ASoIaF: The Last King (IC)

by **Liecthenbourg** » Fri Aug 11, 2017 4:39 am

OOC | Map of the Known World | ORBAT
Discord | Theme

NO RESERVED POSTS

House Baratheon of Dragonstone

"Ours is the Fury!"

The siege lines were a bustling centre of activity. Man marched and stood watch. Before them a great construct of blackened stone, with merlons that appeared to be sharpened canines jutting from the walls. It was a gothic image like none-other, befitting for the rumours of the horrors that had gone on within. From the Northerners Stannis had learnt that within the bowels of that dreadful castle were torture chambers plenty and even a room dedicated to the displaying of the flayed skins of Bolton foes. Even the Kings in the North. The former ones, he'd hope. If Roose Bolton had been mad enough to flay the young Robb Stark and had his skin sprawled across some room in his castle, he'd be certain that the northerners would wish to dig up his headless body from the unmarked grave they'd placed him, his son and that treacherous leech Arnolf along the White Knife.

With Winterfell having fallen Stannis and his host had made some decisions then and there, within the hearth and fires of the Great Hall. Robett Glover, who had once claimed he would wait upon the return of Rickon Stark - Davos had yet to return from that island of Skagos - now marched with a small host of about 200 men, mostly his own, to Torrhen's Square. The other houses would take their forces to pivot to the Dreadfort first, with Moat Cailin being assailed after. Lord Lamprey had been happy at that, slapping his stomach 'midst the talks to pledge his knights to both causes. The Clansmen too had been happy; and the Mormont Ladies had given their nod of approval.

And here they were, some 4,000 men. Men of the Old Gods, of the New, of the Lord of Light, with standards of enclosed mail fists, to triple spirals and even foxes upon standards of white and gold and purple. The giant of Umber, too, fluttered here and there, for Mors Umber and his brother Hother had taken to surrounding the castle as the first line. They were dispersed, as if burly rangers of the woods, with their pelts of wolves and bears giving them the distinct visage that their banners, here upon the hill, could not do for them down there.

Horns had been sounded. Shields and swords smacked against each other in a cacophony of battle.

"Tire the garrison. They will not sleep, they will not patrol, they will speak - they will not be on the privy without Umber men blasting their warhorns and crashing their shields to pester them into the night and morn. " Stannis had said and the Umber brothers had nodded decisively, for that was but the first part of that plan. They had been at it for a few days, three of the four since they had arrived. Drive the garrison of Bolton men to exhaustion. The other forces were held at camp, save for some archers who had formed their ranks and every so often suppressed those on the battlements from firing too many arrows down at Umber boys who ranged too close to the defences. Unlike at Winterfell no blizzard masked them, yet they did not expect a sortie like had happened at Winterfell, where Mors' pit had killed Aenys Frey. The Dreadfort lacked the men that Bolton had had when he was Warden.

Yet not was all well within the King of Westeros' camp. He had been partaking in a minor lunch with his lords and commanders on the second day of their siege. As they dined word reached the camp of some of the outriding scouts spotting an unknown sigil, a white field with a blazing red sun upon it. Someone barked that the "Martells had come up north." but was promptly corrected by one of the Reach Knights, whom studiously quipped that the Martell banner was "A gold spear piercing a red sun on an orange field."

Nay, this was the new sigil of Sigorn of "House Thenn". Word had reached from the wall by way of raven of the marriage between Alys Karstark and Sigorn Thenn. Many of the northerners were upset, angry at that - wildlings now breeding with northern stock. Yet some also noted that Sigorn was here, not at the Karhold. His 200 men had joined the siege lines, off to a side, aiming to avoid tensions with the northern host. Yet this could not be done effectively, spats were broken out, with several fights needing to be stopped at numerous occasions by Stannis, Sigorn and some of the Northern Lords themselves. The fact that the Thenn had brought a giant had perplexed many, but as he began to construct a crude trebuchet out of logs and bark, his intentions became known. This did not warm the relations, but several of the foot could live with the fact they had similar goals.

Stannis himself watched in amusement as the giant finished his task. It was nothing like a proper siege engine you'd see south of The Twins. Yet its proof of power could be seen when it lobbed its first rock towards the walls of the Dreadfort. It didn't do much against those stout walls, but it proved to be another tool in an arsenal to strangle the Bolton men out of their will at the Dreadfort. Another horn blew, loud and triumphant, and Stannis grit his teeth against each other and tapped his ear. It was getting annoying, but its purpose was necessary.

His thoughts turned to Justin Massey, who had left for the wall with that Braavosi Banker and 'Arya Stark'. He wondered if he had begun his venture to Braavos yet and what men would come his way with the loan he had received. But he mentally scolded himself for that. The fight was here at the Dreadfort now. The Freys at the Twins could wait, as could the men at Moat Cailin. He looked up from his planning tent, noticed the shuffling from the ranks and stood up. Lightbringer was sheathed upon his waist and above him fluttered the flaming red heart and stag of the Branch of Dragonstone.

"Do you believe we've done enough?" He asked to an assembled gathering of northern captains and generals, and some of his own Stormlanders and Reachmen.

"Horn's been blowing since we got here, we've got a siege engine throwing rocks at that wall as best it can." The Stormlander Ormund Wylde said. He then kicked a chest before them and gave a short laugh. "And we've yet to show this to them, either."

An approval grunt from the surrounding sers and such and Stannis turned his hand to the castle before them. "Let us summon them to a parlay, even if it is with them atop the wall. We'll show them the heads of the Late Lord Bolton and the Bastard of Bolton and ask for their surrender. If they refuse, we continue to strangle them until they are so tired that they shall collapse from the very walls in which they stand."

by **Elepis** » Fri Aug 11, 2017 6:45 am

House Nymeros-Martell of Sunspear

"Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken"

Doran Martell
The Sandship
Sunspear

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

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

It could not last though, the aged Prince knew that. Soon the men and boys of Dorne would be fighting and dying in the north for a king they did not know out of loyalty to a far off Prince they would never meet. Soon Doran would throw his hidden dice and hope that the numbers came up well when war came to Dorne. Since the Fall of King's Landing to Tywin Lannister and the coronation of the Usurper Robert Baratheon Doran had been working to bring the Lannister's and their allies down and now finally the time seemed to have come. In the last month he had received a letter from an man long thought dead, Jon Connington, formerly of Griffin's Roost and Hand of the King now of the Golden Company that the men of the Company had landed in the Storm Land's and taken his old seat, all in the name of a boy who claimed to be his nephew, Aegon VI of House Targaryen, rightful King of Westeros.

Alone Dorne was no match for any other Kingdom, save perhaps the Iron Islands. No one could conquer Dorne but Dorne was too isolated and too sparsely populated to defeat any of the other Kingdoms on it's own. It could raise an army of perhaps twenty five to thirty thousand spears, no match for the eighty thousand men of the Reach, but now the arrival of the Golden Company on the scene presented a shift in the balance of power. Not only did they bring ten thousand more men, the warrior's of Bittersteel were warriors unmatched by any in Westeros. Whereas most Westerosi armies were made up of part time soldiers or peasants lifted from the fields, equipped with whatever their lord could provide them with and most of them having never seen battle before, the Golden Company was a professional fighting force feared throughout Essos. Lead by men who had been fighting all their lives, the men of the Golden Company were veterans of countless conflicts with the best equipment and training money could buy and led by competent, fearless captains. According to Lord Connington's letter the Company had 500 knights and another 500 squires, 1,000 archers including Myrish crossbowmen and Summer Islander's with goldenheart bows supporting a core of 8,000 battle hardened infantry men and a score of elephants. The last of these was a particularly interesting choice, common in Essos they were never used in Westeros but according to Doran's brother Oberyn, who had fought with sellswords in Essos, they could scatter cavalry and demolish ranks of infantry as though they were toddlers. No Westerosi army could match the men of the Golden Company Doran thought, especially when their ranks were joined by the men of Dorne.

Doran was of course anxious about backing this Aegon, as yet he could not trust the word of a boy he had never met, so he had sent his daughter the Princess Arianne north to find out more about him before committing Dorne to the cause of fire and blood. His daughter might be young and rash but the Prince trusted her judgement and she was wise beyond her years. If she was making good time she should be near the north coast of Dorne or even sailing across the Sea of Dorne north to Cape Wrath if the god's were with her. There it would be a shorter journey to Griffin's Roost where the Company had made their hold in Westeros to meet Lord Connington and the Prince. If Arianne reported that this boy was who he claimed to be, then Doran would release the armies of Sunspear north to lay waste to the enemies of Dorne. So far he had mustered 20,000 men split between guarding the Boneway and the Prince's Pass, and was raising another five to ten thousand to support them. If Arianne said so and depending on the numbers mobilised, Doran would send fifteen to twenty thousand soldiers north through the Boneway to join up with the Golden Company, a force of twenty five to thirty thousand men and more than a match for any half-trained northern army. This force, the vengeance of House Martell would be commanded by Doran's most loyal and capable ally, Anders Yronwood, Lord of Yronwood, Warden of the Stoneway, the Bloodroyal. Despite being proud and stubborn the Yronwood's had proven loyal to Sunspear for centuries and as the second most powerful house in Dorne non other deserved the honour of leading Doran's armies.

Now it all rested on time, how many men could Dorne raise in time, how quickly could Arianne reach Griffin's Roost, how quickly could Yronwood get his men through the Boneway? All questions, Doran thought, that could decide the fate of Dorne and the entire continent of Westeros.

Arianne Martell
The Harbour at the Tor
Dorne

Arianne's small party had arrived at the Tor in the early hours of the morning having ridden night and day north from Sunspear across the deserts of eastern Dorne. It had taken them a number of days, she couldn't remember how many, but they were finally here, looking out over the Sea of Dorne. The Princess and heir to Sunspear was joined by a few guards and her close companions, Daemon Sand, the best sword fighter in Dorne, Joss Hood, Garibald Shells, Nate, Jayne Ladybright, and her cousin the Sand Snake, Elia Sand. Her father had told Arianne the details of her mission and yet she still could not quite believe it, for years Doran had seemed like an armchair warrior, always plotting but never moving and complaining about his watermelon sized knees but now he had finally made his move and was moving fast. She did not know much about this Jon Connington or about the boy Aegon who was meant to have died as a child but here she was, entrusted with a mission that would shape the fate of Dorne forever.

Looking out over the harbour she could see the galley was nearly ready although she was still impatient to set off. A small ship with a low freeboard and many oars it could not carry a large crew but it was fast and it would be enough for her, in a few days time she would hopefully have made it to Cape Wrath and after that Griffin's Roost. Most of her companions were still asleep but down on the ship the tireless Daemon, his ginger hair and pale skin making him visible amongst the crew of salty Dornishmen, direct activities. He, like Arianne, had only caught a few hour's sleep after they arrived and wanted to leave as soon as possible. A talented knight and fighter, he had been the squire to her uncle Oberyn and had seen first hand his grim death at the hand's of the Mountain, the mad dog of the Lannister's. He more than anyone else in Dorne, save perhaps her father the Prince and Oberyn's own daughters, wanted to see the death of House Lannister.

Turning away from the docks, Arianne went to wake up the rest of her companions, they needed to make it across the Sea of Dorne in good time and they would not do that by sleeping.

by **Vredlandia** » Fri Aug 11, 2017 12:18 pm

Alys Karstark

"Wait", Alys mumbled, and the track was brought to a halt by the booming voice of her husband, the Magnar of Thenn, who commanded his men in the Old Tongue. Off in the distance a castle rose into the sky. Its walls were high and strong, the towers massive. It's not like Alys remembered all the castles and fortresses in Westeros, or even the North alone, but this one was familiar to Alys. It was the seat of House Bolton, the Dreadfort. When she was younger and her father visited Lord Roose, she would ask him not to stay at the Dreadfort. Unthinkable stories had been told about the castle and its secrets. Alys was never keen on discovering them, and she didn't want her family to get hurt.

It was a bitter irony that it was the Starks, their kins and liege lords, who would behead her father. That two of her brothers would die fighting for them, and a third wander into captivity. Often times, Alys felt crushed at this thought. All those things occured for a reason -- but does that make it okay for her to forgive the suffering of her family, which not too long ago has left her heart so very empty, not a thousand tears could fill it? And who should she be angry at anyways? Her father was dead. Robb Stark was dead. She was alive and so was Jon Snow, who had aided her so well, and Stannis, who ended the conspiracy that threatened her last remaining brother's life and her freedom. And Sigorn, the Magnar of Thenn, riding beside her.

The blow of a horn could be heard in the distance, and before too long they had marched far enough to overview what she assumed were King Stannis and his men. Alys named the banners and who they belonged to to Sigorn, but although he tried his best to seem interested, she was convinced he didn't care much about it.

"We will arrive soon", Alys noted. "Good. Make it known that House Thenn has come to the aid of the King. Our men shall feast with him and fight with him", Sigorn noted and was about to ride off, but Alys interfered. "Wait!", she yelled as quietly as she could. As good as those men might be, the other Houses will see them as wildlings and nothing more. This can't end well. "You would let your Lady be surrounded by strangers?", she asked, raising her eyebrows not literally, but with the tone of her voice.

Sigorn was visibly troubled trying to find the right words to reply. "No, of course not, my lady. We shall take enough distance", he said and looked at his co-commander, who nodded and took the men with him to start building tents and everything else they needed. Alys and Sigorn staid behind.

"My father would never believe what we are doing here. We should fight the White Walkers. Retake the Thenn valley. Instead we knelt to this Southern King with his strange God, and every man we are losing in these battles will be missing when we fight the real foe. And trust me, they are coming."

Alys looked at Sigorn, who himself was staring at the Dreadfort. "My father Rickard would never believe it either. The heir to Karhold standing in front of the Dreadfort with an army of 200 men, fighting alongside a Southern King with a strange God because her".. No, not wildling.. "Thenn husband knelt to him. No, my father would never have been able to imagine that. But I think he would understand it. He would know to take the stories from beyond the Wall seriously, and he would understand that what we are doing is essential to the effort for the War to come. For as long as the North isn't unified, we will be weak, and stand no chance against the White Walkers. Stannis, Jon Snow, you and me, your men, the men at the Dreadfort -- We would all die. As long as this war isn't over, we will stand no chance and all die. Let us win it and have a chance, so you can return to the Thenn valley and show me your home. I want to see it, and one day I want to raise your children there. I think our fathers would understand."

Sigorn grunted. "Maybe."

Noticing that he was still concerned, Alys rode closer to him and took his hand gently. "Trust me."

"We better win this war quickly then", Sigorn said, smiling at her. The evening sun was reflecting slightly in his bronze armour, and his eyes looked at her with false innocence. Alys knew there wasn't much more to say and took the lead in following their men, and Sigorn came after her.

by **Kuhlfros** » Fri Aug 11, 2017 1:30 pm

House Umber of Last Hearth

Last of the Giants

Hother 'Whoresbane' Umber

"Just a moment your Grace." Whoresbane spoke with a voice as hard and flinty as his eyes. The old man stood up, he was a very tall man, but where Crowfood and his nephew the Greatjon were also wide and imposing, Hother was gaunt and slim.

"Before you parley with the Boltons, my brother and I have one last gift for to send over their walls. " He turned his head towards the exit of the tent and opened it, allowing the cold winter wind in, and along with it, a horrid smell that left men retching. Three beardless green boys of House Umber stood with skin as pale as snow and were almost doubled over. Looks of disgust etching over their face. In their hands they each held a small crate which was concluded where the stench was coming from.

"Rotten entrails of horses from the capture of Winterfell mixed with nightsoil and in each, a head of one of the Bastard's hounds. We've kept this in the back of the army's train to prevent the men from falling ill. We are going to make sure that those Bolton men want to leave that castle"

He shooed the boys away and closed the entrance to the tent. "With your leave, we launch the ruddy boxes over the Dreadforts walls and let them feel ill from it's god-forsaken smell. That'd make them want to leave the castle."

Hother then returned to his seat. He knew how those surrounding him would react, he'd spent years in Oldtown before abandoning his training as a Maester. The southron lords and sers would mostly react in disgust and dismay at the 'dishonorable' tactic but perhaps being forced to eat their own horses on the way to Winterfell would make them reconsider. As for the Northern lords, especially the clansmen, they'd laugh and toss out bantering suggestions of what else to add to the boxes. Such was the way of things...but all that mattered is what Stannis thought. Mors had done his job causing a cacophony with warhorns, drums, banding shields and howling which would fray the nerves of the garrison from sleepless nights, then combine that with a god-awful smell wafting through the castle and then reveal what was hidden in that chest. That would be the breaking point.

Mors 'Crowfood' Umber

For the past few weeks, Mors had hardly slept, at night he was awake, commanding his men to cause noise, bellowing and howling in the night, blowing warhorns, banging drums, slamming weapons against shields, and during day when he could command a sergeant to take his place commanding a batch of men to make the noise, he napped against anything he could find, weapon in hand.

But the horns and clanging were maddening, he could see it in his soldiers and his own eyes. They were tired but he could only imagine how the Dreadfort garrison felt, and that made him grin. He dreamed of entering the castle and raiding it's ale stores. Despite the major victory at Winterfell and the excecution of the Boltons and many Freys their march and siege of the Dreadfort was followed by melancholy, the blizzard had taken a toll on the supplies and strength of Stannis' army. They had quickly marched from Winterfell to help ensure victory in the north. And it was likely they could march out quickly again, Moat Cailin was leagues away, and the North was not truly safe on land from Lannisters and Freys unless the Neck Causeway was retaken.

Mors stood, wrapped in his snow bear pelt, looking at the stout walls of the Dreadfort, the corners which looked like sharp teeth, and the high towers. This castle would be the last legacy of House Bolton. In it's crypts many Boltons lie all the way to their days as Red Kings, and what other secrets hide in those walls only those inside know. It is good that the Boltons are gone, but who shall rule the land that the Boltons once ruled? Who shall reside in it's keep once it falls.

Stannis would be wise not to give it to some southron lord, he'd gain the disdain of many northmen for such dishonor. And lest he wish for an uprising he'd best not place those damned wilding Thenns in this castle either. He thought to himself.

Mors, who along with his men had been at the front, had no actual idea that the Thenns had arrived to join Stannis' host. Crowfood spared little time among the southron lords, despite he swearing fealty to Stannis before the hearttree of Winterfell, Mors had little patience for some of the pompous knights and lords of the south. He reckoned King Stannis was wise to put Mors and the troops ahead of everyone else for the siege while the more patient Hother dealt with the southrons.

by **United Kolumbia** » Fri Aug 11, 2017 2:24 pm

House Royce of Runestone

We Remember

Andar looked out from his the rookery's largest window, more or less a two-feet tall hole in the tower wall and observed the farmers packing up the last of what had been harvested during the day. The crops brought by the refrigerant fall wasn't innutritious, but it grew more sparsely and according to those who had the age to remember and privilege to say so, tasted worse. He shivered as a breeze ran through the window, reminding him that he himself had a warm bed to spend the night in and that Enna wouldn't appreciate waiting for him. He squeezed the parchment while taking a last peek outside the window, seeing the last light of the day disappear behind the Mountains of the Moon, thinking of his sister Ysilla and fearing for her and his unborn nibling. His brother-in-law, Mychel Redfort had sent a raven to Runestone as soon as the water broke.

He descended the Tower having wished the busy MaesterHelliweg a good night and some sleep, but he doubted that the dozen flux victims treated in the tower would recover quickly enough by themselves. He stopped by the barracks on his way to the Keep, was offered a mug of ale and stuck around for the warmth around the hearth and the pleasant company among the men not on guard duty. Roger Needle, the garrison's cook, appropriately named because of his hefty girth, told the story about how he stormed through the largest gate of Gulltown followed by Robert Baratheon, almost so well that the younger soldiers actually believed him. Andar, having been a young boy when his father Yohn returned from the battle had heard the story been told in so many ways throughout the years that he doubted that Roger Needle had been there at all. The drinking didn't stop when Lord Yohn Royce entered the barracks, but many fell silent and gave him a cursorial salute. He was dressed only in a tunic and whool trousers, as well as warming socks and leather shoes. Bronze Yohn nodded to the soldiers respectfully, before staring down his only living son.

"I went to see you in the Keep. Your family is waiting there." Yohn said, concisely.

"And here I am.", Andar said, ignoring his father's remark. "Will you join me for supper there?", he suggested, pointing towards the door.

Nodding, his father took the lead and held up the door as they made their exit. They walked out over the bridge between the Keep and Castle, an impressive construction in stone reaching between two hilltops at the edge of the Mountains of the Moon. Both hills made up Runestone, an ancient castle in its own right. The Keep was older, and had housed the Bronze Kings who made their subjects climb for hours on a narrow and muddy path up the hill to reach the Bronzehall. It wasn't until much later, by the time House Arryn's Overlordship had been established, that a bridge was built to the much more accessible hill to the West where a village had grown and freshwater supply was in abundance. As the years had passed, Runestone had become the largest Castle in the Vale second only to the Eyrie, and while not impregnable like the latter it would be no easy task to even consider a siege of Runestone.

"I...We received a message from Redfort just before sunset. Ysilla is giving birth." Their eyes met briefly, but they continued to walk over the bridge in good pace.

"It's that time again then, ey?" Yohn said, remembering the four times his own Brineley had given them children. His chest ached every time he thought of his wife, who he had lost so many years ago. Not a day went by without him seeing her, or feeling her hand pull his beard softly to wake him up in the morning. He had blamed himself for not being there when she died, giving birth to Waymar, and more so for blaming his little boy for it. He blamed himself the most for having forgot what she looked like however. The brown, curly hair, fair skin and most of all warmth, all of which he remembered only in name.

"Both of us have seen it. I fear for Ysilla as much as you do. All we can do is hope for the best." Andar had noticed his Father stuck in his thoughts. "A healthy Ysilla and an addition to the family, that is." Yohn frowned for an answer.

"A Redfort boy to knight or girl to marry off you mean." Yohn muttered, opening the wooden gate into the Keep and continuning on to Andar's quarters. Andar rolled his eyes.

"That's not quite fair to Ysilla, nor to yourself. You'll be a grandfather!" Andar smiled as they met his small daughters greeting them at the door. "Again." Both of Yohn's legs were clasped by two girls, Tyra at age five and Brienne at three respectively. He hid a smile behind his beard and patted them both on their heads, lifting them and carrying them over to their mother who was busy pouring stew into the five bowls on the table. They all ate together, the conversation being dominated by the two children telling their Grandfather all about what they had done and learnt during the day. Yohn ate no less than three portions of stew and two whopping pieces of bread with cheese. The girls had a good laugh over him spilling stew all over his beard and their mother's awkward attempts to wipe it away. After supper, Enna put the girls to bed while Yohn and Andar had some warm ale by the hearth.

"There is something I'd like you to do for me Andar. Something important. So important it could the determine the very future of our House and the righteousness of the Vale." He leaned over towards his son.

"Whatever you ask of me Father." Andar nodded, raising his eyebrows,

"Harrold Hardyng. The probable Arryn heir. You know each other decently, we've all met a dozen times at least. He's been on my mind for some time." Yohn stared into the fire.

"He is a Ward of Lady Waynwood, Father. Whether or not he is at Runestone or Ironoaks, he is safe." Andar assured calmly.

"This is not about the boy's safety or not!" He exclaimed. "This is about that lying laughingstock of a Lord, Petyr Baelish, who's time is running out. We gave him a year, the honorable Lords of the Vale and I among them, yes, but half of that time is nearly gone. He has nothing to show us but his firm grasp around the young Lord Arryn, who I bet sits sickly and weak on the Eyrie's high seat. I can't stand that man in such a position. What has he ever done but counted coins and now he holds the title Lord Protector despite being born with nothing but some tower on the Fingers. I can't stand it!" He slammed his fist onto his armrest.

"What is it you want me to do Father? Ride to Ironoaks and tell him what you have already told the Vale? That you will remove Lord Baelish from power and install yourself as the Lord's Ward?" Andar shook his head.

"It is not for me, Andar? Can't you see? The entire Vale is at risk here! Littlefinger is a profiteer, not a protector. Yes I care about Harrold's safety, and that because he is the heir. If Harrold isn't alive and well, that man could claim his own right to the Vale and I would have to stand against any Valeman he would have bought with his tricks and lies. Ride to Ironoaks, Andar. Bring up my concerns to him and assure him that House Royce supports him as heir to Lord Robert until he has a son of his own. Tell him that. Ride tomorrow."

by **Krugmar** » Fri Aug 11, 2017 5:39 pm

House Baelish

The climb is all there is

Petyr Baelish

All was quiet in the Eyrie, as Petyr sat in his study, a small box of a room connected to his apartment. It was certainly not as grand as his old lodgings in King's Landing, but it suited him well. In a show of good faith he had given Lord Robert the rooms befitting the Lord of the Vale, formerly used by his mother, and before that his father. He had taken up a smaller residence, but one certainly comfortable enough.

A cold wind blew in through an open window, extinguishing one of the candles and pushing a few notes and letter from his desk. He rose, and slowly made his way to the window, pushing it shut and locking it. His attempts to relight the candle with another failed, and so he simply switched them around. It could be seen to later. For now, his message was of utmost importance.

A swift rise to power had earnt him few friends, some admirers, but many enemies. Luckily for him most were concerned with more pressing matters than some upstart from the Fingers, one with an empty title, and another one that seemed very precarious. The choice of Valemen to be his main threats had been a blessing. They were like Northerners, but even less pragmatic. They played the game as honourable warriors, so they would lose the game.

One name kept coming up in his mind. Yohn Royce, the Bronze Goat. Not a particularly smart man, but one with a good mind for strategy, and sizeable armies to put such stratagems to the test. He was too prickly and honour obsessed to ever make an ally, even unwitting, and would therefore need to be neutered, or eliminated. That said, perhaps a talk and a bit of carrot would make Royce a pawn. The man lived and breathed combat, something he had been denied. Perhaps given that, and the possibility of ridding himself and the Vale of House Baelish should the Riverlands be fully secured, he might.

Alas, every option would need to be explored, and definitely at the same time. It is a good thing when your various enemies cannot agree upon what you intend to do, but far better when your allies can't. For what is an ally, but a future enemy? A knock on the door came.

"Lothor, come in. Just on time. Make sure that this letter is sent to Yohn Royce, and this one to Kevan Lannister." he said. Brune nodded, taking the letters from his hand and going about his business.

Letters

by **Jade Confederacy** » Sat Aug 12, 2017 2:49 am

House Yronwood

"We Guard the Way"

Castle Yronwood, Gateway to Drone

The early morning light pierced through the misty blanket of the valley of Yronwood and reveals the metropolis of tents that populated the lush valley. The tents were built in concentric ringed formations walled off by layers of palisades with the command pavilion forming the center of the burgeoning war camp. The camp, which began as a temporary series of structure at the onset of the War of Five Kings have become rather permeant and has since tripled in size. The sand yellow banners of house Yronwood and the orange standards of House Martell have since been joined by the purples of the Daynes, the blacks of Manwoodys, the red of the Qorgyles and greens of the Jordaynes along with a host of that of minor lords of knightly houses. As the morning mist clears, the camp comes to life and the smells of roasting meat and boiling porridge waffs though tents, cajoling the still groggy soldiers to meet the day. The hum of the camp quickly ramps up with the banging of pots joined by the chattering and yelling of ten thousand men. One voice pieces through the din with a distinctively rage filled tone.

“Fell asleep? You fell as asleep?! You pox fill filled goat shagger, you’re on bleeding guard duty, you’re not supposed to rest even if your dead. Maybe the stakes are not high enough hmm?? Maybe I should save the enemy some trouble and gut you here and now!”

Following the distinctive sound of eight parts cold anger and two parts hot rage that is his uncle Conrad Sand, Lord Anders Yrongwood found his uncle dolling out a generous round of beatings to a napping sentrymen supplemented by periodic threats with a very big knife.

“Morning to you Uncle Conrad, the Father finds you well today?”

Noticing his liege lord and favorite nephew, Ser Conrad Sand gave one more sledgehammer kick to the whimpering sentry before straightening up.
“You two, take this sad sack of horse shit to the parade grounds and give him five lashes for napping on the job. And you, if you think this lesson came off light, think again! The next time if find you ‘catching a break’ while on duty, I’ll personally sodomize you with a morning star, now get out of here!”

Ser Conrad turned to face Lord Yronwood as the dazed sentry was dragged away dazed, leaving a small trail of blood and half his teeth on the dirt pavement.
“The disciplining goes on I see. Well at least the troops are improving, that was the first time in two months that a guard was caught dozing. Much better than those first few weeks eh?”

“Aye m’lord, those were some sore days for my fist. The boys are coming along well enough, their phalanx formation still needs work though and they need build on their nerves. They still don’t know what its like to be on the wrong end of a cav charge. May the Father have mercy on those poor sods if they break ranks during a full charge”

“Experience is the father of all learning uncle and our men may get the lesson of their lifetime soon enough. Come, you are wanted at the war council. “
The two men made for the central pavilion at the core of the camp, entering to find an array of lords already seated along the large round table that held the map of Southern Westeros. Taking his seat at the head of the table, Lord Yronwood presided over his commanders and fellow lords.

“Now that everyone is here, let’s begin. Lord Qorgyle, as of today, what is our total strength?”
“My lord Yronwood, with the addition of Lord Symon Santagar’s contingent of 400 men, our army stands at over 14,000 men, of which just under three thousand are mounted. With the banners of all the major lordships called, it is likely that we will reach our peak strength in the coming days.”
“Very good Lord Qorgyle, and Lord William, what of our supplies?”
“My lord Yronwood, accounting for losses due to spoilage and theft, our current stockpile of supplies will allow us to have 6 months of hard campaigning at full strength. With the additional supplies garnered though foraging and requisitioning from locals, we may be able to stretch it to 8 months. We currently have a distinct shortfalls of hard cheeses and horse shoes. I have already made requisitions to Planky Town, although the process may take a few weeks.”

“Well, we may have to hurry the process up for we have finally received go-ahead to begin our march.”
With those words, the eyes of the array of lords and knights came to full alert. Chairs creaked as the men shifted their weight and leaned forwards to hear more clearly what was being said.
“As of late yesterday, I have received through raven commands by our Prince, his excellency Doran Martell for full mobilization of all forces in the Boneway. We are to march into the Dornish Marches of the Stormlands with all haste. Our task is to secure the region against all opposing foes and insure the loyalties of the Stormlords to the Crown. Any lord that refuses to open their gate to our forces will be branded as traitors to the Crown and be dealt with in such a manner befitting of their ilk”

“Heads, spikes, walls” the Dornish lords chanted as one. Lord Yronwood nodded and continued.

“Yes, and our first target will be the fortress of Blackheaven and its guardians, the house of Dondarrion. Ready your troops, we shall march by daybreak tomorrow.”
A plethora of questions rattled form each lord and the crescendo of noise built until no one’s voice can be hear above the din, no one except that of Ser Conrad.
“Quiet!!!” The yelling subsided and Lord Yronwood cleared his throat and began answering the assembly’s queries one by one.
“Yes, lord Uller, as to who our foe is…”

The meeting dragged on for many hours and ended when one by one the lord existed from the pavilion, a look a determination and deep thought on the faces of some, while others were etched with eagerness at the thought of the coming battles.

As the morning light pierced though the mist blanketing valley Yronwood, the rays found the warcamp much depleted in size. Snaking from the camp was a long column of men, with bronze shields to their backs and spears pointed high. At the van of the force was Lord Yronwood himself, follow by a retinue of other lords all displaying their house colors with the Dornish orange held the highest. Methodically, the army marched north, though the Boneway, to war.

Positions of Dornish troops at the Boneway:
http://imgur.com/a/cchw2

by **Valentir** » Sat Aug 12, 2017 3:54 am

House Baratheon of King's Landing

Hear the Fury of Our Roar

Kevan Lannister, Lord Regent, Warden of the West, and Protector of the Realm
The Red Keep
King's Landing

The sun began to rise over King's Landing, driving away the darkness of the night. The vast, sprawling city was slowly illuminated by rays of bright light. From the holy Sept of Baelor to the solemn ruins of the Dragon Pit, all the way to the intimidating fortress known as the Red Keep, there was nowhere the light didn't touch. From the balcony of his chambers, Kevan could hear the city awaken from its slumber as smallfolk and nobles alike prepared for the day ahead of them. As for himself, he was already a few hours ahead. Being Lord Regent was no easy task and required tireless devotion to the protection of the realm, not to mention the sacrifice of one's time.

Barely setting aside a few moments to break his fast, he scarfed down a few chunks of freshly baked bread and washed it down with a refreshing glass of arbor gold. It was a paltry meal in comparison to the elaborate dining seen in King's Landing, but it was more than enough to satiate him for the day. Not all practised such temperance, however. The court was not at all hesitant about relishing in the generous bounties of the Reach, which have left the capital overflowing with a surfeit of provisions.

The shipments of grain weren't the only miracles the Tyrells had been working as of late. Two hosts of 30,000 deployed in the field, another 10,000 being assembled. 200 ships deployed under Paxter Redwyne, sailing to the Arbor to do battle with Euron Greyjoy. Soldiers, ships, supplies, gold, there was nothing the Tyrells didn't have in abundance. We would've collapsed a year ago without them. While the strength of the Tyrells positioned them as a rival of House Lannister, they were a rival that must be courted and kept beholden to the Iron Throne, lest the many enemies of Tommen cast him aside. I shall continue Tywin's work. The golden rose will be watered, gently and with great care. . .

Kevan's train of thought was broken by a loud banging on his chamber doors. Behind the thick oaken door he could barely make out the croaking voice of a very old dotard. "My lord regent, are you there?" the voice had begun to wheeze in fashion all too familiar.

"Grand Maester, please enter." The door was slowly pushed open by a man not even half its size. His back arched like that of a hunchback, his movements lethargic and stiff, Pycelle lacked both grace and convincing acting skills. At least he is somewhat loyal.

Kevan took at seat at his desk and motioned for the old man to sit down. He closed the door behind him and slowly wobbled his way over, every movement taken with great care. After a few moments he finally made it to his chair and joined Kevan by sitting down. "My apologies my lord, I did not mean to bother you at such an early hour. I merely wanted to discuss a number of matters in private in advance of today's small council meeting."

"It is no bother Grand Maester, I was just about to summon the small council."

"At such an early hour? I do believe most of the small council is asleep."

"They might be but the enemies of the crown are not. Two kingdoms are still in open rebellion, Stannis has had mercenaries land in the Stormlands, and the Ironborn threaten the Arbor and Oldtown. There is work to be done and they will help see that work through."

"Of course my lord, but might we hold for a moment while I bring a fe. . ."

"Yes, yes, please begin."

"Certainly, my lord. There are a number of matters that I think will interest you." Pycelle pulled out a few pieces of parchment from his robes. "The first among them is the succession of Rosby. As I'm sure you aware Gyles Rosby died without naming an heir and there are several claimants that have come forth. It might be prudent to solve the dispute, else wise we find ourselves dealing with warring vassals."

"Fully agreed, which is why I'm ruling in favour of his ward, who according to my sources is his bastard, Guncer. He will be officially legitimised this evening and granted Rosby and its associated lands and incomes."

"Is that truly wise? It would greatly upset the other claimants."

"The other claimants should be content with that, we've had enough houses go extinct during this war, I don't seek to add more to that list."

Pycelle meekly nodded, "If you think it best, I will draft the formal proclamation. Now I had one more concer. . ."

Thud, Thud, Thud, a sudden knocking on the door grabbed both men's attentions. "My lord regent, I have an urgent message from the North!" shouted a frantic voice.

"You may enter," Kevan responded as he removed himself from his desk and began to walk towards the door. As it was thrown open a young man, perhaps having just turned of age, rushed in and bowed to Kevan. He was dripping with sweat, his face drained of colour, and he could barely catch his breath. The lion of Lannister was strewn over the breast of his red tunic. "My. . . M . . . My lord." He extended his arm and handed Kevan a letter, drops of dried blood covered the weathered piece of parchment. He took the letter in hand and dismissed the messenger. He unfolded the parchment and slowly began to examine the contents. "Damn."

Pycelle grunted as he stood up and walked over toward Kevan. "Is everything alright my lord?" Kevan shook his head and handed the letter to him. It took the old man a few moments but he finally finished reading the scribbled writing on the parchment. A dismayed look on his face, concern could be heard in his voice. "What shall we do?"

"Fetch my quill and pen and awaken the small council. The Crown must take action now."

Royal Declarations of His Majesty King Tommen I

House Baratheon of King's Landing

Royal Declaration of His Majesty the King

To the loyal and honest vassals of his majesty King Tommen,

In these times of treason and uncertainty the Iron Throne finds itself surrounded by enemies. Stannis Baratheon, the jealous and unjust uncle of his majesty, has executed the lawful Warden of the North and seized Winterfell for his own. His selfish ambitions know no bounds and he will not cease until he has usurped that which does not belong to him. It is our duty to the King to preserve the realm and halt the advance of the heretic who would see us all burn.

It has come to the Crown's attention that mercenaries have landed on the shores of the Stormlands, mercenaries in the service of this pretender. Their presence is an insult to the Crown, the Faith, and all those loyal to the one true king. Their existence will not be tolerated.

In order to separate the dutiful from the treasonous the Crown demands a gesture of loyalty and good faith. Henceforth any lord or lady who does not stand down their banners immediately, unless under the direct order of the Lord Regent or Hand of the King, will be suspected of joining with the rebellious Stannis and taking up arms against the Crown. Those that disobey this command will be suspected of treason and risk imprisonment and death.

Signed,

Tommen, of the House of Baratheon, the first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the Firstmen, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms

by **Elepis** » Sat Aug 12, 2017 6:18 am

House Nymeros-Martell of Sunspear

"Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken"

Doran Martell
The Sandship
Sunspear

War

War was finally coming to Dorne. Doran's bodyguard, the great Norvoshi axe man, Areo Hotah had brought a message to Doran from his vassal, lord Ander's Yronwood informing him the Dornish host had set off north from the southern end of the Boneway and was now marching up the Boneway to the northern edges of Dornish lands. Doran had still not heard from Arianne if this Aegon was he he said he was, and it would be a long time yet, so he could not authorise an attack on the castle immediately in case the princess decided he was a fraud. However it made sense for the host to move north, to shorten the journey as much as possible if the orders to storm it were given.

Doran had also received a raven days ago from Arianne saying she had reached the Tor, home to House Jordayne, and would soon be departing across the Sea of Dorne to the Stormlands and that she would send another raven once she reached landfall. No such raven had come however, meaning she was still at sea although Doran and his Maester's estimated she would soon arrive though given that by all accounts the weather was not too rough and that Lord Trebor Jordayne had sent Arianne off with his fastest galley. After that, it would be a good few days hard riding for her to reach Griffin's Roost and the Golden Company although with such a small party it shouldn't take too long. Doran had calculated given that the distance from castle Yronwood to the Stormlands and from the southern coast of Cape Wrath to Griffin's Roost that Arianne's party would arrive in plenty of time to meet with Aegon and report back to Doran before the Dornish army reached the Stormlands.

However a complication had arisen, the Lord Regent, Ser Kevan Lannister, had sent out a proclamation in the name of the boy-king Tommen that all nobleman were to disband their armies unless they had permission from the King to maintain them, which Doran did not have. However, this should not be a hindrance to his calculations as far as he was aware. It would take a long time for any reliable information about Doran’s plans and movements to reach the capital so he still had surprise and time on his side, and they could still take Blackhaven in surprise and keep their true intentions hidden from the Lannisters and Tyrells in King’s Landing. Meanwhile Doran hoped, the Golden Company would take Storm’s End from its beleaguered garrison giving them a powerful base of operations and perhaps turning some of the other Stormlord’s to their side.

Just as the Prince contemplated this the Maester of Sunspear, Caleotte, entered and after bowing to his lord Prince, handed him a letter. ”From your daughter, my Prince” he said ”she has arrived in the Stormlands.”

by **United Kolumbia** » Sat Aug 12, 2017 9:49 am

House Royce of Runestone

We Remember

Lord Yohn Royce

A knock on the door was enough to wake Yohn from his slumbering. Finding himself in a chair by his bed, wrapped in his coat and with a half-full cup of wine besides him, he remembered having trouble falling asleep again. Standing up to open the door, a sudden burst of pain in the back made him grunt, something he rid himself of after kneading it. He'd made a poor choice in taking a nightcap in the hard wooden chair, and it wasn't the first time he'd fallen asleep in it, but the back pains themselves weren't caused by any such thing. It was merely the result of his fights in youth and disregard for the advice old Maester Helliweg had given him throughout the years.

"Come in!" He shouted, as he was slowed down and didn't see the need to open the door himself. Helliweg, the Maester many years older than himself entered, supported by a wooden staff he'd carried since the last Winter.

"It's just me, My Lord." He said, giving Yohn a toothless smile. "A Raven arived this last night, from the Eyrie. I haven't opened it myself since I know you told me..."

"...Not to open anything from the Eyrie. Yes, you did as I told you to do Helliweg. It is always good to know that I can trust you." Yohn interrupted him. Showing the parchment to him, Yohn quickly snatched it and teared up the sigil with the mockingbird. He read it twice, not trusting his aged eyes completely. He then waved away Helliweg, telling him to order breakfast to his room on his way to the Maester's quarters.

He hadn't thought that Petyr Baelish had the guts to meet him man to man, but he had to hand it to him this time, the Lord Protector's game was one of high stakes. As powerful as Baelish had become, it was a precarious landscape he exercised his power in and one that he navigated through schemes and most likely, spies. Yohn wasn't aware of it, but Baelish's flattery was successful and probably the most compelling force behind his enthusiasm to ride for the Eyrie this very morning. He'd naturally be persuaded by himself that it was his Lordly duty to stand up to the upcomer, a course he had followed ever since Lady Lysa's tragic death. The fall of the Lords Declarant had taken a hard toll on him, spurring a greater mistrust towards the man. He couldn't let his feelings stand in the way of the Vale's best however. If Littlefinger required his good judgement, he would have it.

Hours later, having gathered the men necessary as a retinue on his way to the Eyrie and with a sturdy breakfast in his belly, Bronze Yohn rode out of Runestone's outer gate clad in his signature armor, riding west towards Ironoaks with Andar and then to the Eyrie. Andar himself was surprised over the change in plans, but sure enjoyed having more company on the way to Ironoaks. As they left Runestone, a raven was sent to the Eyrie to announce that Lord Yohn Royce's party would arrive before the fortnight.

by **Jhet** » Mon Aug 14, 2017 3:34 am

Aurane Waters, Lord of the Waves

Sweet Cersei with hair the colour of straw. Sweet Cersei with her wrinkled skin. Sweet Cersei with her grating voice. There was nothing sweet about the Queen. Nothing but her eagerness to spend her son's wealth for the smile of a dashing Valyrian.

The Sweet Cersei was everything the Queen was not. Had everything the Queen had not.

"We have her," Gorge of Flea Bottom snarled, pointing out the obvious with his usual flair. "Shall I give the command?"

There were few men in the Stepstones as widely known as Salladhor Saan. A scion of the ancient Saan pirate dynasty, the aged Lysene had once commanded respect from every freeman in the archipelago. Now however, his reputation was tarnished. The once proud flotilla he had taken to win the Iron Throne was all but gone, turned to driftwood in the icy waters of the North. What few surviving ships remained to him, limping back to their old hunting grounds empty-handed, were as dangerous as Cersei.

Aurane nodded softly.

They had spent days seeking out the pirate prince, pouncing on Braavosi fresh from the Arsenal and their Lysene slaver quarry alive. None had known of Saan's den, nor where his ships would be. Not until today.

Brown had sighted the first sail, striped in colours so flamboyant even the inheritors of Old Ghis would decry them. For a second Aurane had almost signaled Lioness to make a prize of the lone galley. Then young Cregan from Claw Isle picked out a second. Then a third. A fourth. Soon Aurane was presented with seven galleys coming across his path. With a battlecry as old as the Seven Kingdoms, the chase was on.

Laughing as his quarry sent a lone scorpion bolt out as a deterrent, the new king savoured the moment his wrath was unleashed. His Cersei did not disappoint him. When he ordered the artillery to fire, they did so with only the barest of delays. Scorpions bracketed a merchantman while the catapults hurled their incendiary pots with practiced ease. And shortly behind the artillery of Cersei, Lord Renly and Princess Myrcella added their fury. The sky, once a clear autumn's morning, became overcast with burning pitch and iron darts.

Salladhor's merchantmen, skiffs compared to its pursuers, had realised that they could not outrun the three-decked fleet behind them. Pointing themselves towards an outcrop that would tear open the Sweet Cersei if it ran over it, the Lysene were sure to make Aurane work for his prize. That was, if Aurane had only four ships under his colours.

Lord Tywin, as large as its namesake in prowess, pulled itself afore the rocks. On its flanks came the Golden Rose and Lady Olenna, cutting the merchantmen off from any hope of escape. Despite himself, Aurane almost let out a playful yap. Tywin looked like an island all on its own, a fleet's worth of cloth catching near all four winds.

For one brief moment of insanity, it looked like the merchantmen were set on dancing with the largest warship afloat. However it was not to be.

The bastard smiled. He would have the ships for his fleet, their crews for his bannermen. Loyalty was a fickle thing, a truth the same for the most prestigious princes and the poorest yeoman. Saan had led them to fever and hunger. Waters would see them fat.

"They are raising oars!" Gynir the Left snarled, his meaty hands raising an axe. "We have them!"

We have them indeed.

by **Nuxipal** » Mon Aug 14, 2017 10:23 am

Rickon Stark

Kingshouse, Skagos, The North

The last few years have been troubling for the young Stark. However, fate has seen him through. Surviving the siege of Winterfell and escaping north eventually finding his way, in no small part to the wildling Osha, to Skagos where no other lord in Westeros would look. News that the Boltons were named Wardens of the North was met by laughter in the halls of the Skagossons. They knew they had the true lord of the north with them on their islands. While Rickon continually asked where Bran had gone, Osha told the Lords of Skagos that Bran had gone beyond the wall. That seemed to satisfy them that he was either dead or would never return in time for Winter to end.

Rumors of the Army of the dead marching on the wildlings who failed to cross south of the wall and had taken shelter at Hardhome had brought the Skagosson houses together with their modest armies. They were deciding on if they should act when they learned of the Lord Commander's death. The Night Watch was close by to the Skagossons and many had sons or friends in its ranks. They had brought Rickon forward as to carry out a formal meeting of court.

"Lord Stark, our enemies grow in number and there are potential allies at risk just a short journey away. While we don't have the ships or men to bring them all here, we can go and save some of them if you permit it." the old Lord Magnar said.

Lord Stane put his ideas forward next, "The wildling masses at Hardhome are not much different than we are, we could shield many of them on our islands while the winter passes. Perhaps when the Spring comes they too can march with us to return you to Winterfell."

Lastly, Lord Crowl spoke, "They are not ours to save my lords. We can't be sending ships into the ice choked waters off Hardhome just to collect the survivors of the failed Wildling attack on the wall."

The young Lord Stark spoke up himself, only five he was not exactly a leader of men yet. "What does Jon think?" he looks to Osha who had already been told about the events surrounding the 998th Lord Commander. "Jon won't be able to help you here. He is busy with the business of the Wall" she responded to the boy.

"We should help the people wherever we can." Rickon said. "They can help us later." He had a child's view of it, but he had always been aggressive. The struggles thus far had only made him more so and he had trouble getting along with other children his age. He did understand that helping people was something he was supposed to do as a Lord, drilled into him by Lord Magnar who had taken on the father figure role for the time being.

"Very well Lord Stark," stated Lord Magnar, "I will dispatch men and ships to Hardhome immediately." Lord Stane agreed to do the same, however, Lord Crowl said, "I won't be sending my ships or men to their deaths. We are as likely to die from icy seas as we are to die from the Wildlings when we arrive."

Debate continued to try and bring Lord Crowl aboard, they simply did not have enough ships either way to bring all of the Wildlings, but perhaps they could start evacuating them in groups. After all, Skagos and Hardhome were not too far apart. Eventually, it grew late and the young Lord Stark was too tired to continue. They let the young lord retire and continued their debate, albeit quieter than before.

Jon Snow, Former Lord Commander of the NIght's Watch

Castle Black, The Wall, The North

"Ghost," the last words of Jon Snow as he fell beneath the blades of the mutineers. It was not but an hour later that he was again living however. Ghost, Melisandre, and Shireen Baratheon stood over him. The door being held by a loyal brother of the Nights Watch and two Queen's Men. Jon sat up and looked about and he saw Ghost watching him, his red eyes reminding him of the Weirwood trees once again. "How.." Jon started, but couldn't find it in him to continue the sentence. Instead he turned his attention to the clamor outside of the room. "What is happening?"

"Civil War, some of your brothers are not keen on what took place last night. If it were not for Ghost, the mutineers would have cast you into the fires last night."

Jon listened in as best he could on what was happening beyond the room he was sheltered in. He heard shouts of treason as well as voiced defending their actions. Others simply stated that they need to begin the vote of a new Lord Commander. With his death, many Wildlings, including the Giant Wun Wun, had fled Castle Black towards Oakenshield where Tormund was gathering Wildlings for a ranging to Hardhome to rescue as many of the people who were holed up there as they could.

"I suppose I should put an end to this fighting. I still need to go and find out about my sister at Winterfell. Stannis.." Jon is cut off by Melisandre speaking.

"A raven came shortly after you were slain. Stannis has taken Winterfell and is moving his troops to take the Dreadfort." She said, causing Jon to pause. "Then Hardhome needs me. I will calm the Brothers here and go to Oakenshield to range with Tormund." He dons his armor, sans the black cloak and exits the room with Ghost within reach at all times. Still a bit shaky after being resurrected, something he didn't believe was even possible. Following him out, the young Shireen Baratheon, Melisandre and the Queen's Men who were guarding the room. He walked out in full view of the brothers who slain him.

One of them spoke up, he recognized the man as Bowen Marsh, "You were dead I confirmed it just before your wolf showed up." Jon gave him a look that would have paralyzed a lesser man.

"Was. By some miracle, I am standing again. I am done with you all. I have fulfilled by oath and died in service to the Night's Watch. I am going to rescue the rest of the Wildlings and we will make our way south to find my sister and do what we can to prepare the realms to defend the wall against the coming storm. Chose whomever you want as my replacement, but know that I will not be returning here again."

He left the bewildered men of the Night's Watch behind him as he mounted a horse and set off for Oakenshield and Tormund's band. Along the way he would catch up with the fleeing Wildlings and the mildly wounded Wun Wun. Together they would arrive at Oakenshield to meet with Tormund and prepare for the expedition to Hardhome via Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.

by **Liecthenbourg** » Mon Aug 14, 2017 2:24 pm

House Baratheon of Dragonstone

"Ours is the Fury!"

"We'd make it impossible for them to wish to stay in the Dreadfort." Stannis mused, drumming his fingers upon the hilt of his sheathed sword.

Hother gave a decisive nod and gestured to the chest again. It was a dread thing to imagine. The sick, seeping forth from out of that chest would make any man think thrice, maybe four times, before even nearing it. If they would even dare to do such a thing. A Maester, with enough herbs and powders perhaps would. Or a bold man with a torch. But the men of the Dreadfort were tired and on edge, with the immense horns and drums keeping them awake. Now their walls were, too, beat upon like a drum.

"The Bolton men, then, would have want to come out." Hother explained, pacing about before pointing to the second chest with a devilish smile.

"And when we show them the heads of their former Lords, their resolve will break." The King of Westeros replied, arms crossing over.

Ormund Wylde, beneath his helm of plate adorned with the colours of the blue-green malestrom that was the sigil of his house, shook his head in a counsel of disapproval. He was an elder knight, who had marched with Stannis out of pure stubborness and dedication to the cause. He had been treated unfairly, if realistically, by the squires on the march to Winterfell. "Old Wylde's going to die next." They'd say in their betting pools; "Too old to continue to march." But yet here he was, a man of advanced age, still marching beneath his liege-lord. Not much could be said for some of those lighter-armoured squires, who had been peppered off by the last remnants of the Winterfell garrison, or crashed into by Frey infantrymen at the battle of Crofter's Village. He had given sound counsel too, even if it had not been accurate. Granted his call for "a cease of movements, to rest and supp" at Crofter's was probably due to his own fatigue, it had later led to the notion that the ice-fishing could be used against the Frey host.

"I can't agree, mi'lord. Tis too cruel." The Knight of the Rain House remarked, staring at the chest. "Those Bolton men, many might be like Mors' Greenboys. Just lads and gents from across the country, given their spears and bows and told to do this or die. The Lord of the Dreadfort, that treacherous Roose, was a cruel man. The northerners speak about how he raped a miller's wife beneath the hanging corpse of the miller. We often say we can't fault the smallfolk for what their Lords whip them to do, and aye, the north demands vengeance - but to take it out on what could be small-folk garrisons..."

A grumble from the camp, with Hother nodding to the man's words but shaking his head slightly. "Bolton's men here are the last of his proper men. We don't intend to kill, just to push them out quicker."

Stannis ground his teeth against each other in thought and stared at the Dreadfort. The giant's trebuchet fired off another round, and it flew over the wall. A loud thud was heard within, the smaller rock probably embedding itself into the courtyard.

In the corner of his eye he saw Thenn's boys, supporting that giant, some armed with crude bows and sinew strings loosing their missiles. Stannis had made sure to keep the distance between Mors and Sigorn; for the history of Mors' daughter was enough to make any man in his position lash out in rage at any wildling. Alys, whom now sat at the officer's tent, seemed to agree with that assessment. He could see it now, the afternoon sun of the crisp winter day reflecting its rays upon the polished bronze disks that the Thenn men wore into battle.

Some of Manderly's light horse were scouting the perimeter, moving up and down the road. A light trickle of supply from White Harbour, by way of the White Knife, was now steadily making its way towards the siege lines and these horses were needed to make sure that any Bolton force in the field, or pro-Bolton men, could not interfere.

Stannis stared back at the Dreadfort and shut his eyes momentarily. In his mind two voices played, that of Melisandre and that of Davos - but their own counsel was unclear. What he imagined they might be saying was lost to the echo of the words of Wylde and Umber. He clenched his right hand opened his eyes once more.

"Hother Umber, do you work. Ser Ormund Wylde, prepare the heads. The castle will be safe for them no longer. This is no Storm's End." In a sack most foul were those entrails placed, flung across the walls by the giant's crude trebuchet and as the coughs broke out and man abandoned segments of those battlements, two pikes brought to the sky by the elderly Wylde. Atop them, battered and slightly decomposed, the heads of Ramsay and Roose. Luckily, the birds of carrion and the insects had yet to feast upon them. With those in the air Stannis halted the horns blown by the Mor's boys and quickly penned a letter demanding the surrender of the Dreadfort.

He handed it to a knight seeking acclaim, one of his last Reachman, and he approached the fort with his banners struck down in the sign of peace.

The portcullis opened, the drawbridge lowered and a battered, tired and somewhat sickly garrison representative - a captain of some sort - strode out as quick as he could.

by **Hellenope** » Mon Aug 14, 2017 5:47 pm

House Tyrell
Growing Strong

The weak and watery sun shone over Highgarden, spilling through countless glass windows to illuminate the beauty of Highgarden's intricately decorated walls and chambers. Yet, as beautiful as the decorated chambers were, they paled in comparison to the beauty of the vast gardens and fields that rambled for acres upon acres outside. Hundreds of plots of rare and common flowers filled the air with perfumed scents, while dozens of manicured and trimmed trees swayed and rustled pleasingly in the breeze, and a handful of man-made brooks trickled and gurgled throughout. Yet, even here, in the bountiful bosom of fertility that was the Reach, the northern wind brought a bitter bite of cold. The Stark words had never been truer - Winter was coming.

In at least one chamber, however, the bitterness of the northern wind was welcomed. There, the wind was blunted by the large fires that roared on either side of the relatively small chamber. The warmth of the fires blunted the chill of the wind, while the perfumed smell of the women clustered there suffused the entire room with a not unpleasant scent. Half-finished needlework and other instruments of womanly arts sat scattered around the room. A handful of handmaidens sat clustered around a small wooden table, laden with food and drink to break their fast, while at the other end sat a small, withered old woman.

"The Boltons have blundered," Olenna said, rubbing her spotted hands together in satisfaction. "Stannis has taken Winterfell. Roose and that detestable bastard of his are dead. The North has bent the knee to Stannis and his Queen, that fire woman."

"Lady Selsye, my lady," one of the handmaidens clustered around her said, softly.

"Not if half of the rumors I've heard are true, and given how poor my hearing is, I've heard but a tenth of what's to be said about Stannis and his Red Priestess," Olenna said. "It's a wonder that Selyse puts up with it, but I suppose the poor fool has precious few options remaining... Regardless, no matter. The Boltons have blundered," she repeated, "and the realm is all the better for it."

"But my lady," another handmaiden, one of the innumerable Tyrell cousins and hanger-ons, said, "the loss of the Warden of the North..."

"The Warden of nothing and no one," Olenna said pointedly, "seeing as he doesn't even command his own grave at this point. If he has a grave. I wouldn't be surprised if Stannis burned Roose's corpse, given what a pyromaniac that man has turned out to be. Perhaps we should write to the Alchemists' Guild - clearly Stannis has missed his calling."

The assembled handmaidens tittered quietly, and Olenna's wimples shook as she smiled benignly, exposing a mouth empty of teeth. "No, no, Roose's fall is of no matter to us. Where can Stannis go? He rules over the North, a barren and cold land full of people who consider 'fun' to be hunting wildlings and brooding quietly in their castles while the snow falls. Stannis has found his people at last..." Another titter swept through the room. "Recall, of course, that Roose betrayed Robb Stark, that little Stark boy, at Tywin's behest. If he had been willing to betray a fellow Northerner and his king, then he clearly had no motivation to strenuously support King Tommen and Queen Margaery. Best that Stannis removed him; and then the Lannisters will remove Stannis. Or winter will. Whichever one proves up to the task."

The heavy wooden door to the chamber creaked open as the blue eyes and bushy red mustache of Arryk appeared in the doorway. "Maester Leygood to see you, my lady."

"Very good, Left. Send him in at once. No, no, stay, I insist," Olenna gestured at her handmaidens, who had begun gathering their skirts in preparation for their assumed dismissal. "The good Maester," she nodded at the elderly man who was hobbling into the room, "is simply here to inform me as to the gravity of the situation that my idiotic grandson has brought upon himself."

"Ser Loras was very brave, my lady," a handmaiden said, her cheeks flushing as she glanced up at Lady Olenna. "It was a noble thing he did, charging over the walls and slaying traitors left and right."

"Noble and brave does no one any good if you die in the process," Olenna said tartly. "A good dose of common sense would have served Loras, the Iron Throne, and House Tyrell much more than a captured citadel in the middle of the ocean. As it is, will Loras bear children," she asked Maester Leygood, who had been standing awkwardly besides the now-shut door, clutching a small handful of raven scrolls.

"Ah, erhm..... after reading the messages from the Maester there, and consulting my books....on advanced healing techniques...I would hesitate to offer hope, my lady."

"A good thing then, that I seek answers, rather than hope," Olenna said tartly. "Do not hedge your words; we have enough hedges around here without you creating more with every sentence. Can Loras bear children, or not?" A few handmaidens blushed and whispered to each other.

"Erhm...No, my lady...I would suspect that bearing a child would not be possible for a long time, if at all. It is possible....that Ser Loras will heal sufficiently in due time...but unlikely," the elderly Maester said, nervously fidgeting with the raven scrolls in his knotted hands, dropping a few in the process.

"Seven save us, two cripples now in the family. Willas, at least, trained his brain to compensate, but Loras... that was perhaps the one muscle he neglected," Olenna said dourly. "No doubt Garlan will gallivant off to get himself grievously wounded at the hands of those moronic, over-salted, metal lobsters that call themselves the Ironborn. Very good, Maester. You may leave."

As Maester Leygood gathered the raven scrolls he had accidentally dropped, Lady Olenna lapsed into a moment of quiet contemplation, her rheumy eyes staring sightlessly at the far wall of the over-decorated chamber. A slight cough roused her from her thoughts, and she glanced about to see her handmaidens waiting expectantly.

"What are you doing here? Shoo, shoo. Go find some nice sers to coo and sigh over, like you normally do. Shoo! Leave this elderly woman alone..." She flapped her hands dismissively a few times, waiting for the exodus to begin. As the stampede faded, but before the door swung shut again, she called out to her guardsmen beyond the door. "Left, fetch me some parchment, and inform Maester Leygood that I shall require his ravens."

by **Elepis** » Tue Aug 15, 2017 4:27 am

House Nymeros-Martell of Sunspear

"Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken"

Arianne Martell
Near Crow's Nest
Cape Wrath, the Stormlands

Arianne had lost track of how many days or weeks it had been since she had left Sunspear at her father's command with her thirteen companions, first crossing the dry deserts of Dorne, then the surprisingly calm Sea of Dorne and now riding together swiftly across the Stormland's trying to make it to Griffin's Roost before the Tyrell's and Lannister's of King's Landing could put together a force to match to forces of the Golden Company. Six of her party were guards sent by Doran who she had known since childhood but had no intimate connections too, they were trained killers and loyal to house Martell, nothing more was needed, the other six were her close friends, including her sworn shield Ser Daemon Sand, Joss Hood, Garibald Shells, Nate, Jayne Ladybright, and her cousin Elia Sand, all of whom were fighters and thinkers, loyal to her above all else.

Despite the journey going relatively calmly, she had already needed to call on their collective skill as fighters to defend her mission. Just a day or so prior, as they thundered north on horseback through the near deserted fields of the southern Stormlands a small party of raiders had tried to ambush them, jumping out of the fields of wheat thinking to make easy pray of a small group of foreigners. However these bandits, armed with just sharpened hoe's and scythes, had been no match for the Dornish soldiers and now their bones were laying uncomfortably at rest in some corner of an abandoned field. This area had of course been hit hard by the years of war, despite very little fighting having taken place in the Stormlands, every family and homestead had lost men who had been taken off to fight for distant kings. The land through which they now rode belonged to House Morrigen of Crow's Nest and they had been hit especially hard, first declaring for Renly and then Stannis, Lord Morrigen had taken all of his best fighters and a number of green boy's lifted from the fields to fight for Stannis at the Siege of King's Landing. Morrigen had been given command of Stannis's vanguard on that day, but his dream's of power and glory had come to nothing as his van had been hit with the full force of the Lannister-Tyrell counter-attack and he himself had been cut down by the "Ghost of Renly".

Not only Lord Morrigen but almost all of his men had lost their lives that day, victims of the vanity of a man who claimed to have some right to rule. Now the current "Lord Morrigen", a man named Damon, still fought for Stannis and now must be freezing himself to death near the edge of the world with his son and heir Ser Richard who had also remained loyal to the Baratheon pretender. That left only an aged castellan in charge of these lands, with a small force of whatever men had not died at the Blackwater or been taken north to fight for Stannis he could not hope to keep order and would probably not even know that the heir to Sunspear and Princess of Dorne was crossing his muddy fields. The men of Morrigen posed no real threat and bandits and raiders could not stand up to trained soldiers so their only real threat was time, at this pace and with no more surprises they could probably reach Griffin's Roost in a couple more days, but Arianne wondered, would that be enough?

by **Hellenope** » Tue Aug 15, 2017 7:17 pm

House Tyrell
Growing Strong

Yet even as Lady Olenna cackled and plotted amidst the perfumed gardens and decorated walls of Highgarden, the rest of her family were in rather less commodious situations. Her granddaughter, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, was attended hand and foot by an annoyingly intrusive septa, who saw to it that the Queen spent most of her spare time praying, rather than plotting. The luxurious comforts that Margaery was used to had been set aside, both out of the necessity of residing in an army encampment and an astute assessment that the Faith would not look kindly to a Queen that wallowed in wealth. And so the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms spent her time on her knees, praying quietly under the vigilant eyes of Septa Mallys, supping on unsweetened porridge and watered-down wine. In short, she was rather miserable. Margaery was willing to sacrifice much to continue her ascent to power, but that certainly did not mean she had to enjoy it.

Still, there was little to be done, at least until the High Septon called an end to Cersei’s trial, and began Margaery’s. She had implored her father to take the Tyrell army and return to besieging Storm’s End, but he remained adamant - she was his daughter, and until she was cleared, he would remain in King’s Landing. Not that Mace Tyrell could do much, for all his fancy titles and large armies. The Faith was too entrenched in King’s Landing, and efforts to pacify the city would likely only lead to further bloodshed.

“Absolutely preposterous,” Mace said, gesturing violently and sloshing wine onto the carpets that made up the floor of the tent. “Absolutely ridiculous. Nonsensical. Ridiculous. A complete fadoodle. Not a single grain, a single kernel, a single seed of truth to these scurrilous rumors. A load of fabrications, every one of them. Absolutely preposterous.”

“My lord,” Ser Ashford said, with as much grace as could be mustered, “I believe that all here are as equally convinced of Lady Margaery’s--”

“Queen Margaery,” another knight interrupted.

“--Queen Margaery’s innocence. The charges against her are nothing but fabrication by our enemies. The commonfolk of the city have been riled up by Stannis’ agents, or perhaps the Queen Mother….My lord, you need not convince us of La-- Queen Margaery’s virtue,” Ser Ashford continued, catching himself this time, “which is undoubtedly beyond reproach.”

“Hrmph. Yes, I suppose. Still, it simply boggles the mind that this High Sparrow fellow would have dared to do such a thing,” Mace said, taking a gulp of what wine remained in his goblet. “What has the realm come to? A rabble-rouser in the Sept, our Queens imprisoned, Stannis looming from the North and now landing in the Stormlands…”

Another ser stepped forward, clearing his throat while also stroking his bushy, overly elaborate mustaches. “Perhaps, my lord, you could stay here, in King’s Landing, to oversee the trials. After all, your position on the Small Council -- the realm needs you as Hand of the King. Lord Tarly,” he gestured to the balding man that stood quietly at the other end of the tent, contemplating a series of scrolls that were strewn about the table, “could handle these mercenaries Stannis has hired. Give us a few thousand good men, and we’ll drive these yellow-bellied mercenaries back into the sea!”

“Bah, a few thousand. Essoi mercenaries are gutless, everyone knows this,” Ser Ashford snorted. “Give me but a thousand good men and I can do the same!”

“A half-thousand would suffice under my command!” Another ser called out.

“Merely twenty good men!” Ser Rowan said brazenly, the crowd of sers chuckling at the running joke. “Stannis can hardly have more than that in the North alone!”

“Nonsense, nonsense,” Mace said, putting his goblet down with a thud. “Good sers, your willingness to fight for the glory of the Reach and the Iron Throne does me proud, but I shall command the army that will drive these rapacious brigands from Westeros! When the High Sparrow releases my daughter, King Tommen shall give me his blessing, and I shall lead you brave men to drive Stannis and his band of traitors from Westeros once and for all! After all, under my command, the Reach was the only army to inflict a defeat on good king Robert! With myself and you noble sers in the vanguard, a shining example of Westerosi chivalry, we shall ride to victory!”

Mace paused, waiting expectantly for the rousing cheers that dutifully followed, while at the far end of the tent, Lord Tarly rolled his eyes and gritted his teeth, but otherwise remained silent. It had been, after all, his efforts that had given Mace the victory which he bragged so thoroughly and often about. As one of the foremost commanders in all of Westeros, he had no time for Lord Tyrell’s braggadocio; instead he was consulting ravens, writing messages of his own, and reviewing supply preparations. A new shipment of horse armor would be needed, while the troops had to be carefully managed and routinely flogged to prevent overindulgence in the pleasures King’s Landing offered. Lord Rowan’s army at Storm’s End needed to be recalled, and so many other things had to be done….

by **Order of Maesters** » Tue Aug 15, 2017 8:12 pm

"First in Battle"

Randyll Tarly
Lord of Horn Hill
Justiciar of the Seven Kingdoms

Randyll Tarly liked to think he was a patient man. He liked to think he was an understanding man. Yet, sitting in the back of the perfumed Tyrell command tent, listening to the pompous stream of verbiage that poured unceasingly from the Lord of Highgarden's fat mouth, he felt his lips curve into a slight scowl. The Tyrell army had been encamped beneath the red walls of King's Landing for weeks, ever since the Mace Tyrell had returned from Storm's End to rescue his daughter. As he had done at Ashford, however, all those years ago, it was Randyll who had done his leige lords work for him. Then he had smashed Robert Baratheon in the field, now, he had convinced the up-jumped High Sparrow to release Queen Margaery and her flock of cousins into his own custody, sworn to their return in the Light of the Seven. Yet here, once more, Mace Tyrell sat among his court of fools and crowed about his own greatness. In moments like these, Randyll could only think to Olenna.

If only she had struck him more as a child, she may have imbued more of her in him than the late Lord Luther.

The Lord of Horn Hill was broken from his reverie by the mention of his name.
Ser Ashford was attempting to convince the Lord of Highgarden to smash the band of Mercenaries that had landed in the Stormlands, with an army lead by anyone but Mace himself. The fat, balding man refused them, waving a pudgy arm across his body.
“Good sers, your willingness to fight for the glory of the Reach and the Iron Throne does me proud, but I shall command the army that will drive these rapacious brigands from Westeros! When the High Sparrow releases my daughter, King Tommen shall give me his blessing, and I shall lead you brave men to drive Stannis and his band of traitors from Westeros once and for all! After all, under my command, the Reach was the only army to inflict a defeat on good king Robert! With myself and you noble sers in the vanguard, a shining example of Westerosi chivalry, we shall ride to victory!”

Randyll stepped forward from his position near the map table. He was wearing simple clothing, contrasting himself with the peacocks that so often congested to court of the Reach. A brown tunic, slashed with green, the Hunter of House Tarly finely emboridered with cloth of gold emblazoned his chest, while supple leather riding boots reached the lower edge of his knees. At his side, a two-handed greatsword was suspended by a thick leather belt, its finely decorated sheath hiding the glory of a Valyrian blade. Heartsbane, as it was known, had been passed from Tarly to Tarly for five hundred years, and would continue to do so long after Randyll had returned to the dirt.

Appraoching the High Table, several lesser nobles stepped back from Randyll's path. The Lord of Horn Hill's perpetual scowl,and impressive build followed his fearsome reputation.
"My Lord," Randyll said, bowing his head slightly, with one hand resting gently on Heartsbane's pommel, "Whatever the case may be, we cannot allow a force to reclaim the Stormlands. Lord Stannis may have been smashed on the Blackwater, but he still commands the loyalty of many of the Stormlords. The region itself is in chaos, without a true Lord Paramount. If Stannis can show he is not a spent force to the lords sworn to Storm's End, we may end up facing more than a band of Essoi mercenaries."

Randyll's stern viewpoint cut the jubilant air in the tent like a knife. Randyll knew the words he wanted to say. He wanted to slam a fist on the table, and command the Lords attendent to march, to stop wasting time awaiting a trial when enemies marches toward them on all sides. Yet, he knew he Lord Tyrell would not take kindly to frank counsel.
"My Lord, we all here can attest to the Queen's innocence, and surely the trial will extinguish these horrid rumours. But, in my opinion, it may be wisest to both crush our enemies while the trial commences. I know your love for the Queen precludes you from leaving the Capital at this time, allow me to march forth with a host. I will pacify the Stormlands and destroy these Essoi in the field. Any honour we may win on the battlefield will pale in comparison to that which you may gather here, as a father, fighting for your family."

by **Of the Quendi** » Thu Aug 17, 2017 3:43 am

The Hightower
On Battle Island, in Oldtown
The Seven Kingdoms of Westeros

Ser Baelor Hightower

In the Year 300 AC

Ser Baelor Brightsmile was resting at a balcony near the summit of the Hightower from which there was a view of the magnificent city of Oldtown. The eyes of the heir of the Hightower was caught not by the splendorous sight of the Starry Sept, seat of the Faith of the Seven for a thousand years, nor by the magnificent structures known as the Citadel, the largest repository of knowledge and learning in the known world. No Ser Baelor looked at the rather more prosaic vista of the shipyards and docks at the mouth of the Honeywine where he toiled day and night to build a fleet to defend the greatest and most wondrous city of all Westeros, nay the world, from the Ironborn scourge that threatened to assail it.

All too accustomed to rely on either the Royal Navy or the Redwyne fleets to defend their commerce and shores House Hightower had for too long neglected to build a powerful fleet of its own. Only some fifty warships lay anchored at the docks of the city, not one for every ten ship the Ironborn could muster. But that would soon change. In every shipyard of Oldtown, and in many a makeshift one established for the very purpose, now the hulls of warships where being constructed not simply by shipwright but by a small army of smallfolk of Oldtown. The vast resources and pools of manpower at the disposal of House Hightower was being employed to fashion a great armada to challenge the Ironborn and drive them from the shores of the Reach. Fifty great galleys was being constructed, and fifty lesser ones to boot. From before sunrise till after sunset tens of thousands of people labored vigorously under Ser Baelor's charge to fashion the armada of Oldtown. If only the Ironborn would stay their assault on the city for a few more moons they would find it a match for their savagery.

Starring down on his shipyards, which even now was swarmed by laborers, the sounds of axes and saws, of orders shouted and curses roared faintly reaching the Hightower, Ser Baelor paid little heed to his father's war council. Having delivered his own report on the progress of the construction of warships who once finished would be manned by the sailors of the merchant ships of Oldtown. Malora's musings about how she would devise a version of the Wildfire that had so effectively incinerated Stannis's fleet at the Blackwater, and drive the Ironborn away with sorcery and black magic did not interest Baelor the slightest. He loved his sister but ever since she used to sneak into the Citadel in disguise trying to train to be a maester her grip on reality had seemingly slipped away. Now all she talked of was dragons and ghosts and others and prophecies and sorcery. Foolish things, immaterial things, things from a bygone age that had no merit on the present predicament. Yet Lord Leyton for some reason suffered the foolishness of Malora.

A more worthwhile report was delivered by Baelor's eldest half brother Ser Garth. Charged with raising and training an army Lord Leyton's Tarly son with ill concealed pride declared that more than ten thousand soldiers now manned Oldtown. Aye, Ser Baelor believed it well enough, the city was teeming with men in Hightower livery, or the occasional Mullendore or Beesbury coated levy's. Every brothel and ale house in the city could attest well enough to that, but Ser Baelor doubted that half was in proper shape to fight, and suspected only one in four was a worthy match for the Ironborn reavers. Of them much could be said, but no sane man ever questioned the Ironborn talent for carnage and bloodshed and battle. Yet if not Greysteel could put the men to right Ser Baelor could think of no one else up to the task. The report of the Tarly son ended the same way as had the Redwyne son's; a few more moons, if the Ironborn lingered for a few more moons, they would find Oldtown unassailable. But what, Ser Baelor pondered, if they did not wait?

Lord Leyton's third son, his only present Florent son, offered a more confidence instilling report on his preparations. Charged with preparing the defenses of the harbor Ser Gunthor declared that the Hightower fleet was in a fine shape and that the fortifications of the harbor was well manned to withstand an assault. Ser Gunthor, a man Baelor did not knew to offer undeserving praise, declared the harbor ready to withstand all but the most vigorous assault of the Ironborn. His words was greeted with murmurs of approval and happiness from the lords and ladies gathered in the Hightower's high hall, and Lady Jeyne Fossoway, Ser Gunther's wife beamed with pride at her husband. Even Lord Leyton expressed his pleasure with the achievement of his third son, and Ser Baelor's younger sons, Ser Roland and Novice Peremore, who had worked with their nuncle looked as proud as Lady Jeyne. Ser Baelor gave the pair of them a curt nod, not displeased.

In this general atmosphere of merrymaking with Roland talking animatedly with Ser Gunther and even Peremore for once seeming happy and at ease, Lady Rhea Florent entered the hall of the Hightowers arm in arm with her brother Alekyne Florent, son and heir of the late Lord Alester. The mood dampened markedly.

The pair walked to the centre of the the hall. There they disentangled from one another and Ser Baelor's stepmother, a woman of his own age, stepped forth towards the Hightower throne, sitting down beside her husband. "My Lord Leyton." Ser Alekyne, or Lord Alekyne if one so pleased, began to speak. "Thine grandson, Ser Garlan of House Tyrell, march an army upon my father's seat of Brightwater Keep as we speak. He wishes to raze it to the ground and deny my rights of inheritance to my father's lands. What crime has House Florent committed to be treated thusly by our liege lord? Aye, we fought for the pretender Stannis Baratheon at the Blackwater, but so did House Meadows and House Varner, both the Fossoway houses and House Willum, and even thine own banner men of House Mullendore rode against Tyrell and Lannister at the Blackwater in the name of Stannis. Yet not a one of those noble houses has been robbed of lands nor titles. Why must solely House Florent bear the price of war, my lord?"

An awkward silence greeted the words of Lord Alekyne. The truth absent from the man's speech, Ser Baelor thought, was that no Meadows, Varner, Fossoway, Willum or Mullendore man fought for Stannis after the Blackwater, whereas the Florent's persisted in their struggle against King Tome's rule. An angry Lord Martyn Mullendore soon broke the silence by stepping forth and declaring thus to Lord Alekyne. "House Mullendore serves the king of the Seven Kingdoms and the Lord of the Hightower just and true. Compare us not to your treacherous nuncle's still fighting for the pretender." Lord Mullendore declared.

But then Ser Branston Cuy the Younger spoke. "You speak of nuncle's my lord, let me tell you of mine. He served Renly Baratheon loyal and true. Every care he took to defend his king, but when Renly was slain he was murdered in cold blood by Ser Loras Tyrell. Serve king Tommen both I and my father do, but I should happily meet the brother of Loras in the field to avenge his heinous act." The young fiery heir of House Cuy spoke, causing the hall to erupt in angry shouts from Hightower scions loyal to their Tyrell masters and kinsmen. A derisive chuckle from Ser Florian Flowers, Garth's arrogant bastard boy, greeted Ser Branston's words. "If you tilted lances with Ser Garlan Tyrell but once Sunflower I suspect House Cuy should have one more death to avenge." The bastard declared with contempt, causing his fair twin sister Florys to giggle girlishly.

Ser Branston placed a hand on the pommel of his sword and commotion broke out in the hall of the Hightowers. Quickly Ser Baelor exchanged a glance with Lord Leyton's Tarly son, but already Ser Garth was striding towards his offspring. He placed a heavy gauntlet clad hand on his son's shoulder, not for comfort or support but in stern admonishment. "Unhand your sword, young Ser." Ser Garth declared. "My bastard knows not knightly curtesy as well he ought and I apologize on his behalf. Yet it serves you well Ser Branston, for criticizing the house of my father's liege and son-in-law in such harsh words. House Hightower serves House Tyrell loyally and with honor, now and always, never forget." Ser Garth spoke. Reluctantly the hotheaded heir of House Cuy did as bid as the members of House Hightower applauded Ser Garth's words.

In all the commotion it seemed Lord Alekyne had been forgotten entirely by the Hightowers. Now he cleared his voice and spoke again. "My Lord Leyton. For bonds of kinship and friendship between our families, I implore you aid me redeem the honor and lands of my house." He spoke, almost eloquently. Turning from Lord Leyton's throne he looked around the room at the Hightowers and their vassals. "You wrong me, my lord." He addressed the belligerent Lord Martyn Mullendore. "Stannis and his red witch murdered my father, a good and honest man, most cruelly by burning him on the witch's pyre. You think I share mine nuncle's love of this pretender and his witch faith after that? No my lord I bear the pretender as much love as young Ser Branston bear Ser Loras. May the Stranger take him, I say." Lord Alekyne declared, receiving faint murmurs of approval from the room. "I will swear allegiance to King Tommen and to Highgarden, I will fight against Stannis, against the Ironborn and against any other enemy of House Hightower or the Ironthrone." The Florent lord spoke.

Then he took a step closer to the dais of his sister and brother-in-law. And kneeled before Lord Leyton. "My lord Leyton, you are my only hope of salvation and redemption. I commend myself to you and your mighty house. Humbly I beg and supplicate of you, to intercede with your Tyrell relations that my lands and my honor may be redeemed. Me and mine shall never forget and forever owe a debt of honor if you help me my brother, my lord." Lord Alekyne declared, bowing his head reverently towards Lord Leyton falling silent.

Ser Baelor had no interest in getting involved with the well earned misfortune of the Florents while the Ironborn threatened the Hightower shores, yet even he could not deny feeling a little moved by the words of Lord Alekyne. This time there was more truth and worth to them. Looking around the hall Ser Baelor saw the same in the eyes of many men. The belligerence had gone out of Lord Martyn, and the man seemed ponderous. The young Cuy knight seemed eager to cross the Tyrell's for any cause, just or no. Ser Gunthor, Florent's nephew, looked contemplative. Standing with his three bastards Ser Garth caught Ser Baelor's eyes and shrugged. His children seemed indifferent. That was a permanent fixture of Ser Otho Flowers personality, as great a warrior as the man was as hopeless he was at anything requiring independent thought. The twins Florian and Florys did not seem to care much about anything but amusement. Malora looked bored and carefree now that the conversation did not concern her favorite topics, magic and the dangers of the Citadel. On the dais Lady Rhea had tears in her eyes, clearly firmly in support of her brother's cause.

But beside Rhea's sat the one person's whose opinion truly mattered. Lord Leyton, a man old and done, looked conflicted. His handsome and dignified features was marred by a furrowed brow and the burdens of rule in a time of war and conflict. "I sympathize with your plight My Lord of Brightwater Keep." The old man of Oldtown spoke solemnly and slowly. "The murder of your father was a great shock to my wife and I and it seems that perhaps Lord Mace acted prematurely to rob you of your ancestral lands. Yet war has come to the Reach and to Oldtown and I cannot spare my sons to march my banners to Brightwater Keep and defy my liege while the Ironborn threaten my lands, you understand I am sure." Lord Leyton spoke.

Lady Rhea jumped from her chair and fell to her knees before her husband, tears still in her eyes. "My lord I besiege you, do not turn my brother away. Surely you can speak to Lord Mace on his behalf and spare a small force to help defend my childhood home." She pleaded. "Many men fortify Oldtown, and troops from Honeyholt and Uplands are not needed for the city defenses." She insisted. Looking out into the hall her eyes fell upon Ser Branston Cuy. "Ser cranston, will you defend my brother's honor and mine?" She asked. The youth seemed momentarily surprised by the question. It seemed he soon remembered his hatred of the Tyrells. "I will most worthy lady. If my liege commands it I shall march on Brightwater Keep before dawn." He declared, prompting Ser Baelor's to roll his eyes. Yet Lord Leyton seemed to be having second thought.

For a long moment the Old Man of Oldtown pondered the matter. "But who should lead such a force?" He asked of no one in particular. "One son I have sent to Lys to raise me an army of Sellswords and Sellsails, I can spare no other. But a Hightower must command my armies. Who shall go?" The old man pondered outloud. "I shall go." A voice, stern, determined and austere declared.

Ser Baelor gasped and turned towards the speaker. In all the commotion Lord Alekyne's request had caused he had not heard or seen that his eldest son had entered the hall. Yet there he stood near the grand doors of the hall, Ser Uthor Hightower, twenty years of age, tall and handsome, clean shaved and short haired with golden curls, in a suit of armor absent adornment, a true knight and an ideal son. He walked into the centre of the hall. "If your son's cannot be spared I shall go in their stead my lord grandfather and do your house honor, befitting my station as a future lord of Hightower." He declared. A moment of silence greeted the words of Ser Uthor. Then another voice familiar to Ser Baelor, a relaxed, confident and proud voice, spoke. "I too shall go." Said Ser Baelor's second son, Gerold whose presence the heir of the Hightower had also missed.

Another moments of silence before Ser Garth spoke. Letting go of his misbehaving son he put a hand on the back of Ser Otho. "My bastard Ser Otho shall go as well father." Ser Garth declared. At this Ser Otho seemed momentarily confused. But then the simple knight smiled at Ser Uthor, his friend, stepped forth and bowed before Lord Leyton's throne. "I shall, I shall. I shall not let you down grandpapa." He declared, causing his siblings to snicker to themselves.

Then Roland stepped forth, pulling a seemingly reluctant Peremore with him, with a hand on his back. The pair bowed before Lord Leyton and Roland's harmonious and calm voice rang; "We too shall go with our older brothers, my lord." Roland spoke for the pair of them.

The five volunteers and Ser Branston gathered besides Lord Alekyne in the centre of the hall awaiting the judgement of Lord Leyton. Though he found their mission more than a little foolish Ser Baelor could not deny feeling a surge of pride at seeing his son's stand at attention awaiting the orders of their liege. Rhonda on the other hand was not happy. Fretting from the moment Uthor had volunteered Ser Baelor's wife was now on the cusps of tears as all of her sons stood at the ready. She clung to her husband and held their daughter tightly. Ser Baelor did his best to console the both of them.

Lord Leyton spoke. "So be it then." The old man said. "I shall give to each of you ... Three hundred men. That must be enough. If not Houses Cuy, Mullendore and Beesbury must provide the rest, this is all I can spare. Best of luck to all of you." Lord Leyton spoke, nodding solemnly. "May the Seven be with you, I shall pray for you." He continued. "And I shall cast a curse upon your foes." Lady Malora loudly declared.

by **Krugmar** » Thu Aug 17, 2017 1:13 pm

House Baelish

The climb is all there is

Petyr Baelish

The Gates of the Moon were awash with visitors, nobles and knights from every corner of the Vale. Few were important, and many made it easy for Petyr to decipher both how important they were, and how much they valued themselves, based on how sycophantic they were to the Lord Protector. He had received numerous gifts, mainly old trinkets which didn't interest him, they would be bartered off later for something far more precious. Currency.

There was a buzz of excitement all around. This was no war gathering, but blood would be spilt in the tourney, something which excited the young, and old, warriors of the Vale. Those unable to take part, mainly the older knights who felt it best to leave such a job to the younger generations, instead sat around enthusing the younger with stories, mainly of Robert's Rebellion. Petyr smiled to himself, what if the young namesake of King Robert followed in his stead? Preferably just the rebellion, one could do without the ill rule. Unless it served a purpose.

"Where is my daughter?" Petyr asked Kettleback, the sellsword keeping a close watch on Petyr while Brune had ridden ahead to meet the Royce party.

Kettleback loudly cleared his throat, "She's in the Great Hall, with Nestor Royce's daughter."

"Interesting, it's good that she is making friends in this place, which can be so lonely." he replied, giving Kettleback an amused look. Kettleback nodded and departed, leaving Baelish alone for the moment.

It was only a minute before he heard cheers, and men chanting. Petyr made his way down from the balcony overlooking the outer court, and came face with the Royce party. He put on a large smile, "You are most welcome my Lord Royce, to this gathering of knights and lords. Please, accept these offerings." he said, with bread and wine being offered to the newcomers, to signifying their protection under the Guest Right. Not that it meant as much as it used to, after the Freys betrayed the Starks.

"If you require more, the Great Hall is overflowing with food, wine, and company. The tourney will start in two days, and I am sure Lord Robert, myself, and the Vale, look forward to seeing the great warriors of Runestone in action." he continued, before direcitng his focus towards Lord Royce himself, an imposing man, but a mortal one all the same. He lowered his voice as he made it clear he was speaking to their lord alone, "My Lord, I trust you are tired after your long ride, and seek food and shelter. Merely give the word, and I will arrange our meeting, until then, enjoy your stay." he said, departing.

He would return to his rooms for now, and allow Royce to mingle with the other lords. He assumed Royce would want to talk with him soon, likely that night, but it was no matter if he didn't. Who he talked to, and what about, was also on Petyr's mind.

by **Vredlandia** » Fri Aug 18, 2017 12:20 pm

Sigorn of House Thenn

Sigorn's tent was rather dimmed, and you could barely see him on his bed at the end of it. With him was Alys, who had diligently waited in the tent for him as he stood side by side with his men at the siege of the Dreadfort. She didn't have to wait for very long, admittedly, but she did her duty. Sigorn was happy to return to her after the siege was won, and they were happy together, but his mood had gotten grim. As Alys got dressed, he started talking.

"There are cunning men at court, the King's a King, women pretty and men brave, the maids diligent. Only Ragmund, my Ragmund. You have seen him at my side before. He is nothing. People ask him all the time - 'Come fight with me', and he will tell them he is weaker than them. 'Count for me', they ask, and he will say he's not as smart as them. 'Jump over this river for me', they'll demand, and he will tell them that he isn't as brave as them", Sigorn recalled and smiled at the thought. Alys returned to sit at his bed.

"I once asked him what he wants to be", Sigorn continued. "Do you know what he said?"

Alys seemed to think for a few seconds, then she slowly shook her head.

"He said he doesn't want to be anything. He's Ragmund."

Sigorn looked at Alys expectingly, but she didn't seem to be moved by his story. It was a pity that, although her beauty was almost outweighed by her wit, she didn't seem to understand. "Anyways", Sigorn broke the silence and raised his upper body to sit on his bed instead of laying, "My ancestors laugh at me", Magnar Sigorn of Thenn gnarled. "That much was made clear to me. They do, and after this Dreadfort siege who knows how many of my men do."

"You fought honourably and well, my Magnar", Alys said and gently strifed his shoulder with her hand. "There is no laughter to be had."

Sigorn moved her hand away. "I didn't fight, nor was there any honour in it. We are no Southerners, this sitting and waiting and moving and waiting some more - That's not for us", he brushed her off and raised from the bed and resumed. "We should have stayed at the Wall - or beyond even. Or at least do.. something."

Sigorn looked back at Alys, and that was one of those moments where he wished he could read faces. Not that he saw much beyond her eyes, looking at him piercingly. She looked concerned, but not in a weak way. It's a look that confused him. "You will get your chance, my Magnar. You will get it soon. I'm going home, and you will come with me. You and all your men", the heir to Karhold revealed. Sigorn knew her brother still wasn't home, and that they had feared the distant relatives of her would marry her off to one of them and take it over for themselves. Together with Stannis and Jon, the conspiracy was shattered, but Sigorn never thought much about what would follow. Alys told him all about it, and over time has mood got lighter again. Finally, they would get closer to the wall again. And they could do something useful. Sigorn wouldn't wait long.

Alys Karstark
Earlier that day

Alys was nervous. They had been introduced shortly before, but this was the first time they were alone. He stood in his tent, slightly bent over a table Alys imagined was used for war strategy. She thought it improper to only look at it, but the shadow in front of the table didn't want to risk anything, it seemed. "Let us walk", he commanded.

And so they walked, leaving one banner after another behind them. Alys wasn't as fast as him - the legs that carried him were longer and stronger. Yet she didn't fall behind. Maybe he wanted to test her? Maybe he didn't even notice, but Alys didn't want to take the risk. And so she followed, and she told him all about her story, beginning as early as her childhood. They talked about her father and some stories even Alys hadn't heard were discussed. Then she came back to Karhold, and her brother, and how it was without a Karstark currently. Alys wondered who was in charge, and recalled a few figures who could be -- And why they shouldn't be in charge. She talked about how she could return to Karhold, how the Thenns would defend those lands and train a garrison - young and old - for this War and the Wars to come. Alys even promised to send provisions.

Just shortly before they reached the Thenn's tents, they halted. His armour made noise as he turned around, the sun shining on his short, gray hair, and he grit his teeth. "Young Kady Karstark, you have my consent. And don't return with a single man less than you left with."

"Thank you, Your Grace. We won't."

by **United Kolumbia** » Fri Aug 18, 2017 12:53 pm

House Royce of Runestone

We Remember

Yohn Royce

The party on horseback noticed a rider approaching them from a distance, as they made their way through the lands in the shadow of Giant's Lance. The rider appeared to be Ser Lothor Brune, one of the more prominent among lowly Knights in the pocket of Petyr Baelish. The relaxed Brune greeted Yohn, who grunted agreeingly as to answer.

"I have been sent out to escort his Lordship Royce to the Gates of the Moon by Lord Petyr Baelish." Brune said indifferently, leaving the respect in the words themselves. He seemed laid-back on his horse, with a firm grip around the rein in confidence about himself. Yohn couldn't have found him more smug unless he'd be eating one of those apples, as to reminding everyone about his achievements at the Blackwater everyone had heard of again and again.

"I know the way." Yohn stated, continuing the horse's trot towards the Gates. They all rode in silence in what seemed to take an hour, but soon enough their eyes were fixed on the lights coming from the bulky castle wall and within. The portcullis was raised and the gates opened, and the twenty Royce men entered the bailey. Yohn found himself greeted by Nestor, a man he regretted deeply to share names with and knew was loyal to Baelish as far as it could be bought. A cadet branch of his house and a castle to call his own was enough for Nestor to sell himself like a common whore, and that to the brothelkeeper Baelish happened to be. He hadn't let it hurt his pride however, and hoped that the two houses Royce were going to stand together in their common ancestry and relation. Welcomed in, Yohn met Nestor's daughter Myranda whom he greeted wholeheartedly, and more so the bastard daughter of Lord Baelish, Alayne. The little Lord must have made a fair harlot with child for the beautiful Alayne to be, not that looks should good means to measure a woman's judgement. Alayne had proven it already, bravely telling Yohn and the Lords Declarant gathered in the Eyrie about the truth behind Lady Lysa's death.

"Myranda." Yohn smiled behind his beard, squeezing her hand and giving her the assuring friendliness he'd just refused her father. "Alayne." Yohn patted her shoulder carefully, happy that she seemed much more confident than the last time they had seen each other. Myranda saw to it that a toast was given for the Royce men who'd just arrive, and the mugs of ale and cups of wine were raised into the air as she announced them. Yohn turned to Alayne.

"You wouldn't know where to find your father would you?" Noticing the man make his way out of the shadows the moment he asked. Littlefinger's smile was all too familiar. A quick glance into his eyes revealed a burning desire for whatever price he had on his mind, if not pure condescension on the notion that his smile was genuine, but the smile put on still moved one's thoughts away from the matters at hand. Offered bread and wine, he accepted and had a piece and sip of each, respectfully, as was in accordance with tradition. Baelish welcomed him as well, giving him the amount of time he would 'need' to rest up before a meeting was to be held between the two. Sure, Yohn's back and knees hurt a bit but standing here wouldn't help. Neither would complaining.

"I, Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone and my men have brought you this fine gift Lord Baelish." Yohn turned towards Samwell Stone, the master-at-arms at Runestone who'd seen to it that the gift presented was readied before they left. Samwell handed Yohn the shortsword, who in turn handed it to Littlefinger. It's grip was decorated with cryptic runes and the pommel held a large sapphire. "Let's hope you'll have a chance to use it, for better or worse." He laughed, as did Samwell Stone and the Royce men. Commenting wittingly and expressing gratitude for the fine sword, Baelish eventually made his retreat to his rooms for Yohn to meet him there later.

"You think he'll enjoy his gift?" Yohn asked Alayne, putting his mug of ale aside. He ended their short talk politely, soon enough. He nodded to one of the guardsmen, busy enjoying himself like his other companions, while Yohn made his way to the door Baelish had exited through. "Take me to Lord Baelish." He told Oswell Kettleblack, who stared at him for some second before opening the door and escorting him to Baelish's rooms.

"Lord Baelish." Yohn stated firmly, finding him where he had espected a man with his reputation, by his desk. "You did tell me not to bore me with pleasantries after all, if I recall it correctly." He raised his eyebrows. "How can I serve Lord Robert, Lord Protector Baelish" His words were cleansed from disgust, contained by a great deal of self control in military discipline. He remained standing, despite the abundance of comfortable seats.

by **Nuxipal** » Fri Aug 18, 2017 5:25 pm

Jon Snow, Former Lord Commander of the NIght's Watch

Near Hardhome, Beyond-the-Wall, Westeros

Jon Snow, Tormund Giantsbane, and nearly 100 other wildlings had trekked north of the wall to attempt to rescue the Wildlings at Hardhome. They traveled quickly and across varied terrain until they came across the largest settlement north of the wall. Its wooden stockade was filled with tents and other temporary shelters. There were also a few dozen ships approaching from the south east. Something that was strange to Jon, he had not sent for ships and was expecting to try and convince the Wildlings to come with him to one of the castles along the wall to escape south.

As they approached the stockade, the guards recognized Tormund, and then Jon. He granted them access and they approached the great hall. The settlement seemed to have some 20,000 survivors of the battle as well as locals. Among those was a tribe of some 40 giants, likely the last giants alive north of the wall. Jon was looking to take notes on the strength of the people living here. They looked desperate and he hoped their leadership would be just as desperate to escape. Tormund was not as optomistic as Jon, the wildling chief saw a settlement secure in its strength and unlikely to leave.

They entered the great hall during a meeting of various tribal leaders, including a giant. Jon went to go speak and Tormund looked him down, "Chiefs, it is time to go. The Others are coming south and if we don't get south of the wall, we are all going to be joining the army of the dead."

Jon looked at Tormund before saying for himself, "We can get you through a castle without most of the Night's Watch knowing about it and then we will be able to get further south."

One of the chiefs look to them and shakes their head, "You are a bit late. We made contact with the Skagossons and agreed to go with them on their ships. They say they have the Lord of Winterfell and he will grant us lands and titles if we help him in the North."

Confused, Jon goes to speak again. "The Lord of Winterfell? He is dead, we have been told the Boltons died at Winterfell."

Speaking back to Jon, the Wildling said, "Not Bolton, his name is Stark and he has been on Skagos for the last year or so."

Intrigued, Jon looks to Tormund and shrugs, "Then we will take what those ships cannot and meet you south of Eastwatch. That way, you can get as many as you can out by ship and those who want to go now can leave for the wall. We don't know how long we have until the others arrive."

After another hour of discussion the ships arrive again and begin loading up. The chiefs agreed to Jon and Tormund's proposals. The giants as well as about 13,000 wildlings start packing up camp and leave Hardhome the next day heading south to be resettled south of the wall.

by **Tracian Empire** » Sat Aug 19, 2017 11:23 am

House Targaryen of Westeros

"Fire and blood!"

"I should be there. Leading my men..", the young boy, or better said, the young man spoke, trying to hide his impatience. The boy's appearance was.. well, fitting of that of a Targaryen prince. His long, silver hair no longer had any traces of the blue dye that was once covering it. His violet eyes had a lighter shade than those of his now long-dead father.. and now, the prince was no longer trying to hide his Valyrian descent. Aegon, for that was certainly him, was tall and pretty beautiful..and his presence was rather imposing, especially now that he was dressed like the perfect prince he was supposed to be. He was wearing a plate armor, as dark as the night, decorated with gold, together with a crimson cloak. People could always mock his claim and origins..but he looked an acted like a Targaryen..and it could easily be said that he resembled Rhaegar.
"Your Highness..the time will come when you will lead your soldiers to battle. But we will only be able to take Storm's End if your men manage to trick the garrison. Waving a Targaryen prince in front of the Golden Company's sellswords won't help us. We need to put our trust in Homeless Harry and his men. He might be a coward, but if there is someone who can fool the soldiers inside Storm's End to open the gates.. that's him. The Tyrell-Lannister forces have the advantage. If we can take the castle, that could help tip the scales in our favor. It would give us a safe base..and it would prove our power and determination. But if we can't take it through trickery.. besieging it would be hopeless. The Baratheon troops inside of it, led by Stannis, resisted throughout Robert's Rebellion.. the castle is impregnable. If we fail to take it, we will need to reorient our forces towards the south." Jon Connington's voice was calm, and patient. It would have been difficult to find a better Hand for the young Aegon.. there was no trace left of the once reckless lord of Griffin's Roost. The exile had taught Rhaegar's old friend a lot. The man's hair was now ashen, even if his beard was still mostly fiery red, with gray hairs here and there, just like his eyebrows. No longer disguised as the sellsword Griff, Jon Connington was now wearing a black armor, worthy of his rank, decorated with the red griffins of his House. Lord Connington was sitting in his chair, in front of a large table, showing a map of the Seven Kingdoms, while the Targaryen prince was restlessly walking throughout the room. It was clear that Aegon disliked Jon's plain, his young blood boiled for action, determined to earn a reputation for himself. But even so.. the silver prince trusted Jon...and his explanations managed to calm him down, even if just a little. Sighing, took his seat on the opposite side of the table, resigning himself to just listening..Jon had a lot of things to say.

The man smiled, pointing towards the southernmost of the Seven Kingdoms.. "Our next objective is Dorne.. or to be more precise, an alliance with it. We need the support of the lords of Westeros in order to win. I can proudly say that the Golden Company is the best mercenary company in the entire world.. but even they can't conquer the Seven Kingdoms on their own. Unlike your aunt, we don't have three dragons to use.." Aegon couldn't help but chuckle. It was ridiculous.. if he would have had those three dragons.. then Westeros would have been his. But Daenerys seemed to be a lot more interested in conquering random cities in Essos, than in retaking the ancestral throne of their family. Was coming to Westeros a good choice? Going to Meereen would have been safer..but he was dead set on earning his crown, instead of begging for in in front of his father's youngest sister. Still, Jon continued to speak. "We need the help of a big House... and House Martell is the only one that can oppose House Lannister. And for that.. we need a marriage. The hand of a princess of Dorne, for Dorne's loyalty..Daenerys Targaryen is half a world away. She will have to wait." And yet.. Lord Connington hesitated. A prince of House Targaryen marrying a princess of House Martell...a silver haired heir of Valyria's bloodline marrying a black haired princess of the Dornish and the Rhoynar..it had happened before. And the marriage of Rhaegar and Ellia had ended in disaster...he really hoped that this Dornish princess was going to be worthy of their silver prince.

"If we manage to convince Dorne that you are indeed the son of Prince Rhaegar, we will seal our alliance with marriage..and that will make our side a really strong contender for the Iron Throne. If we get Dorne and take Storm's End.. the usurper on the Iron Throne will have to pay attention to us.. and hopefully, news of a Targaryen prince will reach your aunt. But if we can do this, we will have a strong change at winning this war on our own." Aegon looked at the map rather nervously. "But.. what if we won't convince them? What if..I'm not princely enough?" The indigo eyed boy was certainly a little anxious. "Don't worry your Highness.. they will believe the truth. I can see your father in you...and they will recognize your claim. Together with Dorne, we will be able to gain revenge.. for the death of your father, for the death of your mother, for the death of your sister, for the death of your grandfather, and for the death of your grandmother. The dragons have returned to Westeros.." And Aegon smiled. "Prince Dorane has sent his daughter, Princess Arianne Martell. We will meet with her once she arrives at Griffin's Roost...and if everything goes like planned.. she will be your future wife..."

The Golden Company

"Our word is as good as gold."

The soldiers of Storm's End would have been able to see the proud sellswords from afar.. as the members of the Golden Company were advancing towards the castle. The siege had been broken, with the Tyrell troops having already been withdrawn.. it was difficult to say, but it could easily be assumed that the Tyrells had retreated because of the arrival of a superior force. The Golden Company was making no efforts to hide their presence, even if of course, scouts had been sent - the sellswords were not going to fall pray to an ambush any time soon. 3000 men of the Company were there, their golden banners waving in the wind, their golden armors shining in the sun. Most of the men were the simple mercenaries of the group, with their golden shields and spears, but knights, archers, and even an elephant were present, making the force quite.. imposing. The force also had a large number of carriages.. supplies, from the look of it. It would have been impossible to mistake them for anything else.. even in Westeros, the reputation of the company founded by Bittersteel was legendary. And of course.. there were rumors that Stannis had hired or that it was going to hire the Company with money from the Iron Bank..and the defenders had to be quite desperate. The siege had been brutal, Stannis had seemingly abandoned them, their King was far away.. and Lord Connington believed that due to those circumstances.. the defenders could perhaps be tricked..

The mercenaries took their positions at a moderate distance from the castle's walls, waiting. The lack of any attempts to set a camp or to prepare defenses should have already informed the defenders that at the very least, the force in front of them had no intentions of besieging them...and a small party was sent to the gates. Four riders, officers of the Company from the looks of it, in their rich armors, with the Company's banners, and with one of them holding a spear with golden skulls.. One of them started to shout in the Common Tongue. He was a huge knight, with his face filled with scars, with a missing left ear and a ravaged right ear. Large golden rings were worn around his arms..at least twelve, from the looks of it. "I am Ser Franklyn Flowers of the Golden Company.Rejoice, you brave defenders of this.. great castle. For you are saved!" The others chuckled. "Who am I kidding..open the gates, we are here to reinforce your defenses. It seems that your King isn't here to properly welcome us.. but hey, as long as he's paying us.." The men laughed again, and then, another one of them started to speak. A black man, with a long and messy white hair, wearing a magnificent green and orange feathered cloak, and just as many arm rings as the man next to him. He was speaking in the Common Tongue in a foreign accent, the accent of the Summer Isles. "Your mighty Stannis has hired us to break the siege and to bring the Stormlands back under his control. Our forces are landing all around Cape Wrath, we were scattered by a storm on the way here. It will take us a while to gather our forces..but come on, we aren't going to sit out here all day long. You will perhaps appreciate the supplies that we have brought.."

by **Krugmar** » Sat Aug 19, 2017 12:14 pm

House Baelish

The climb is all there is

Petyr Baelish

The letters fluttered in the breeze, prompting Petyr to move from his desk to his window swiftly. He could be joined by guests at any moment, and having a carpet of letters, some containing information that he'd rather keep privy to his person, was not in his interest. He returned to his desk and shuffled them together. For once he was missing a key piece in his plan, a letter from the Lannisters which had not arrived.

The door opened, and Royce entered. "Lord Royce" he replied, bowing his head slightly as a courtesy acknowledgement. He listened to what Royce had to say, and the man did not disappoint. Some people were made to be actors.

"In many ways, my lord. Lord Robert laments that the Vale did not take an active part in the War of the Five Kings, as it is now known I believe. Many people, here in the Vale and across the Seven Kingdoms, believe that our good lord Jon Arryn was murdered, most likely by the Lannisters. You and I do not merely believe it, we know it, yet our fair lady Lysa, though desiring vengeance, nobly but perhaps foolishly sought peace for the Vale. I was forced to remain in King's Landing until I could make my escape, and you were forced to sit idly by as wars were fought, and the future of Westeros and the Vale decided without you." he said, picking up the shortsword Royce had gifted him, admiring it for a few seconds as he paused.

"Though Lord Robert's cousin, the former King in the North Robb Stark, a favourite among the lords of the Vale I hear, now lies dead, there is still a way we can gain vengeance, and ensure stability for the realm. The late Eddard Stark, my friend and ally in King's Landing and husband to an old friend of mine, and sister of our lady, Lady Catelyn, who was also murdered by the Lannisters, worked with me to help get Stannis to the throne. Unfortunately Lord Eddard was too honourable for King's Landing, and my efforts to gain the Gold Cloaks to his cause failed as Cerse outmanoeuvred us. The point is, Stannis is a man much like your lordship, sans the worship of R'hllor, a skilled commander and honourable noble. I know of a way to sever three kingdoms from Lannister control, and ruin their alliance with the Tyrells, in an instant, and soon place Stannis upon the throne, and take my rightful place as Lord of Harrenhal. With the added benefit that I shall be gone from the Vale, and who better than yourself to become Lord Robert's regent, and mould him into the Lord Arryn we all want him to be." he said.

He pointed the hilt of the shortsword towards Lord Royce, smiling. "Now my lord, it is time for you to show me you share mine and Lord Robert's desire for vengeance, and peace for the realm, or to walk out the door, forget this conversation ever happened, retreat to Runestone and plot as history moves on without you." he said harshly, so as to prickle the man's sense of honour, and his need for glory in old age.

by **United Kolumbia** » Sat Aug 19, 2017 2:22 pm

House Royce of Runestone

We Remember

Yohn Royce

Baelish's words dripped of his lips in an enchanting manner, stunning as ever both with his boldness and shielding mask. Yohn knew he wasn't only cornered, but had been for a while and that Baelish's moves in the darkness could have gone on for years to this point. He already had half of the Vale in his pocket. Should Yohn accept his offer, Baelish would have all of it behind him.

The word Turncloak had lost its meaning during the recent wars in the Seven Kingdoms. A House previously sworn to one Pretender could turn over to the new One True King in a short matter of time, without the labeling having much success in calling out such a House for their near-treachery. What Baelish suggested now was on another scale, but no one would call him turncloak as he cozied up to Stannis with the Knights of the Vale behind him, to help him back into the favor of anyone who could one day sit on that wretched throne. Yohn knew he was a very different man than Baelish, they both knew that. Not only that, both of them knew, or thought they knew, what the other man desired the most. Baelish did at least.

Yohn remembered Eddard Stark. They had met on numerous occasions, first during Ned's time at the Eyrie. Him and Robert were good kids, and Yohn had hosted them no less than four times at Runestone for smaller tourneys and melees. He had been eager to support Lord Jon Arryn's refusal to turn over the boys to the Mad King, and more so by supporting their cause in overthrowing him. They had all fought together at the Trident, Yohn with a veteran force shrunk by the bloody taking of Gulltown. The last time they ever spoke to each other was at the Hand's Tourney, before the horrible events leading to Robert's death during their joint hunt and Eddard's tragic demise. The man had been just, and in the right. Whether that should have made Stannis King or not was not Yohn's worry. The Wars bleeding the realm dry did however, a War in which good people had fought and fallen.

As Littlefinger pointed the hilt of the sword towards him, he felt inclined to grab it as a gesture of his own weight in the matter and that it was in fact he, who held the sword. He did not want to complicate matters however. Especially not to Baelish's amusement.

"Eddard was a good man. Honorable. Few are better. He died to make Stannis King. We all received the letters." Yohn looked towards the window as a strong breeze opened it, catching Baelish's attention for a moment as it was closed. "You claim a great deal of things, Lord Baelish. Yet what you have claimed before has been true." He noted. "I respect Stannis. He is a strong-willed ruler, with many overlooked achievements and virtues. Shall Lord Robert declare for Stannis with his prerogative as Lord, as I expect you will advice him, he will have the banners of House Royce behind him. As for yourself Lord Baelish, I hope you will assume your well-earned seat in Harrenhal soon enough, shall the Knights of the Vale liberate it for you.

"As for the regency..." He cleared his throat. "...I agree that our Lord deserves the more...masculine education in the arts of warfare. I am sure the winter court down here is a place to start, learning how to fight and so on. We all know he needs a good Fatherly figure, certainly with his Step-father being such a busy man." Their eyes met, as Littlefinger's mouth smiled at his remark. "Aye. The Lannisters shall have what they deserve. A true Baratheon should sit on the Iron Throne, and Lord Robert's Aunt Catelyn Tully must be avenged, as should Eddard Stark."

"When do you plan to have the Men of the Vale mobilized, Baelish? I doubt we will be able to field a proper Army before an enemy will know about it, wouldn't you agree? The Vale is large, and Winter will be here soon, so I would give us a month in the least for, say, 30,000 men to be fielded by the Bloody Gate."

ASoIaF: The Last King (IC)

ASoIaF: The Last King (IC)

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