:27 pm

House Mallister

Devan Mallister
Seagard

"I . . I don't understand." Devan stood with his father atop Fareyes Tower, the tallest such tower in Seagard, so named because a man placed here would have been the first to spot oncoming Ironborn longships. It spoke to the unsettled nature of the times that the name was far more appropiate than it had been a generation ago. "If Patrek is out fighting them, then we are resisting, father. I'm as good with a sword now as most any man in the household. Let me join him."

Jason shook his head, smiling sadly. "I cannot. As yet there is little hope of respite from the North, at least while the Boltons still rule there. We must therefore be exceedingly cautious in what we dare to do. The Brotherhood Without Banners is the only effective resistance here in the Riverlands, and the small force I sent with Patrek is as involved as I am prepared to get until we learn definitively that we will not stand alone. I know that we are far from being alone in our sentiments, but I must know that other houses in the Riverlands are prepared to act as we have."

"Besides," he continued,"I am not going to put both my sons at risk in such a way. In fact, now that the Lannisters think they've won peace in the Riverlands, we should make every effort to appear to embrace it. The War of the Five Kings has all but ended and we would be expected to settle down. Your brother is twenty-one. More than old enough for marriage, I think." His father drew a breath, clearly loath to let another son go. "I am sending you south to Wayfarer's Rest, to negotiate a marriage between Patrek and Liane Vance."

Devan scowled. "I could be helping my brother kill Freys, not finding him a wife." Why was his father doing this to him?

"Doing as you are told is the most productive, helpful thing you could possibly do for our family at the moment," Lord Jason replied in a stern yet measured tone. "A marriage between Patrek and Liane, or for that matter any one of Lord Karyl's three daughters, is no farce. It ties our houses together and gives me Lord Karyl's ear as well as a window into his mind. He was present at the Siege of Riverrun, but no Tully bannermen save the Freys showed there without great reluctance, I know that. If we are ever to throw off the Lannisters and rid ourselves of Littlefinger, we will need friends. I believe Lord Karyl and I are of like minds, and will broker this marriage to find out just how far that extends. Now you will do this, Devan. I cannot be discovered to have left Seagard for any substantial length of time, or else it will bring suspicion down on the whole house immediately, and, my son, I do not know if we can play for time in that instance."

That quelled the rebellion rising in Devan's throat. His countenance softened, and he stood up a little straighter. "I will do this, father, if it will hurt them."

Jason clasped his younger son's shoulders. "Aye it will Devan, in time, it will. The Northmen say that they remember, and rightly so." His eyes hardened, and Lord Mallister's expression morphed into something resembling that of a starving wolf sighting prey for the first time. "But so do we."

Patrek Mallister
Riverlands, Southeast of Seagard

Patrek regarded the stranger warily. It soon became clear from his talk that this was in fact a representative of the Brotherhood Without Banners. Who else?

Cautiously, he took a few steps forward. "Aye, Frey blood is what we seek. And Lions too, if we can find them." He turned around and caught Ser Devron's eye. The slim knight nodded encouragingly. Well he trusts them.

"I've heard of this 'Hangwoman' of yours, though far too many of the tales I've heard about her send a chill down my spine," he said at length. "Then again, I cannot imagine her effect on those the Brotherhood is actually trying to kill. Very well then my friend, Patrek Mallister is at the Brotherhood's service. Lead on." Patrek turned back to his men. "Prestan, ride north and find Ser Lymond's band. Tell them of what has transpired and track us from here."

by **Emilio Aguinaldo** » Thu May 05, 2016 5:03 am

Legion Quarters, Myr

Gods be damned! I’ve been organising my own sellsword company more than fighting with them! Whoever told me that starting this company would be filled with loot and profit, I will personally stick my foot in arse so high he will taste nothing but shit for a week! I’ve done more paperwork than a maester at the citadel at this point! Salaries, equipments, supplies, gods this monotony has to end! When will these cunts finally sack a fucking city? The sellswords these Tyroshi bastards hire have shit weapons and even shitier weapons! How the fuck will I even profit?

Rhaegon, finishing his inner ramblings, opened a window in his solar to let the cool breeze in. After a few seconds the rustling of many pieces of paper was heard and shortly thereafter the distinct sound of a leather bound book being thrown into the window was heard by the servants in his cabin. That was not a good idea. That cost me 2 stags. Gods damn it! Now I have to commission someone to remake that window. After a few more frustrating moments of chasing paper around the solar Rhaegon finally had enough and stabbed the stack of paper with a knife.

“Hahahahaha! I found it! I found it! I finally have a solution to my problem!” In a sudden moment of clarity he laughed and shouted like a madman. Aerys Stone, a serjeant of Rhaegon, curious about what his captain was shouting about opened the door and saw Rhaegon laughing like a madman whilst stabbing the table with knives. Aerys, confused and somewhat afraid of the madman swiftly closed the door and went back to waiting for Rhaegon to come out.”This method of binding the papers together is a fuck lot more cheaper than binding it by leather! I’d surely save a lot of stags with this!” Rhaegon shouted with delight.

by **Cuprum** » Thu May 05, 2016 3:22 pm

House Tyrell

The mist from the morning rain hung heavy in the afternoon air as Loras had left a day or two after the two reachmen as he was still recuperating from the surgery. He sailed on his largest ship he took from the fleet and brought his Braavosi captain with him alongside his trusted advisors. The sailing was smooth and no pirates that still lurked in the furthest parts of the realm had dared attack them before reaching King's Landing.

Loras had somewhat recovered before continuing their journey to the Reach, the pain he endured before Leung Chun-ying, a physician from Yi Ti had operated on him had vanished and he was feeling each day a bit stronger but still it would be a few more months until he recovered completely.

They had docked once more in that familiar port it had been maybe half a month since Loras last visited King's Landing. He gave orders to his men and brought a dozen guards with him. He doubted the people would remember him due to his scarred face but his ship had his sigil on its sails.

They walked through the city to the palace where his father resided. As they walked the smells of King's Landing were a nice change from the smell of the flowers of Reach that Loras was accustomed to. They soon enough arrived at the palace gates where Loras announced his presence and waited for this father to meet him.

A servant came to Mace, alerting him to the presence of his son. Mace frowned slightly, but was surprised the young man had survived the siege of Dragonstone. Begrudgingly he dressed himself to meet his visitors.

Mace had a servant bring Loras to his study, preferring to meet him one on one. Mace kept him waiting for a while, making no hurry to meet his unannounced guest.

Finally he entered the study. It was a small room, bedecked from floor to ceiling with books, many of which were ancient texts regarding Westeros and the other free cities, as well as books filled with sums dating back to when Aegon's dragons conquered the Seven realms.

Sitting behind his desk, Mace poured himself a cup of wine from the Arbor, "Would you like some? I hope your appearance doesn't affect you, If I'm honest you look like my father Luthor after his hunt accident, the only difference is that you are alive. Leung Chun-ying accepted to do the medical procedure because I gave him a dozen of children from Flea Bottom for his experiments. I hope you are enjoying your new skin because it was a hard task to make this possible and now we must discuss an issue concerning your tastes." He said offering him the bottle.

by **Vredlandia** » Sat May 07, 2016 7:31 am

House Reed of Greywater Watch

"We swear it by ice and fire."

Finally she held little Fennard in her hands. Howland chose the name together with her, in a way to honor his friend Eddard. He cried a lot at first, but at least they could assume he is healthy. They bathed the boy and wrapped him in cloth and fur. Jyana was exhausted. Fennard was her third child now, a good number for crannogmen. After all it was hard to raise children in the Neck. Many newborn died in a matter of hours or days, which made Lady Reed appreciate the safety of Greywater Watch. Here they had food and warmth and walls around their beds.

Life in the bogs was harder, especially since you couldn't leave your kid alone to go hunting. But sooner or later they would need to hunt, so crannogmen found a way to solve this issue. The first to give birth would take children and newborn of nearby families as well until her child was old enough to work and hunt, and in return she would get food for herself and her son, as well as some treats here and then, like new weapons or some leather. It was a great way to distribute roles, as well as fostering a sense of community from a young age on.

"Lady Reed, the good Lord returns from the Godswood."

She nodded. Howland had wandered off to ask the Gods for their mercy and the safety and wellbeing of his new son. He wanted them to guard his youngling through the forests and marshes. Lady Reed thought of The Mother. She liked to believe in the Seven, but here in the Neck everything convinced her otherwise. Powers of unbelievable nature resided in these trees. The Knight of the Laughing Tree, a tale barely known or remembered outside of the Neck, might have been a good example for that. The crannogman talked to the woods and the very next day a mysterious knight defended him and his honor. Of course Lady Reed knew what happened. She wasn't sure if she could truly believe it, but she had seen so much since she married Howland. There was more of a chance of it being true than of it being false.

"Fennard, is he well?", Howland asked as he approached Lady Reed. "Yes. He is a fine boy, energetic", she answered with a smile, but her smile couldn't hide her exhaustion. Lord Reed took her hand and looked at her. His green eyes immediately gave her a feeling of safety. After all these years, she was happy to still love this man. "I will send men to invite the other Lords of the Neck to celebrate with us. And I will send some men to Moat Cailin, to see if we can anger the Boltons a bit. This is a happy day. Make sure to rest, my wife, and I will see you when you awake", Howland told her quietly and left. Normally Lady Reed would have worried for hours, but now she was too tired to think about where he went. It only took her a short time until she started to dream.

Baland looked at his hand. It was red from blood.

Some Bolton scum wanted to force himself onto the the inkeeper's daughter. Most there didn't do anything, they were in fear the Bolton men would come back and get revenge. However, Baland wouldn't stand and watch while that man tried to steal the maidenhood of a girl. Maybe she remembered him of his own kids, who he had to abandon, and who were dead now. So he took his sword and pierced the leg of the Bolton guy with it. That guy came crashing down on his knees immediately, alarming some companion of his. Baland didn't fight a good one-on-one sword fight for quite some time, so he was a bit afraid at first, but it seemed like he was still better.

After two strong hits with his sword, he was able to unarm his opponent. Surely every Bolton man would deserve to die, but this one didn't do anything, as far Baland could tell. He forced him to undress and sent him out into the cold without his horse, which would serve as a gift to the innkeeper. Baland wasn't done though, as the painful screams of the other Bolton reminded him. His sword might have been worth something, so Baland took it with him to sell it later. Then he took a knife and ended the misery of the first Bolton guy. His hand turned red from all the blood.

At least Baland had a horse now. Otherwise he would have needed at least five more days to get to Castle Cerwyn, this way he could reduce the time by a lot, and from there it'd only be another half a day to Winterfell. They said there'd be a battle and Baland could only wish that Stannis won, or else it might be much harder to get Arya to safety. He mounted his horse and rode off into the distance, ever following the White Knife.

by **Slakonian** » Sat May 07, 2016 1:07 pm

"We, shall endure"

Autumn was certainly long behind them now, as the the northern cold wings blew against Tihomir's exposed skin. The Riverman had dealt with cold before but not like this, a decade long summer can make a man soft; even a northman apparently for old Karl who hailed from these lands was swearing all the time regarding the matter.

Tihomir had found it wise not to linger to this particular topic much. Their situation was very bad, thankfully it wasn't becoming worse, several days ago they had managed to find a small sanctuary. A crumbling tower(Gods knew when it was built) that was surrounded by 3 hills while the tower was overlooking the vast open valley while a small stream was use as a small moat, of course it couldn't stop an enemy but the icy cold water & being exposed to the elements is bad combination.

For the last three days they had some minor engagements with ironborn scouts on their east, costing them 3 of their comrades. Tihomir entered the large tent where all the sick were sleeping together; without medicine those men would die. All of them are his fellow rivermen, tired just as he but unlucky enough to get sick last time those men ate was two days ago while he hadn't eaten for one more and if they continue to keep up like this it was a high possibility that all of them shall perish. With Squids on the forests and Flayed men riding along the Kingsroad, Tihimir and his "bandits" are condemned to a slow and painful death but he didn't want to face it for these men and the few women had been his friends, his "rock" or better say his very family for all their time together...

Tihomir was interrupted by his thoughts by Edmund the "Mute" Ryte, nodding him to follow him outside where old Karl & several other soldiers armed to the teeth were waiting for him. Are they prepared for a mutiny... Tihomir was no craven but this sudden appearance of armed men, even his own was surprising to say the least.
A former Forrester soldier spoke up first: "Ser Tihomir, Ben & Ulfrick have been scouting on the north and they have seen a force bearing the sigil of house Whitehill & the flayed man of house Bolton, it's small but the head of this column seemed a lordly type and I bet it would either be some important Bolton retainer or I bet and hope being a Whitehill weasel. If we make a run for it now we can ambush those little hairy monkeys."

"This is madness..." objected the Kanet crossbowman. "How in the hell are we gonna find them in the middle of a fucking snow storm.."

"Have you turned craven Rudolf? Last time I noticed you, your itchy trigger finger killed 4 squids with that crossbow" answered back old Karl while sppiting on the ground. Tihomir couldn't understand if the man was joking or if he was serious. Rudolf; the Kanet crossbowman was about to interject that red in anger but old Karl only laughed catching his stomach due to his bursting. "Not to worry, you have northmen knowing their way in this desolate snow and muddy tosh-pot."

"I don’t know about the Boltons but the horns are driving me mad, I've heard Septons arsehols singing better than these." Rudolf's complaint was lost, almost as the chorus of war-horns blared through the snowfall. Some of the men who laid the ambush had became shells of their former selves, some were to thin that they literally swum into their clothes even old Karl who was the fattest man Tihomir had ever seen(he didn't met Lord Lamprey). The men were missing fingers, teeth and even toes due to the frostbite but not their wits smirked at the thought Tihomir.

The column of men were throwing lot's of insults to every direction and the footmen had bothered to throw some rocks to no avail. Ser Tihomir got out to their front while he was flanked by old Karl & Rudolf while the Forrester soldier was a bit behind and everything is in place craven, you won't see this coming.

The head of the column had Whitehill colors on him, the man wasn't neither Lord Ludds fourthborn due he knew he had long hair and neither the head of the house due he was fat. This must be the first son whose-name-I-don't-care. "Hello there stranger..." hailed them Tihomir.

"You there!" Shouted the man to their direction, he pinpointed to their direction while some of his mounted bodyguards came closer. "My name is Ser Lolly Docksworth and I am on an important business of the crown & house Lannister." It was a cheap lie for a commoner, even old Karl repressed himself not laughing. He noticed the Forrester soldier behind them and yelled again, "In the name of His Grace King Tommen I of house Baratheon. I demand you apprehend that traitor and bring him here, you will do a great service to the Crown and house Lannister..."

Tihimir only nodded in response and the man raised an eyebrow. "My name in the other hand is Ludd Bigus Dickus(hehe) and these are my companions: Ser Robar Dicksworth & Ser Illifer Cocksworth. You see I am a well read man and I have to say that I have heard better lies from arse weasels goat foddling piss nibbling rotund whoof merchants and sheep worrying geeks."

The man was with his mouth open, apparently shocked hearing all these insults but old Karl shouted back just a few laconic words "Which means we are gonna turn your balls to water. FOKIN-WHITEHILL-BASTERD." Old Karl threw a small axe to one of the soldiers while Rudolf released an arrow piercing the neck of another with their horses running amok. Then the rest of the group quickly attacked and overwhelmed the small column, alas they re-organized and their cavalry cut some of his men with ease as they were winded. Tihomir didn't want to face slow death, he knew many of his men might die on this crazy offensive but that would mean less mouths to feed and the opportunity to acquire new ones and even some desperate information.

"Protect the Lord!" An enemy's soldier cry was almost lost in the shouts and sounds of battle all around them. Everywhere you looked; screams, heavy thudding & death was all over the place as forces loyal to Tihomir & combined Whitehill-Bolton in a short, bloody line even as the day had became bright their battlefield was more visible here along the Kingsroad. Another charge of enemy riders had broken through the weary men, leading Tihomir and his companions thicker into the fighting. Men begged while others giving a finishing blow with spears, axes, swords to rocks and even bare hands.

Old Karl had gone frenzy as a Whitehill spearman tried to rush on him only to end up dead by his strong arms. Rudolf on the other hand had to improvise by using his small knives slashing enemies on their exposed body parts. The apparent lord after got wounded by Rudolf's arrow, he tried to hide behind his dead horse as a Forrester speared it through the neck in order to throw him out but unfortunately for him some of the soldiers(much to Tihomir's disgust) did horrible things to him but they didn't killed him; as a man of steel he didn't shed tears for the man.

Unfortunately half of the mounted troops had escaped in this short skirmish while 19 soldiers were killed from their side. The only good thing was they had killed 36 of them and caught 2 prisoners and a good amount of horses. A pyrrhic victory but a victory notheless, Tihomir was furious with his soldiers though as apparently it wasn't enough for raping Lord Whitehill but also he escaped. With a swing of his sword he killed one of his own men for failing up to the task, raising the deathtoll to 20 but he wouldn't punish the other soldiers for this tiny mishap; after all they had two prisoners to look after upon.

The information they learned from the two prisoners was most intriguing. Apparently Stannis Baratheon was still around despite his defeat back in Blackwater but also had a sizable force somewhere on the north or east(?). Torrhen Whitehill decided to save his skin, they were able to retreat but on their way their column split in order to confuse enemy pursuers but some of their Bolton companions mutinied against them while killing many of them but they managed to leave no survivors of their former comrades.

Tihomir decided to sent his northmen "detachment" both on foot and with whatever horses they had captured to Castle Cerwyn(which was less than a day away) in order to ask for a "rescue operation" of both him and the surviving men back at the camp. One of the prisoners will accompany them as well while the other...
Let us just say you never eat a comrade in arms but a prisoner, none would ever find out.

TD;LR:
Minor engagement between Camden and Bolton forces resulted in a pyrrhic victory.
Failure to apprehend Torrhen Whitehill but inflicted him a "harsh lesson"
20 men died in battle while another 3 died of sickness back at the camp: 35 men remained.
Prisoner was found out to be a delicious meal

by **Parous** » Sun May 08, 2016 11:06 am

House Frey of the twins

Riverrun

The men in Frey colors were welcomed by an opened drawbridge held up by a battered gatehouse. They were waved in by a couple guards on the top of the gatehouse and entered a bailey in poor condition. A stableboy and two frey guards took their horses and pointed towards the keep. Ser Danwell Frey, followed by his half-brother Arwood and other relatives in entourage opened the door to a cold, dark keep formerly the seat of House Tully. They made their way through the empty building by following the few torches, trampling in bricks and rubble. Finally, they entered a large tower which they walked up the stairs to, and found themselves in quite pleasant chambers. A lonely frey guard nodded to them approvingly and made a gesture for them to walk into the closest room. There were four men seated around a small round table, Lord Emmon being the one in the high chair. He was sunken into the chair and looked really small compared to the rest of them, being compensated only by his chainmail. His thin neck went up through the collar however and his scrawny old face appeared with a tired look. Besides him was his wife, Genna Lannister. She was an old lady but elegant nonetheless, mirroring that of the Queen mother but with an older roundness. The other two were not known by the guests, but likely men working for House Frey for a long time. Both were dressed in armour, indicating their practices.

“Danwell! Arwood! Olyvar! Even Lothar was convinced to return home. I hear Edwyn is doing a better job than you did as steward and this for a few months only” Emmon aimed his taunt to his very much younger brother before continuing. “I was chocked when I first heard about both Aenys’s and Hosteen’s deaths. Tragic, really. Another loss among many though, to be honest.” Emmon did his best to make a sad expression. “I believe you are headed for the Twins then.You can eat here and stay until you are ready. You could always ask Father to give me some more soldiers and to send some supplies.” Emmon said and coughed. Genna, not very fond of Emmon’s family interjected with; “We don’t have much more than bread and beer to feed you with, and you’ll have to use your own horses when you depart tomorrow. You could have brought something with you from Darry as well.” Danwell, oldest among the visitors and quite uncomfortable in the situation nodded slightly. “We are sorry to be an inconvenience my lady, if shown to our own chambers we will attend ourselves and demand nothing more then what can be given to us. We shall depart early tomorrow.” He turned and made Olyvar, the youngest in the group leave with him. They were instructed to their rooms and rejoiced that they would sleep in proper beds at least.

Lord Emmon Frey found himself on the bailey an hour later, accompanied by the two men. Bradyn Charlton and Ser Lawrin Erenford, both members of Frey vassals had brought 50 men each to the siege of Riverrun. Providing half his forces, he had no choice but to listen to their advice and give them influence. Only in the presence of Genna could he truly be Lord Frey of Riverrun. As if the castle itself brought any power, he had the most fertile region in the Riverlands but could not control more than a few square miles. How he had wished to be a Lord, and now in the seat of one he could barely exercise the power given to him.

The Twins

Lord Walder was outraged as he received news from the war council.
“Another attack? How dare they! Damned Brotherhood without banners kills off my army. We must send a force to wipe them out!

“Let me lead them father! Give me two-hundred knights and I shall find them, even if I have to slaughter every peasant in my way! You shall have their heads on the walls of the Twins and show that you are the strongest lord in the Riverlands!” Walder Rivers, commonly known as Bastard Walder spoke out.

“Fool” snubbed Walton Frey, third son of the late Ser Stevron. “You’d give the Mallisters, Rushmoors, Grells and Vyprens a valid reason to attack us if we were to send an army out. “

“Silence!” Shouted Walder. “ We will wait this out, gather our strength in the Twins and wait for Lord Regent Lannister’s answer to our request. Now Maester Javell, I heard you had received a raven.

“Not one raven my Lord, but two from the North. Lord Bolton says that…”

“Let me read that. Give me both of them!” Lord Walder interrupted and grabbed the letters from the Maester. “Stannis’s siege is broken, as we thought. Don’t think for a second that he’s dead though children, that man has got the willpower to march his army back to Castle Black if it would be needed to regroup. He’s probably got some reserve plan and will try attack some other place with an even smaller army with even worse morale. On Roose however, we can only hope that the Boltons remain in command of the North. We may get reserves with the arrival of our lost family’s bodies at least.” He opened the second letter, read it through and closed it with a dreary look.

“Anything on…” started Ser Tytos Frey, son of disappeared Jared Frey.

“All useless!” Walder interrupted. “Nothing of importance, not Tytos” He shook his head disapprovingly, and the others went into bitter silence.

-House Frey recieves confirmation about the deaths of both Aenys and Hosteen, awaiting the arrival of corpses and reinforcements from Roose Bolton
-Words of Stannis's defeat at Winterfell reaches the Twins, House Frey now 'know' that Roose Bolton has won

by **Cuprum** » Mon May 09, 2016 2:18 pm

House Tyrell

The main fleet’s arrival sparked a change in Garlan, he had a determination that he lacked a few days ago. He would be gone for the next few days and he had charged, his brother Willas and Ser Brynden Flowers to gather the remaining troops of Highgarden.

The fleet was ready to go to sea and recapture the shield islands and destroy the ironborn. Garlan wanted to be part of the first voyage, he would be sailing on the flag ship of the fleet. Although he was not eager to fight a war for a man he had never met, against a realm he’d never been to. He knew his duty was to the Reach and he would do what he must to protect it.

He walked through the city towards the harbor, Garlan was accompanied by the Admiral of the fleet, his fat castellan James Flowers, Thomas Mullendore, and his squire Ronald. The markets of aroubd the town were as busy as ever but he did not expect it to last, soon traders would be wary of travel. It was a long walk from his keep to the harbor, he wore a light armor of leathers and chain. It was a hot day but luckily for him a cool breeze blew into the bay.

When they arrived at the harbor Garlan was surprised to see the number of ships that supplemented the fleet of warships. The bay was littered with ships, the warships of the main fleet and a number of smaller ships.

“We have conscripted a number of private vessels my Lord, those I have deemed fit for the fleet.” The Admiral told Garlan. The captains of those ships would not be happy about it but Garlan would reluctantly reimburse them for any profit loss they incurred.

The group arrived at the raft that would take them to their ship. “Flowers, I trust the city will still be here when I return.” Garlan said dryly.

“It will be as you left it, my lord.” James said with a bow and a red, sweat covered face. That man will be relieved of his position after this war ends Garlan thought to himself, something that has been on his mind for far too long.

The row to the ship was longer than expected and the water was rough, once on the large ship though Garlan was quick to get his legs under him. He walked to the helm of the ship, receiving greetings from the crew as he went.

The majority of the fleet would sail, they would be sailing to the former Misty Islands. His presence on the ship was to boost morale, as it would likely to be an uneventful war for the sailors of the Reach.

The Admiral then ordered the ships to set sail. There were a few places Garlan could truly enjoy and one of those was the sea.

No longer then fifteen minutes at sea Garlan was already annoyed, “Why do you wear your plate Thomas?” Ronald asked with a sincere tone.

Garlan had heard this argument between the lightly armored Admiral and the heavily armored Thomas before. Not wanting to be a part of the argument Garlan walked to the bow of the ship and sipped a glass of wine. He gazed out across the Narrow Sea and everything around him went silent as he felt more relaxed than he had been in weeks.

by **Emilio Aguinaldo** » Mon May 09, 2016 5:28 pm

City of Aksakaray, Disputed Lands
4 weeks prior

After marching for three days after the army's last victory I invited Brynden Rivers, the other mercenary captain to a leisurely stroll along the city walls of the City of Aksakaray. Naturally, the Riverlander being a veteran of the war of the five kings, was a bit worried about our position in relation to their walls. Well then this is quite awkward, it seems that this bastard is a bit worried that I might betray him. After being too close for comfort to the enemy walls he felt compelled the speak.

"We'll be within bow shot range soon."

"Boy, warfare in the disputed lands is a bit different to what you have experienced" I replied.

As we came nearer to the city gates the bastard beside me was a bit surprised that no arrows came to turn us into pincushions. When we were finally near enough to the wall the two guardsmen atop it suddenly shouted. "What business have you with the City of Aksakaray?" I sighed and announced "Let's not stand on ceremony, we have come to negotiate the surrender and fealty of your city."

"We refuse." came an immediate answer.

"We control the field, and we will level your city, carry off anything of value and burn what's left."

The guardsman hardly blinked and announced "Our walls are strong enough to hold you off for three weeks."

"Very well, I will come back and see if you have changed your minds." Immediately, Brynden asked me what when would we prepare the siege lines. Again, I sighed and said "Boy, were you not paying attention? Warfare is a bit different here that what you are used to in Westeros. The guards did say their walls can hold us off for three weeks, so we shall wait for three weeks. I suppose no other army from Tyrosh or Lys could remove us from our commanding position, so we wait."

"An odd sort of siege, we do not raid their fields nor do we block their supply lines."

"The pay is like any other" I said whilst shrugging "One half of the spoils go to our employer, Myr, and the other half would be divided to the two of our companies. Since I brought twice more men that you do I, we would share the other half of the spoils two to one. This along with any valuables we may have looted from the three other companies we routed. Well you may see this as generous, but it is customary to share any games in proportion to the number of men supplied by each company rounded to the nearest hundred. Though, you should've negotiated this before the fighting/looting starts. Well then, I shall not keep you for any longer. Go back to your company and explain this to your men, they might do something too rash."

Three weeks gone by quickly and with nothing of note happening, well except for the odd looks we got when we ran out of spices and went to Aksakaray to buy some spices, meat and sell some of our loot. Myr also sent a letter telling me that they want me to consider their offer of extending our contract for three more months. Finally, I marched to Aksakaray with Brynden and my lieutenants three weeks to the day we 'negotiated' the surrender of the city.The city guard brought us a chest filled with four thousand golden Myrish honors. This represented a formal commitment to pay their taxes to Myr until they surrendered to another city.

ASoIaF: The Storm Rises (IC)

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